How to Moon a Cat Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Introduction

  Chapter 1 - A MAN ON A BICYCLE

  Chapter 2 - BEHIND THE WALL

  Chapter 3 - PEELING BACK THE LAYERS

  Chapter 4 - THE GREEN VASE

  Chapter 5 - A SPANDEX-CLAD VISITOR

  Chapter 6 - FRIEND OF THE MAYOR

  Chapter 7 - THE TOUR OF CALIFORNIA

  Chapter 8 - THE DUFFEL BAG

  Chapter 9 - THE CAT-MOBILE

  Chapter 10 - ON THE ROAD

  Chapter 11 - NEVADA CITY

  Chapter 12 - IN THE VAN

  Chapter 13 - CALAVERAS COUNTY

  Chapter 14 - BROAD STREET

  Chapter 15 - CLEM

  Chapter 16 - THE VIEW FROM THE BALCONY

  Chapter 17 - THE WORDS OF MARK TWAIN

  Chapter 18 - SEARCH AMONG THE SEATS

  Chapter 19 - THE NEVADA CITY BEAR

  Chapter 20 - POST-DINNER REPORT

  Chapter 21 - THE STOAT

  Chapter 22 - THE NATIONAL HOTEL

  Chapter 23 - THE BRICK

  Chapter 24 - DOWNGRADED

  Chapter 25 - AN EXCELLENT DRIVER

  Chapter 26 - THE STARTING LINE

  Chapter 27 - THE WILD, WILD WEST

  Chapter 28 - DOWNTOWN SACRAMENTO

  Chapter 29 - SUTTER’S FORT

  Chapter 30 - A DELICATE CONSTITUTION

  Chapter 31 - MANIFEST DESTINY

  Chapter 32 - THE LURE OF THE YELLOW JERSEY

  Chapter 33 - GAVILAN PEAK

  Chapter 34 - STAGE ONE FINISH LINE

  Chapter 35 - MOON OVER SACRAMENTO

  Chapter 36 - THE FLOWER SHOP

  Chapter 37 - A SECOND ATTEMPT

  Chapter 38 - INTO WINE COUNTRY

  Chapter 39 - THROUGH THE DELTA

  Chapter 40 - SONOMA PLAZA

  Chapter 41 - THE OSOS

  Chapter 42 - A DISTURBED DUCK

  Chapter 43 - THE SONOMA BARRACKS

  Chapter 44 - THE BEAR FLAG REVOLT

  Chapter 45 - A FLOWERY FABRIC

  Chapter 46 - THE REPLICA

  Chapter 47 - THE LIFE COACH

  Chapter 48 - SNEAK ATTACK

  Chapter 49 - THE SLIVER OF THE MOON

  Chapter 50 - THE BOWELS OF THE BEAST

  Chapter 51 - A LONE MISSION

  Chapter 52 - THE KITCHEN RADIO

  Chapter 53 - AMPHIBIANS ON WHEELS

  Chapter 54 - HAROLD’S ENTOURAGE

  Chapter 55 - MONTEREY

  Chapter 56 - THE LARKIN HOUSE

  Chapter 57 - A MUCH-NEEDED BUCKET OF FRIED CHICKEN

  Chapter 58 - THE LEIDESDORFF CONNECTION

  Chapter 59 - THE STUFFED KANGAROO

  Chapter 60 - A DARK NIGHT

  Chapter 61 - THE HAIRLESS MOUSE

  Chapter 62 - HOW TO MOON A CAT

  A Man of Many Guises . . .

  And in that moment, I knew what he was after. I knew where my uncle had hidden the original Bear Flag.

  “I’ve got to go,” I murmured under my breath.

  I shuffled slowly backwards, my hand reaching behind my back for the door. My fingers closed in around the handle, and I pulled it toward me, anticipating the squeal of the hinges. There was a strangely satisfied smile on his face. He didn’t move to stop me.

  I never saw the man crouched outside in the courtyard. There was a slight creak of wood as he stepped across the threshold.

  Before I could turn around, a light thunk, expertly delivered, pounded against the back of my head. As the floor rushed up to meet me, everything went black.

  Titles by Rebecca M. Hale

  HOW TO WASH A CAT NINE LIVES LAST FOREVER HOW TO MOON A CAT

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand

  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  HOW TO MOON A CAT

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / July 2011

  Copyright © 2011 by Rebecca Hale.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN : 978-1-101-53810-4

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For the M’s: Morgan, Malcolm, and Miranda

  Introduction

  THE GLASSY BUBBLE of a full moon bobbed merrily up the California coast, its shining image rippling across the evening tide. Carefree and giddy, the bewitching orb frolicked above the shoreline’s rocky outcroppings, skirted the east side of the Farallon Islands, and bounced softly through the looping lines of the Golden Gate Bridge.

  Inside the bay, the moon’s glowing marble rolled along the outer edge of San Francisco’s waterfront, past a line of darkened and abandoned piers, until it reached a compact collection of apartment buildings fringing the financial district. The bulk of the glimmering mass hovered in place while a white shaft of light zoomed inland over the hard green surface of a tennis court to cut a twinkling path up through the empty streets of Jackson Square.

  The beam stopped in the middle of a block of darkened storefronts and honed in on the red brick facade of an antique store. A spectral spotlight splashed across the front row of windowpanes, illuminating the green vase icon embedded into each section of glass. On a counter just inside the store, a cash register’s burnished brass detailing flickered in the passing light.

  Slowly, the focus of the moonbeam panned up the side of the building toward the apartment located above the showroom. A slight spring breeze whispered through the night, fluttering the blinds hanging over the open window on the building’s third floor, allowing a single sliver of light to maneuver stealthily through the narrow opening in the slats.

  Inside the room, the l
uminous finger skimmed across the wooden floorboards to the bed pushed up against the far wall. Leaping nimbly onto the pile of sheets and blankets, the beam kinked to tickle the bottom of a cat’s upturned foot, playfully tugging at the feathery white hairs that poked out between the plump pink padding of his toes.

  Rupert’s front incisors moved up and down. Dreamily, he licked his lips, but the peaceful rhythm of his snores continued unabated.

  The warmth of the mischievous ray sidled up to the furry mound of Rupert’s exposed belly and gave it a prodding poke—an action which elicited no more than a wheezing snort.

  Momentarily stumped, the moon paused to reconsider its strategy. A more aggressive approach would be needed to wake this sleeping beast.

  Narrowing to a pointed prick of light, the beam crept up to Rupert’s chest and tapped the moist cushion of his nose. Rupert raised a paw over his face, trying to block the glare of the tiny spotlight.

  Noting the movement, the beam branched out into an illuminated hand and reached behind Rupert’s head to scratch the backside of his orange-tipped ears. As the corners of Rupert’s mouth stretched into an appreciative smile, the beam gently teased the crook of Rupert’s elbow until he dropped the shielding paw from his face. Sensing victory, the beam sneaked back up to the tightly shut juncture of Rupert’s furry eyelids and softly pried them open.

  With a wide yawn, Rupert awoke and glanced around the room.

  It was an hour or two past midnight, dark and quiet inside the apartment above the Green Vase showroom. The other two occupants of the bed were still fast asleep: a second cat, his sister Isabella, and a woman with long brown hair who, in his opinion, was hogging the covers.

  Rupert smacked his lips as the wild call of the moon worked its magic on his feline imagination. A shimmering figure danced across the bedroom, beckoning him to follow it into the hallway. Rupert blinked his eyes, trying to clear his vision as the trickling stream of moonlight tangoed teasingly toward the door, a tempting lure no cat could ignore.

  With a muffled thump, Rupert hopped off the bed and followed the sparkling shape through the doorway. As he stepped outside the bedroom, the edge of the wall snuffed out the intruding angle of the moon, temporarily releasing him from its hypnotic hold.

  Rupert set loose another mouth-stretching yawn and looked sleepily back toward the warm spot in the covers he had just vacated. The line of his body curved as his shoulders rotated to reverse course. But before he could complete the turn, a faint glow appeared on the floor at his feet, recapturing his attention.

  Intrigued once more, Rupert proceeded down a trail of glittering moon dust to the second floor. He paused at the threshold of the kitchen and stared curiously inside, his head tilted upward, the orange tip of his fluffy tail pointed at the ceiling. A tiny lick of light lassoed the furry white cuff of his neck and led him forward.

  Rupert ambled toward the kitchen table, the toenails on his chunky feet clicking against the uneven floor tiles. A rumble gurgled up from somewhere inside his pudgy round stomach, an instinctive biological response to the growing proximity of his food bowl.

  The moon waited until Rupert reached the middle of the room; then it withdrew its influence and sat back to watch the rest of its mischief unfold.

  Puzzled, Rupert plopped down beside the table, his tail twitching in bewilderment. His head rotated back and forth as his dazed eyes scanned the dark shadows that sank in around him.

  What am I doing here? he wondered groggily.

  He couldn’t quite remember what urge or motivation had inspired him to leave the warmth of the blankets in the upstairs bedroom. His chin drooped as the weight of his furry eyelids sank down over his bleary blue eyes. The light drone of a snore began to ooze through his nasal passages. He was on the verge of collapsing into a comatose heap on the tile floor when his ears picked up on a sound coming from the far side of the room—the almost imperceptible patter of tiny feet.

  With a surprised grunt, Rupert pivoted his round rump toward the back wall of the kitchen. The scampering footsteps came to a sudden halt, as if the perpetrator had sensed Rupert’s presence.

  Rupert listened intently for a long eerie moment, but the room was completely silent. Perhaps it had all been a dream, he thought drowsily.

  Tiptoe. Tiptoe. Creeeeeeak.

  Rupert’s head jerked up, this time his senses fully alert. He slunk across the kitchen, tracking the tiptoe-er to a twofoot section of faded wallpaper. He sniffed warily along the floor next to the bottom edge of the curling fabric that covered the wall, his nose sucking up the foreign scent.

  The white wires of Rupert’s whiskers quivered as he analyzed the odor, trying to identify its source. The hair along his spine spiked with caution. You never knew what kind of critter might show up here in Uncle Oscar’s old living quarters. He had learned to expect the unexpected since he and his family moved into the apartment above the Green Vase.

  The intruder wasn’t a frog. Of that, Rupert was certain. After their adventures last summer, he was now intimately familiar with an amphibian’s peculiar fragrance. No, this smell was staler, fustier—the aroma of one of San Francisco’s old rundown Victorian homes, laced with the slightest twist of cheese. He had come across this scent once or twice before . . .

  Rupert suddenly puffed out an excited wheeze of recognition. He knew exactly what kind of animal was hiding behind that wall. After confirming his identification with a second snorkeling intake, he licked his lips, and his back end squirmed with excitement. It was a plain old vanilla house mouse. This was a creature even he could handle.

  Rupert’s energetic snuffling spooked the mouse, and a torrent of panicked footsteps raced across the rough boards that formed the wall’s interior framing. Rupert followed the scurrying sound along the base of the wall, his own feet thundering heavily across the tiles of the kitchen floor until he skidded to a stop at the back corner of the room.

  Another long pause descended upon the kitchen as the skittering sound again fell silent.

  The mouse, Rupert deduced, was trapped. A successful capture, he thought with elation, was mere seconds away.

  Rupert threw his entire moon-crazed body into extracting the mouse from its hiding place. He rolled over onto his side and attacked the wall, frantically scraping his claws against the corner of the frayed wallpaper. He worked to hook the sharp curve of his toenails beneath the curling edge of the fabric until finally, with a loud rip, he pulled back a small section of the paper. Eagerly, he swung a paw inside the hole—and immediately retracted it.

  Rupert hunched his body against the tile floor, his blue eyes crossing as his nose pulsed in confusion. He had been wrong; somehow he had miscalculated. This was no ordinary mouse.

  Cautiously, Rupert backed away from the hole as a tiny creature peeked out the opening. Rupert stared at the mouse, shaking his head in disbelief.

  The mouse was completely bald. Its wrinkled skin was the flushed shade of a newborn baby. The thin flaps of its round, oversized ears were nearly translucent.

  Other than the trembling whiskers attached to the pointed tip of its face, there was not a single hair on its entire body.

  Chapter 1

  A MAN ON A BICYCLE

  AS DAWN BROKE a few hours later, a white-haired man in a wrinkled linen suit pedaled a bicycle along the city’s waterfront Embarcadero. The first edges of the rising sun stretched across the water, coloring the bay a brilliant blue, splashing light across the rolling green hills that framed the opposite shore.

  There’s nothing like a crisp spring morning in San Francisco, the man thought with an admiring glance at the surrounding city. Smiling, he tilted his head back and soaked up the wet ocean scent. “It’s good to be back,” he sighed contentedly.

  A light breeze tufted the thin strands of hair combed across the man’s balding crown. Two days’ growth of saltand-pepper stubble covered the lower half of his face. A bristly crag of wild flyaway eyebrows dominated the facial landscape in between.
<
br />   The linen suit jacket hung loosely from the man’s short round shoulders. The front buttons of the jacket were unfastened, exposing the frayed edges of a collared white shirt and the elderly paunch of his stomach.

  An elastic strap secured around the man’s lower right shin prevented the cuff of his pants from being caught in the bike’s spinning gears. The cinched-up fabric revealed an ankle-high lace-up boot, whose scuffed toe pedaled a slow circular motion in coordination with its mate to propel the bike forward.

  Brief scenes of the bay flashed in the open spaces between the piers as the bike’s wide tires squished against the pavement. Beyond the barrier of the once-bustling warehouses, squawking flocks of seagulls soared acrobatically through the sky, searching the shallow water for their next bite of breakfast. Farther out, the loaded platform of a container ship slid silently past the waking city, its hulking mass and thousand-foot length dwarfing the commuter ferries and sailboats that dotted the bay.

  The man’s boots dropped to the sidewalk as he braked the bike at a crosswalk and waited for a signal light to halt the mixture of taxi and commuter traffic that had begun to fill the Embarcadero’s busy thoroughfare. He released his stubby fingers from one of the rubber grips fitted over the U-shaped handlebars and tapped the trigger of the centermounted bell. The chipper ring startled a gull from its perch atop a nearby trash can.

  The bike was a single-speed cruiser, painted the same simmering orange red as the Golden Gate Bridge. Sparkling reflectors had been threaded into the spokes of the wheels; a large wire basket hung beneath the bell. Designed to maximize comfort over speed, the bike’s durable frame amply supported the rider’s bulky figure. At his age, he thought as he pushed off from the curb to cross the intersection, he really couldn’t do without the extra springs beneath the cushioned seat.