How To Tail a Cat Read online

  It had been more than a year since Oscar’s niece had inherited the Green Vase from her mysterious Uncle Oscar. The Jackson Square apartment built into the two floors on top of the store was now a permanent home to Isabella, her brother Rupert, and their human owner.

  The once demure accountant and her two feline companions had explored many of the historic building’s nooks and crannies, along with a sizable portion of the relics and antiques Oscar had left behind—but theirs was an ongoing investigative process.

  That night, like many that had gone before, Isabella’s person had fallen asleep while reading one of the many reference books she’d culled from the numerous boxes and crates stacked in the basement. The woman’s bifocal eyeglasses were perched off-kilter on the tip of her nose; the threadbare book was spread open on her chest.

  Isabella shifted her gaze toward the window and the Jackson Square neighborhood that slept beyond its blinds. The upper pane of glass had been cracked open, an invitation to whatever light breeze might be circulating in the warm night air.

  The cat lifted her head, listening to the building’s low, creaking groan. Her tail slowly tapped the surface of the bed, its orange tip moving like a thoughtful finger.

  Her feline intuition had begun to tingle with the suspicion that their next adventure was about to begin.

  • • •

  IN THE DARKENED living room one floor below, near the front window overlooking the street, a small decorative lamp rested on a short end table. The base and stem of the fixture were made up of burnished brass; the curved metal edges bore the speckled tarnish of dust and time.

  The lamp’s design had been conceived in the early 1900s, at a time when a still young San Francisco was struggling to convince the rest of the world that it could grow beyond its brash Gold Rush beginnings. The earthquake-prone upstart was determined to show its detractors that it could provide the best in five-star entertainment and accommodations.

  The fixture captured a critical moment in the city’s development. The lamp’s ceramic globe depicted one of the many efforts to transform San Francisco into a cultural cosmopolitan center.

  • • •

  THE LAMP’S ELECTRICAL circuit hadn’t been switched on in well over a year, leaving its ceramic globe darkened and unlit. Without the glow of the interior light, the images depicted on the globe’s outer surface were almost indistinguishable, and the murky gray shadows embedded in the glass had gone unnoticed by the current owner of the Green Vase antiques shop.

  The lamp had rested, unused, on its end table, ever since the cat and human trio had moved into the apartment above the showroom. Oscar’s niece had assumed that the bulb was burnt out, or, more likely, that the lamp’s internal wiring had rusted beyond repair.

  She was wrong.

  The lamp had been carefully maintained by the shop’s previous caretaker, and the bulb was only slightly loosened in its fittings. If tightened in the socket, the bulb would emit a bright light that shined through the globe’s translucent surface, illuminating the scene depicted across its wide circumference.

  Once lit, the front half of the globe displayed a large stone building in a peaceful, forested setting. Stately columns fronted the structure, which looked out over a landscaped courtyard that featured a series of sunken pools inhabited by a half-dozen frolicking sea lions. Human figures wandered through the courtyard, admiring the animals as they made their way toward the entrance.

  The scene painted on the globe’s opposite side provided an interior view of the columned building shown on its front.

  A brass balcony framed a wet, swampish enclosure that contained a large banyan tree, several rocks, and a tank of water. The balcony’s upper and lower railings were connected by a perpendicular row of seahorses, whose curved bodies had been flattened into slats.

  In the tank below lay the principal feature of the painting, an intriguing creature who basked on a rock protruding from the water.

  Resting peacefully on the rock, a gilded grin on his long, bumpy face, sprawled a pale, luminescent albino alligator.

  Chapter 2

  A CONSTANT CRAVING

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Rupert sat on the floor at the front of the Green Vase showroom, staring impatiently through the glass panes of the iron-framed door to the street outside.

  He shifted his weight from left to right, all the while craning his head, trying to see as far as he could up Jackson Street to the corner that led toward North Beach.

  His person had been gone for several hours, and her return was long overdue.

  Where is she? Rupert demanded internally as he raised himself up on his back haunches and propped his front feet against the lower panes of glass.

  He’d been planted to this spot for the last thirty minutes, eagerly waiting for the moment when his person would appear around that corner. He was starting to wonder if she would ever get back.

  This was her longest jog ever.

  • • •

  RUPERT BLAMED THE weather.

  The last few days had been abnormally hot for the northern end of San Francisco’s typically temperate peninsula. Thermometer readings had risen into the mid-nineties, unfamiliar measurements for the residents of these wind-buffeted hills.

  Indian summer, Rupert had heard his person call it. He was familiar with the phenomenon, if not the actual terminology. The annual burst of subtropical warmth that swept over San Francisco before the start of the winter’s rainy season was the subject of great anticipation—for most of its citizens.

  Sometimes the heat wave came in late October; in other seasons, not until early November. Some years it never arrived at all. But when it did hit, San Francisco’s fog-beleaguered populace would fill the streets from dawn until long after dusk, their pasty bodies soaking up the sun, a hedonistic last hurrah before the damp down-to-business drudgery of December.

  Rupert sighed with frustration. He pressed his face against the door; his blue eyes searched for the first sweaty blur of his person’s running clothes.

  He didn’t join with the majority on the joys of Indian summer. As far as he was concerned, the sooner it started raining, the better—his person didn’t dally around on cold, wet, windy jogs.

  • • •

  THE SCROLLING WROUGHT iron frame of the Green Vase’s front door rocked in its hinges as Rupert pressed his chunky body against the lower panes of glass. A four-by-eight placard hanging from the tulip-embossed doorknob fluttered with each furry head-bump, but the side reading “CLOSED” remained facing toward the street.

  It had been turned that direction for several months now, ever since late May, when the occupants of the apartment above the showroom had concluded their search for California’s original Bear Flag.

  Behind the Jackson Square antiques shop’s redbrick facing and green-painted iron columns, there had been a subtle transformation, a slight shift in focus. For the woman who had inherited the Green Vase from her Uncle Oscar the previous year, something had changed.

  Gone were the days she’d spent sitting behind the cashier counter, fretting about the store’s financial prospects as she waited for antiques shoppers to wander inside, all the while speculating on what had really happened to her secretive uncle—whether he had passed into the irretrievable afterlife or merely transitioned to a murky, half-hidden existence under a new name and disguise.

  The questions surrounding his death had finally been resolved, in her mind at least. That knowledge had given her a purpose, a sense of belief in her new profession.

  • • •

  THE NIECE’S TIME was now occupied with the many artifact-filled boxes and crates that her enigmatic uncle had left behind. Pile after pile of dusty papers, photos, newspaper clippings, and assorted memorabilia passed beneath her gaze as she rummaged through the contents, intent on creating an extensive catalogue of the inventory.

  She’d been through portions of the collection before, but this time she had a road map, of sorts. She still struggled to ident
ify the hidden significance behind many of the items, but now she had a much better idea of how to process the information.

  Despite the unlikely sequence of events that had led the once shy, timid accountant to take over her uncle’s business, she had put aside her doubts and embraced her new role—not as an antiques dealer, but as an investigator of history, a sleuth of bygone riches . . . a treasure hunter.

  • • •

  UNBEKNOWNST TO THE woman sifting through the Green Vase’s historic trinkets, her next search would lead to something far more treacherous than hidden treasure. Despite the sunny, carefree sky hanging over Jackson Square, brooding black clouds were gathering just beyond the horizon.

  A death—this one of unquestionable authenticity—loomed at the end of this trail of clues.

  • • •

  BUT, FOR NOW, the day’s warm afternoon light playfully beamed into the Green Vase showroom, where the pudgy white cat plastered his body against the front door, urgently awaiting the jogger’s return.

  • • •

  ALL OF THE recent archiving activity going on inside the Green Vase was of little interest to Rupert. He usually nodded off while watching his person pore over the heaps of Oscar’s hoarded clutter, and he fell asleep completely whenever she began talking about the latest trinket whose secret meaning she’d decoded.

  He was concerned with more important issues: his thoughts typically teetered between reminiscence over his last meal and anticipation for his next. He had adored Uncle Oscar—but that affection had had nothing to do with the man’s vast knowledge of San Francisco history.

  It was Oscar’s culinary prowess that had captured Rupert’s loyalty and devotion.

  Rupert still fondly recalled the Saturday-night dinners Oscar had hosted in the apartment above the Green Vase. The menu had almost always been the same: fried chicken paired with coleslaw, lumpy mashed potatoes, green beans, and gravy. Rupert had spent many a decadent evening stuffing himself silly in the small upstairs kitchen where Oscar served his meals.

  Rupert licked his lips, remembering the heavenly aroma that would rise from the massive iron skillet as the chicken’s battered coating began to crisp. And the meat, he thought, swooning from the memory—those juicy morsels had been so tender.

  The recollection of past poultry dishes brought Rupert back to the source of his present frustration. His furry, round stomach let out a loud rumble of protest, and he once more shoved his face against the glass portion of the door.

  His feline brain focused on a single pressing thought.

  “Where is that woman?”

  • • •

  A PEDESTRIAN ROUNDED the critical North Beach corner at the end of the block and turned onto Jackson Street. Rupert nearly flipped a somersault—before realizing that it wasn’t Oscar’s niece.

  His hopes weren’t completely dashed, however. The storklike man carrying a suit jacket slung over one shoulder, whistling as he strode briskly down the sidewalk, might just be able to assuage the cat’s surging hunger.

  Rupert’s gaze quickly scanned over the man’s curly brown hair and rolled-up shirtsleeves, past the frog-shaped cufflinks poking out his front pocket, to the paper bag he carried in his free hand.

  Holding his breath, Rupert carefully studied the greenand gold image printed on the side of the sack.

  Come here, come here, come here, Rupert mentally pleaded, throwing himself once more against the glass, stretching up his front paws beseechingly.

  But Montgomery Carmichael only waved to his furry friend as he stopped at the entrance to his art studio, fed a key into its lock, and stepped inside.

  A stream of feline curses flew thick and furious through the door and across the street as Monty took a seat at the small desk beside his easel, slid a takeout box from the sack, and popped open the lid.

  Rupert couldn’t bear to watch. The torture was more than he could endure. He was about to abandon his post altogether when the slow thump, thump of approaching tennis shoes sounded in the distance.

  With immense relief, he turned back toward the corner. This time there was no mistake; he immediately recognized his person’s colorful running shorts.

  She was now mere seconds away.

  • • •

  AFTER UNCLE OSCAR passed away, Rupert had feared the recipe for his special fried-chicken concoction had been lost for good. He had spent several nights worrying about a future devoid of his favorite meal. In recent months, however, Rupert’s faith in fried chicken had been restored.

  Hurry up! Rupert begged, bouncing up and down like an overstuffed bunny rabbit, his eyes never leaving the paper bag gripped in the woman’s left hand. I can’t wait a second longer.

  Isabella sauntered to the front of the store, joining her brother as their person fumbled with a tulip-shaped key, trying to align the ridges so that it fit into the lock.

  Each day on her way home from her run, Oscar’s niece made a quick stop in the nearby North Beach neighborhood at a homestyle restaurant that had opened a few months earlier. There, she picked up two cat-sized portions of the restaurant’s popular entrée.

  The daily treat had become Rupert’s all-consuming fixation.

  In his expert opinion, it tasted exactly the same as the fried chicken Uncle Oscar used to make.

  Chapter 3

  A DISTINGUISHED DINER

  BRIGHT SUN SOAKED the hood of a pearl-colored Bentley as it slogged its way through the Monday afternoon rush-hour traffic clogging Columbus Avenue. The main artery for San Francisco’s North Beach neighborhood, the road was crowded with orange and white Muni buses, beat-up taxis of myriad shapes and colors, and a wide assortment of privately owned vehicles, each one filled with frustrated commuters fleeing the financial district. Tourists packed the sidewalks, rounding out the chaotic scene.

  The gentleman piloting the Bentley was instantly recognizable to many of those trapped in Columbus’s knot of congestion. His immaculate dress, smooth mannerisms, and beaming smile were a familiar sight in downtown San Francisco. The city’s residents had long grown accustomed to his glad-handing public appearances. The Previous Mayor of San Francisco—or PM, as he was referred to in certain circles—knew how to make an impression.

  Today, however, the PM was intent on a more low-key outing. As the car inched to a stop at a red light, he slumped down in his seat, uncharacteristically avoiding eye contact with a group of pedestrians gawking from the crosswalk. He reached for the felt bowler perched jauntily on the crown of his balding brown head and tugged it forward to shield the upper portion of his face.

  Generally speaking, he wasn’t the type to shy away from recognition—truth be known, he was drawn like a moth to even the dimmest spotlight—but his next appointment was not one meant for public display.

  • • •

  AS THE PREVIOUS Mayor shrunk behind the wheel, wishing he’d commandeered a less conspicuous ride, a light wind funneled through his open driver’s side window.

  Given the day’s unusually humid heat, the PM might have welcomed a refreshing breeze against his face. This gust, however, received a hostile reception.

  The PM crinkled his nose as the protruding scent of roasted garlic permeated the car’s interior. He had a keen sense of smell, one easily rankled by an off-putting odor.

  “My luck,” he grumbled, turning to look at the black-painted storefront of a nearby restaurant. “This is where I get stuck.”

  The PM shook his head as he counted a half-dozen out-of-town eaters seated by the front window, gorging themselves on a table full of garlic-laden entrées.

  He remembered his one—and only—meal at the dining spot, which was a favorite of visiting tourists. He hadn’t been able to stand the smell, much less the taste, of garlic ever since.

  “I had that wretched stuff oozing from my pores for three days straight,” he muttered with a shudder. His whole body cringed. “Spent an entire day at the sauna trying to sweat out the stench.”

  • • •
r />   THE PM HAD described the unpleasant aftereffects of his garlic-eating experience in his weekly op-ed piece for the San Francisco newspaper. The column was a free-ranging collection of his thoughts and opinions on various topics: local politics, culture, and current events—but his most frequent subject was that of culinary critique.

  The PM ate out two, sometimes three times a day, and dutifully reported the details of each meal in his column. His name and photo were mounted on the interior walls of his favorite restaurants and bistros, next to tables that were on permanent reserve, awaiting his arrival.

  Despite this preferential treatment, no eating establishment was above his reproach. If the PM felt that the service was too slow, the temperature of his food less than optimum, or the ambience of the dining experience in any way marred, he would call out this deficiency in his column. Suffice it to say, the garlic restaurant had received a lengthy and scathing condemnation.

  The PM’s face contorted into an unpleasant grimace as the garlic-infused air inside his vehicle intensified.

  “Never again,” he snapped, rolling up the window.

  He took one last look at the exuberant eaters, their silverware flashing as they bent over their plates.

  “Enjoy it now,” he said with a wry pump of his eyebrows. “You’ll pay for it later.”

  Deftly, the PM jerked his car into the opposing lane of traffic. Ignoring the resulting blare of horns, the Bentley surged forward and swerved around the vehicles blocking the intersection before dipping back onto its side of the road.

  Turning the ventilation fan to its highest setting, the PM took in a deep breath of fresh garlic-free air and sighed ruefully.

  “Trust me, I know.”

  • • •

  A FEW BLOCKS later, the Bentley veered off Columbus and swung around a corner into a side alley. After a few sharp turns, the Previous Mayor squeezed the car into a narrow slot beside a Dumpster and killed the engine. Peeking over the steering wheel’s upper rim, he stared out the front window at the rear entrance to a popular North Beach bistro.