How to Catch a Cat (18 page)

MAN OVERBOARD

MAYOR CARMICHAEL AND
his staff weren’t the only invites to the Baron’s tour of the newly completed America’s Cup facilities and a preview of his team’s racing sailboat.

The mayor’s town car dropped his group off at the pier’s Embarcadero entrance. As the niece stood on the sidewalk, gripping the handle to the cat-filled stroller, she heard the familiar
pop
of a reporter’s notebook.

Hoxton Finn strode up, accompanied by Humphrey, his ever-present hairstylist. A full news crew followed shortly behind.

The Baron had promised exclusive behind-the-scenes access, hoping for favorable television and newspaper coverage.

The billionaire greeted the crowd as they walked inside the main warehouse.

“We have our latest prototype pulled up to the dock out front.” He motioned toward the far end of the pier. “The team has been practicing in her all morning. She’s giving us great speed out and back to Angel Island.” Cocking an eyebrow, he turned toward Monty. “You ready to take a spin, Mayor?”

Monty leapt forward, apparently eager to begin, but the niece knew he’d skipped out on his sailing lessons. Despite his frequently cited desire to gain nautical expertise, she suspected he secretly feared the water. If the prospect of setting sail on the bay caused him any anxiety, he didn’t show it.

“I thought you’d never ask!” he replied with gusto.

As the rest of the group caught up to where the boat was tethered at the far end of the pier, the niece stared with concern at the sailboat bobbing in the water. She instantly sensed that this was a bad idea.

She’d seen numerous photos of the racing boats over the past few months. But even the massive America’s Cup billboard fronting Union Square had failed to capture the vessel’s enormous height—and fragile instability.

Isabella shared her person’s misgivings about Monty’s upcoming boat ride. She warbled skeptically from the stroller.

“Wrao.”

The camera crews whipped out their equipment and began filming as the racing team marched out of a nearby warehouse, fully kitted in their sailing gear. Each sailor was covered from head to toe in a heavy-duty wet suit, the fabric reinforced throughout with patches of nylon sheeting. The men began strapping on state-of-the-art plastic helmets, shin guards, and elbow protectors.

The Baron nodded at the team’s outfits.

“First, Mayor, you’ll have to suit up.”

The niece thought she detected a slight trepidation in Monty’s voice as he gulped out his answer.

“Lead the way, sir!”

—

TWENTY MINUTES LATER,
Monty emerged from the changing room.

The rubber costume, it seemed, had not been an easy fit.

A teetering chuckle ran through the crowd on the pier, which had grown to at least thirty. The niece recognized most as members of Hox’s news organization. In addition, several members of the board of supervisors and their staff had made the short trek from City Hall. This event had clearly been staged for maximum publicity.

She was beginning to think it was the Baron who was using Monty for his own personal gain, and not the other way around.

Monty had been filmed in a wet suit before—while being chased by a hungry albino alligator.

This wet suit would have provided better protection against the gator’s snapping jaws, the niece thought as she studied the thick insulating material.

But standing next to the athletic crew members, with their toned muscles and chiseled expressions, Monty did not compare favorably.

Officer Toronto leaned toward her shoulder. “Should we tell him that he looks like a rubber-coated toothpick?”

The niece shook her head, trying to suppress a grin. Monty’s audacious self-belief had taken him this far in life. He was unlikely to abandon it now.

“He wouldn’t believe you anyway.”

—

THE RACING CREW
piled onto the sailboat, nimbly crawling over the webbing that connected the craft’s two slender hulls. Ropes spun in their pulleys as the sails were tightened and maneuvered into position.

Isabella pawed the passenger compartment cover, demanding to be let out so she could watch the spectacle without the hindrance of the netting.

“I don’t know, Issy.” The niece squinted at the racing boat. “This might get ugly.”

At the cat’s stern look, the niece relented. She slipped a harness around Isabella’s chest, hooked a leash into the top center hook, and helped her onto the pier.

Rupert took advantage of the extra space to stretch out into a full-body sprawl. He appeared unconcerned about Monty’s prospects on the water—that, or Monty’s impending peril couldn’t compete with his latest musings on fried chicken donuts.

If Rupert had confidence in Monty’s ability to survive the sailboating endeavor, he was one of the few.

The observers’ faces had quickly turned from jocular to tense. Hoxton Finn scribbled furiously in his notebook, grunting with increasing frequency. Beside him, Humphrey fiddled nervously with his jacket, a stylish if somewhat unconventional horsehair assembly.

The extra crew member himself was now visibly ill at ease. Monty’s long legs wobbled precariously as he tried to steady himself on the craft. His thin lips pinched with worry.

The sailboat was primarily composed of flexible moving pieces. There was little in the way of fixed support. As the mayor struggled for a foothold, his slim body bowed back and forth, failing to find its center of gravity.

“I wonder if Monty knows how to swim,” the niece murmured.

Sitting on the pier at the woman’s feet, Isabella twitched her whiskers dubiously.

A passing ferryboat kicked out a wave that promulgated toward the pier. The rocking motion combined with a gust of wind to throw Monty completely off balance. He fell onto the slick shell that covered the nearest hull. Before a fellow crew member could grab him, his feet popped up into the air and he disappeared, headfirst and backward, over the side.

Isabella and the niece stared down at the swirling water beside the boat. There was no sign of the city’s interim mayor.

After a moment, Isabella looked up at her person, offering a matter-of-fact assessment.

“Mrao.”

•   •   •

WITH ATTENTION FOCUSED
on the sailboat and the submerged mayor, none of the many spectators on the pier noticed that Officer Toronto had disappeared.

ANOTHER ONE BITES THE DUST

OFFICER TORONTO SHOOK
his head as he watched Mayor Carmichael climb onto the racing sailboat. It was clear from the outset that Monty was destined for a dunking. The awkward display was painful to watch.

This will not end well
, Toronto thought to himself.

It was a sadly prophetic statement.

Distracted by the fiasco unfolding on the water, he loosened his grip on the clipboard.

A gust of wind pushed in from the bay, blowing a wall of air across the pier. Jackets flapped, the sailboat tipped sideways, the mayor splashed into the water, and the top sheets attached to Toronto’s clipboard flew off and scattered down the pier.

“Bah! Come back here.”

Toronto clamped his hand down on the clipboard, securing the remaining pages. Then he scurried after the lost papers, dodging a pair of squawking seagulls as he scrambled across the windswept platform.

He caught the last sheet by the entrance to the sailing team’s locker room.

Stepping into the doorway, he bent to scoop it up.

“From paper pusher to paper chaser. Man, I’ve gotta get back to my regular beat . . .”

The edge of the building blocked the bay breeze. In the stillness of the doorway, a second puff of air filled the vacuum—one laden with a lemony-sweet perfume.

Officer Toronto dropped to the floor, reaching for the service weapon strapped to his lower calf.

His instincts had kicked in a second too late.

Avoiding the encumbrance of the bulletproof vest, Mabel aimed for his neck. Stepping up behind him, she reached around his shoulders and deftly slid the knitting needle’s knife across his jugular.

It was a quick and efficient maneuver.

Toronto gasped his last breath as the Ninja tossed the bloody needle on the concrete floor.

She surveyed the results of her handiwork. Then she exited the warehouse, her footsteps echoing calmly across the pier.

UNINVITED

“WHAT DO YOU
mean I’ve been uninvited?”

Monty’s indignant howl echoed through the reception area. The protest could be heard outside the mayor’s office suite, all the way to the elevators.

“Sorry, Monty.” The niece shrugged apologetically. “They said they just couldn’t risk it.”

Minutes earlier, she had received a phone call from the Baron’s administrative assistant.

In the wake of Officer Toronto’s death, many race sponsors had raised concerns with Cup organizers. The corporate entities were wary of having their brand names associated with yet another murder.

After careful deliberation, the organizers had respectfully asked that the mayor limit his public involvement with the race, for fear it might incite the Ninja to make another attack, potentially sinking the whole event.

The Baron felt he had no choice. Monty’s VIP credentials had officially been revoked.

The niece relayed the explanation, but it didn’t help Monty accept the Baron’s decision.

“Revoked?” Monty repeated, incredulous. He threw his hands in the air. “I’m the mayor of this city, for Pete’s sake.” He leaned over the niece’s desk. The veins in his thin neck pulsed with anger.

“San Francisco has put a substantial amount of money into this event.” After an anxious swallow, he added tensely, “I’ve got a lot at stake here. He can’t just uninvite me.”

The niece slid a pencil behind her ear and glanced down at her notes. “I believe the exact terminology the admin used was ‘decommissioned.’” She scanned her handwriting and looked up. “Your position on the event team has been decommissioned.”

Monty’s cheeks turned a strange shade of purple. Pushing away from the desk, he pivoted toward his office, stomped inside, and slammed the door shut.

Seconds later, he stormed back into the reception area to the spot where he had hung the sailing poster months before. Lifting the frame from the hook, he turned the poster face inward against the wall and returned to his office.

The niece looked up at the filing cabinet where Isabella had silently observed the exchange.

“Well, that’s that, then.”

The cat gazed thoughtfully at the back of the poster before issuing her cryptic reply.

“Mrao.

Anchored off Angel Island

August 1775

VERY SUPERSTITIOUS

“SUCH A SHAME
about Torontino . . . he was a good man.”

The sentiment reverberated through the ship as the crew member’s death sank in.

The first killing had disrupted the
San Carlos
and left everyone on edge, but the associated shock had quickly passed. The victim had been a virtual unknown. His passing was, sadly, anonymous.

The second murder was far more damaging to morale. Torontino was well known to everyone on board. The sorrowful murmurs could be heard in every quarter.

“I know his mother back in Barcelona. The poor woman will be devastated.”

“My cousin married his sister. He was the best man at my wedding . . .”

“I sailed with his brother a few years back. He was a good mate.” The speaker heaved out a heavy sigh. “They were both good mates.”

Beyond the painful round of grieving, however, the new death raised an issue of far greater concern for Captain Ayala.

Sailors were a notoriously superstitious lot, constantly on the lookout for omens that might predict their fate. They read meaning into everything. The most innocuous observations could be twisted into portentous warnings. Odd-shaped clouds, irregular waves, or even a disturbance in the flotsam and jetsam that floated on the water’s surface—any one of these sightings could raise irrational alarm.

Most sailors kept talismans for good luck. The treasured trinkets were secured to their body the moment they boarded ship and not relinquished until they returned safely to port.

Even Captain Ayala wasn’t completely immune to the practice.

He carried in his luggage a special pair of socks that he wore while navigating difficult passages—he’d put them on the night the
San Carlos
sailed through the Golden Gate. They were hanging on a hook in his stateroom, airing out so they’d be ready for the return maneuver.

But the captain drew the line at footwear.

Superstitions related to weather formations, water turbulence, or seaweed debris were, in his book, just plain silly.

—

AFTER TORONTINO’S DEATH,
Captain Ayala was a lone voice of reason on a boat full of hysteria.

Rumors of what had happened to the ship’s previous captain and crew had been circulating since the vessel set sail from the Mexican coast. The newly assembled team had at first ignored the dark whispers they’d heard in San Blas. They’d welcomed the opportunity to jump on board a new ship. But what had initially been dismissed as nonsense was now being taken much more seriously.

The warning conveyed by the Angel Island Indians had spread rapidly—despite Ayala’s attempts to quash it.

The niece swore she’d told only her uncle Oscar and the captain about the scenes the Indian chief had drawn in the sand.

That left Father Monty as the likely gossip.

Captain Ayala groaned at the thought of the chatty priest. Monty’s so-called confessional in the ship’s chapel had become a popular venue for information exchange.

The captain shook his head in frustration. He couldn’t very well shut down the chapel, but its role in amplifying rampant speculation wasn’t helping morale.

Vivid tales of the Indian’s warning and the curved symbol the chief had drawn—combined with the second knitting needle murder in as many days—had led many to believe that the ship was cursed.

The sailors feared they would be picked off, one by one. Panic was setting in. Crew members were staring at one another with distrust and suspicion.

The situation could easily descend into a crazed mutiny.

The only way the
San Carlos
could be cleared of this cancerous angst was with a spiritual cleansing by a respected religious official.

It was a feat unlikely to be pulled off by Father Carmichael.

Grumbling bitterly, Ayala tromped down the steps to the ship’s lower level.

He had better check on Monty’s exorcism preparations.