How to Moon a Cat (28 page)

I reached out and spun the metal spider mounted onto the tub’s base. It moved freely under my touch, and the drain below it appeared unobstructed. Craning my head upward, I checked the spigots where water entered from the washer’s roof. They were clear and clean. There was still no obvious explanation for the plug.

I closed the washer door, pulled the locking lever into place, and turned the dial to start. Isabella clicked out a vocal warning as a rushing whoosh of water entered the machine. Blue eyes bulging, Rupert backed up several feet into the kitchen.

“Wra wrao ra ra rum.”
Isabella called out a warning as she retreated to a safer position on top of the kitchen table.

Sure enough, two minutes into the cycle, the first gurgling bubbles began to burp up and over the top seam. Quickly, I swung back the lever and cracked open the door.

A blast of hot air fogged my glasses. Blinking, I whipped the frames from my face and leaned into the steamy interior. Soapy water swirled in the bottom of the tub, and the sides were moist with splatter—but in the condensation pattern on the roof, I noticed a suspicious aberration. In a small square area on the ceiling’s left side, the water droplets were dramatically smaller. Something above the plastic roof was affecting its heat transfer.

Padded feet crept up behind me as I twisted my head to stare at the top of the dishwasher’s interior. Rupert’s loud snuffling whistled in my left ear as he put his front paws over my shoulders. Then, I heard the distinctive sound of hungry smacking lips.

“Hmmm,” I said, glancing back at his eager expression, which was focused on the top left corner of the dishwasher. He gulped as if anticipating a treat.

I leaned back into the washer and thumped the molded plastic of the ceiling with the tip of my thumb. A hollow empty sound echoed back into the kitchen.

I moved my hand an inch to the left.
Thunk.
Still hollow.

My hand slid over another inch, near the spot where the condensed water droplets changed in size. This time my thump returned a thick leaded
thud
.

“Aha!” I exclaimed as Rupert became even more urgent with his sniffles. Behind me, Isabella’s feet dropped lightly onto the tile floor as she abandoned her perch on the kitchen table. A moment later, she circled around to my right side, ears perked, tail stretched inquisitively in the air.

Gently, I began pressing against the plastic roof of the dishwasher with my fingers, trying to rock it loose.

“There’s definitely something . . . in here,” I said as two cats closed in on my work space.

Suddenly, the large piece of plastic that formed the roof of the tub slipped forward, releasing a burst of hot water. Rupert scooted sideways as I fell back on my rear. Isabella hissed at the dishwasher, her hackles rising in challenge.

Blowing on my singed fingertips, I righted myself and leaned forward once more into the washer’s interior. Lying on the open door where it had fallen from the hole in the roof was a small metal box.

I used a pair of oven mitts to pick it up and, with effort, pried open the lid to study the contents sealed inside. The wad of fried-chicken-infused cash was likely what had drawn Rupert’s interest. Relieved as I was to have found the money, I was far more interested in the item tucked next to it: a toy bear holding a California Bear Flag.

Slipping off the oven mitts, I lifted the bear from the container and carefully turned its paw, rotating the toothpick it held in its grasp. The gold-lettered writing on the back of the flag read: LARKIN HOUSE, MONTEREY, CALIFORNIA.

 

 

DOWN THE STAIRS
from the kitchen, below the creaky wood flooring of the Green Vase showroom, an opening appeared along one of the basement’s crumbling brick walls. Three men emerged from the entrance to the tunnel that ran beneath the streets of San Francisco, connecting the Green Vase’s basement to the flower shop around the corner on Montgomery Street.

John Wang, limping along in his bathrobe, pajamas, and house slippers, was the first to step into the basement. He was immediately followed by Harold Wombler, muttering under his breath about stiffening joints. The last man in the group exited the tunnel wearing a costume meant to emulate the historical figure of General Mariano Vallejo.

The trio moved slowly, picking their way through the piles of boxes and crates until they reached a spot beneath the closed hatch in the basement ceiling.

A tiny mouse poked its head out of the Vallejo character’s jacket pocket as Mr. Wang pulled a pencil-sized flashlight from his robe pocket and shone it at the glass eyes of the stuffed kangaroo standing silently in the corner. Then, slowly, the tiny point of light moved from the creature’s face down to its large bulging stomach.

TUESDAY MORNING,
I opened my eyes to find the cats sprawled across the covers, both of them clearly pleased to be back in the familiar environs of the Jackson Square apartment.

Isabella claimed the real estate at the foot of the bed while Rupert sprawled across the middle, leaving only a narrow wedge on the right-hand side for me. The orange tip of Rupert’s fluffy tail thumped against my stomach, as if to suggest that it was I who was cramping him and not the other way around. Grumbling sleepily, I scooped him up and rotated him ninety degrees so that I could shift to a more comfortable position.

I plumped the pillow under my head and stared up at the ceiling . . . my uncle’s ceiling . . . in my uncle’s apartment . . . above my uncle’s antique store. A year’s worth of living here hadn’t changed my perspective on who really owned the place.

I had often wondered, in the nights since Oscar’s death, what he had thought about on his last night lying in this bed. Considering all his cryptic messages, hidden treasures, and secret packets of money—had he simply been preparing for a long life’s inevitable end, or had my uncle foreseen what lay waiting for him that dreadful morning?

Rupert flopped over, deliberately turning his body back into a sideways alignment. I felt the pads of his feet pushing against my hip. One thing I could be sure of, I thought wearily as I once more readjusted the persistent furry heap lying next to me, Oscar’s last night of sleep above the Green Vase showroom hadn’t been disturbed by a bedhogging cat.

 

 

TWENTY MINUTES LATER,
I gave up the battle with Rupert and roused myself to prepare for the day’s journey. This trip would be much shorter than my previous outing; this one I would take entirely on my own.

By the time I’d slipped into a clean T-shirt and jeans, Rupert had vacated his prominent position on the covers. The center of the bed wasn’t as appealing, it seemed, if you weren’t pushing someone else away from it.

Isabella circled around me, supervising as I tied the laces on my tennis shoes; then, tail pointed at the ceiling, she led the way downstairs.

After a stale bagel and a quick cup of coffee, I snapped up a pair of car keys from a basket on the kitchen counter.

“I’ll be back this afternoon,” I said briskly, topping off the water dish as I left the cats to their breakfast. “You should be fine here until then.”

The munching sounds coming from the food bowls didn’t register any objections. The cats had had enough travel for the time being.

A few minutes later, I stepped onto the sidewalk outside the Green Vase showroom to find Jackson Square lost in a quiet morning haze. The rainstorms that had swept through the Bay Area the previous day had left behind a thick dewy fog.

Past the empty glass-fronted shop next door to the Green Vase, I turned right down a narrow curving alley. Steep brick walls closed in on either side of me, forming an eerie, damp corridor, but no amount of spectral gloom could shake the purposefulness of my step. I refused to let my nagging anxiety about Frank Napis disrupt my next stop on Oscar’s Bear Flag trail. The location written on the clue I’d found in the dishwasher, I assured myself, would be Frank-free. There was no way he could know where I was headed—or so I thought.

About a hundred yards later, the alley opened up into a one-lane side street that angled behind the Green Vase. The road wasn’t wide enough for regular street traffic and remained basically unused, but there was enough extra space behind my building to park a modest four-door vehicle.

The car sometimes sat here for months. There was a grocery store a few blocks away, and it was easier to walk there than to try to find parking. I should have sold the car, I suppose, but on those few occasions where I needed to leave the city, it sure did come in handy.

I reached under the hem of the car’s sheet cover. Gripping the fabric’s edge with both hands, I whipped it up into the air to reveal the machine beneath.

The hood yawned sleepily as I cranked it open, a metal interior spring stretching into a long squeak. I reconnected the battery to its leads, generating a welcoming blink from the engine. After a few more minor vehicle checks, my trusty gray Corolla was ready for action.

I climbed into the driver’s seat and plugged the key into the ignition. As the engine warmed to a gentle purr, I opened my road atlas to the page for Northern California and studied the route south to Monterey. The Larkin House was in the central downtown area, not far from the wharf. It shouldn’t be too hard to find.

I backed out of the alley and circled around to the front of the Green Vase. Two furry faces watched from the upstairs window as the Corolla hummed past on Jackson Street and headed out of town.

RUPERT YAWNED SLEEPILY
as he watched the Corolla drive off down Jackson Street. The duffel bag remained safely in its niche on the closet’s top shelf, so he had no concerns about being left behind on today’s trip.

Plus, he thought with a wide yawn, after two days on the road, he was feeling rather exhausted. He had a lot of sleep to catch up on.

It didn’t help that he’d been up half the night trying to push his person over to her side of the bed. He let out a weary sigh. After only two nights away from the apartment, she was going to have to be completely retrained on their sleeping arrangements.

There was one more reason he was not eager to get himself loaded up into the Corolla, he thought as he stepped down from the windowsill and padded across the bedroom. It was a small and efficient car—perfect for the occasional drive around Northern California—but it had limited features. He had no delusions about
its
fried-chicken-cooking capabilities.

Mmm, chicken, he mused hungrily as he skipped back down the stairs to the kitchen. He needed another bite of breakfast before he tucked in for his morning nap.

The kitchen floor had been swept clean of the piles of discarded wallpaper that had littered the room the night before, but his person had not had time to affix anything to the stripped-down walls.

That was just fine with Rupert. He gazed approvingly at a section of bare two-by-four studs. There was no way that weird-looking mouse could sneak up on him now, he thought reassuringly.

Turning from the wall, he stretched his front legs toward the kitchen table. His chest brushed against the ground as his front toes splayed out, each individual claw extending to its full curving arc. His rump poked up into the air so that his fluffy tail plumed like the comb of a rooster.

This feels good, he thought as he reached the full extension of his armpits. My person has a name for this pose. What does she call it? Oh, that’s right. The Funky Chicken. Mmm, chicken—hey, there’s my food bowl.

The soles of Rupert’s feet squished against the tile floor as he completed the distance to the feeding station.

Swooooosh
.

Oh, bother, Rupert sighed as he froze, mid-step, bracing for his sister’s incoming pounce.

Her slender white body hurtled through the air, expertly taking him out in a single tackle. The two of them rolled across the floor in a spitting, swatting ball of fur until they crashed against the side of the dishwasher.

Rupert scrambled to his feet and took off across the kitchen. Isabella chased playfully after him as he hopped onto the seat of a wooden chair, spun around, and issued a mighty roar from his chest.

“Werrrao!”
You have woken the lion, he thought, his nostrils flaring for full intimidating effect. Prepare to be re-pounced.

Isabella scooted to the side as Rupert launched into the air. Back across to the dishwasher they raced. At the opposite side of the kitchen, Isabella leapt onto the counter by the sink, her brother tracking close behind. Scampering along the ledge, Isabella stepped nimbly over a small transistor radio before jumping back down to the floor. The bottom of Rupert’s feet grazed the radio’s control buttons as he bounced over it and landed with a wheezing grunt on the tiles next to his sister.

There was a second of static; then the local AM station’s broadcast filled the room. Both cats sat on the floor, looking curiously up at the noisy black box.

 

 

HARRY CARLIN SMILED
into the camera as the producer counted down from the end of a commercial break. A dizzy collection of roller coasters, merry-go-rounds, and other spinning, whirling amusement park rides provided the backdrop for the broadcast booth as the producer pulled his last finger into his fist, signaling the restart of the live transmission.

“Welcome back, folks,” Carlin said pleasantly. “We’re here just outside the Santa Cruz boardwalk at the finishing line for Stage Three of the Tour of California. The weather has improved dramatically from yesterday. Here in Santa Cruz it’s downright balmy.”

Will Spigot leaned into the camera shot, a wide grin on his pointed face. “This is more like it! I’ve even broken out my sunscreen.”