How to Wash a Cat (21 page)

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Authors: Rebecca M. Hale

BOOK: How to Wash a Cat
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“Yes—I can see that,” she said shrewdly, glancing around at the cluttered disarray. “I had hoped you would reconsider my advice to sell this place.” She began moving around the room, dragging her glassy, red nails across the dusty crates and furniture.
“Tell me,” Miranda said, her back turned to me, “have any customers come by while you’ve been working on the renovations?”
“No, I haven’t noticed any.” I shrugged my shoulders. “We’ve been closed, of course.”
She whipped around to face me, the broad sheets of fabric fluttering around her like the cape of a cobra. “Don’t you find that odd?” she said evenly, the pits of her pupils glowing like embers.
“I . . . really . . . hadn’t thought about it,” I replied, wilting under the continued pressure of her perfume.
Miranda turned away from me again, her voice calculatingly casual. “Given the profits Oscar’s racked up over the last couple of years, I would have thought this place had been teeming with customers.”
“I had never been here during the day before,” I said haltingly, feeling strangely queasy. “I only ever saw Oscar on Saturday nights—for dinner.”
Miranda flicked open a lid flap on the nearest box with the tip end of a fingernail and peeked inside, her face expressionless. “And have you found anything
unusual
in your perusal of the merchandise?” She looked up at me sharply.
“Not . . . not really,” I replied, shaking my head, nervously pulling my fingers through the back of my hair.
“I have the suspicion,” she said slowly, grittingly, stamping the lid of the box closed with the flat of her hand, “that Oscar might have
left
something here for you.”
My face flushed violet as I stuttered, “Uhh . . . hmm, about Oscar—a funny thing happened right after he died.”
She stared at me, her face a heavily-painted stone, unreadable.
“Someone called me to report on Oscar’s autopsy. I thought he was from the police.” I gulped. “But it turns out he was an imposter.”
Her face registered no reaction. The curved edge of the nail on her right index finger traced a circle on the surface of the box.
“I’m starting to think,” I said, nearly breathless, “that something might have happened to Oscar—to cause his death.”
Miranda glanced over my shoulder to the bookcase. Isabella sat on her perch, serenely surveying the proceedings with her unflinching blue eyes. Miranda walked over to her and raised a heavily scented hand towards Isabella’s feet.
“My mother is over the moon about this event at the Palace,” she said softly, incongruously ignoring my last statement. “This is the female of the pair, isn’t it,” she asked, scratching Isabella gently under the chin. “She’ll have an easier time getting into her costume.” Isabella rumbled with a regal purr.
Miranda paused and pursed her lips. “That other one will need a
bath
before you show up at the Palace Hotel with him.”
An exasperated puff of air escaped me. “Did you hear what I . . .”
“I suspect that Oscar,” Miranda said harshly, as the manicured hand left Isabella and turned, palm out, to stop me, “got in over his head.”
Her curling lips crunched up derisively as her eyes raked my rumpled clothes and puzzled expression. “You should be more careful about who you consort with,” she said with a pointed glance towards the sidewalk as she turned towards the exit, “if you want to avoid the same fate.”
I listened as the percussion of her footsteps faded away, leaving me in the pounding silence of my twisting, turbulent thoughts.
Chapter 24
MONTY AND IVAN nearly tripped over each other in their efforts to peel their faces off the window as Miranda breezed past, utterly ignoring them. I stood where Miranda had left me, in the center of the Green Vase, flummoxed in the fallout from her visit.
Isabella hopped down from her perch and sauntered over, obviously pleased by Miranda’s attentions. I stroked her head absentmindedly as Rupert nosed cautiously around the corner of the stairs, every hair fluffed out as a precautionary sensor.
Ivan cracked open the front door and leaned inside, a sympathetic look on his face. Monty’s head goosed over his right shoulder, his face cringing in mock horror. “We thought Rupert was a goner.”
I looked down at my feet. Instantly recovered from his traumatic experience, Rupert had sprawled out on his back, flopping the fluffy, white pillow of his tummy up into the air. He swatted lazily at my shoelace.
“I think he’ll live,” Ivan said, smiling as he and Monty walked inside.
“Miranda Richards in the Green Vase,” Monty whistled. “I’ll bet that’s never happened before.”
My head was still spinning from Miranda’s barely veiled accusations. I looked at Monty, my expression troubled.
“Did Oscar have a lot of customers?” I asked. “I mean, you see everything that goes on around here. Were there many people coming and going to the Green Vase?”
“
Customers
?” Monty responded with an incredulous expression. “Come on, look at this place—no self-respecting patron of Jackson Square would set foot in here.” He smiled cynically. “And even if they had, Oscar would have sent them away. He wasn’t much into
customers
.”
My forehead crinkled, puzzling.
“The only regular visitor was Gordon Bosco,” Monty offered. “He stopped by from time to time. I figured he and Oscar were buddies, and that’s what kept Oscar out of trouble with the board.” Monty tapped the tip of his nose knowingly. “That’s why I wanted to get your presentation through before Bosco retired.”
“Hmm,” I responded vaguely. My thoughts trailed back five years ago—to the first time I’d visited the Green Vase.
I had just arrived in San Francisco, having landed a position with the accounting firm from an interview at a job fair on the East Coast. I’d never met my Uncle Oscar, but I’d received a note from an elderly aunt suggesting that I look him up.
I’d carried his address around with me for a couple of months until one weekend, while wandering through the city streets, I happened to end up in Jackson Square.
Having lost touch with most of my relatives over the years, I didn’t have high expectations for Oscar. One by one, family members had gradually fallen out of my life, like leaves dropping silently off a tree. I’d hardly noticed they were gone until I woke up one day and saw that the limbs were bare.
But an ounce of curiosity, a spurious inclination that I couldn’t quite let go of, had drawn me to the entrance of the Green Vase.
It was late afternoon on a sunny Saturday. The bright rays of the setting sun highlighted the decrepit condition of the store. The place looked deserted. I stood on the sidewalk, scanning the broken glass and darkened interior, suspecting that the building had long been abandoned.
A shadow moved inside as I was about to leave, and a short, rounded figure limped towards the door. Transfixed, I watched as his features came into view, a broad smile breaking across his weathered face.
“Can I help you?” he asked in a scratchy voice as the door creaked open. He squinted at me, studying my face. “You’re my niece, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I managed to get out, amazed at the instant recognition.
“I’m your Uncle Oscar then,” he said, nodding his head towards the showroom. “Come on in.”
I stepped into the dusky room, scanning the disorganized contents as my eyes adjusted to the dim light.
“Gold Rush,” he said, stroking the rough stubble on the tip of his chin.
I raised an uneasy eyebrow towards him.
He cleared his throat and leaned against the cashier counter. “That’s what my store’s about—antiques from the Gold Rush.”
I took a tentative step forward, studying the antique cash register on the counter. Oscar stared at me, gumming his dentures assessingly.
“You hungry?” he asked. “I’m about to start cooking.” He gave me a sharp look. “You like fried chicken, don’t you?”
Monty’s voice broke through my memory. “It’s like she zapped you with a life-sucking ray.”
“Wha . . . what?” I asked, dragging myself back to the present.
“Miranda did a real number on you,” he said, shaking his head. “You’ve been drooling like a zombie for the last couple of minutes.”
“I was just thinking about something,” I said absentmindedly.
“So, what did Miranda want?” Monty asked persistently.
“Good question,” I thought to myself, remembering her parting comments. My face twisted, reflecting the thoughts within as I looked at my tall, stringy neighbor.
“I think,” I said slowly, “that she was trying to warn me.”
IVAN RETURNED TO his work outside, and Monty skittered across the street to his studio. I shut the door behind them and collapsed into the dental chair.
My hand found the lever on the backside of the chair, and the recliner kicked back into its flattest horizontal position. The worn, aging leather crunched comfortably behind my head as the afternoon sun bathed my face in its soft warmth. Rupert bounded into my lap and curled up, rapidly dozing off into a deep sleep.
I concentrated on a spiderweb that stretched across the ceiling as numbers clicked in my head, not individually, but as a group, sifting faces and data, trying to sort them into a logical arrangement. The musty smells of the Green Vase showroom swirled around me, occasionally spiked with a rancid remnant whiff from Miranda’s skunky perfume.
How could Oscar have run an antiques store with no customers? I knew, of course, that Oscar had hated that aspect of the business. And, certainly, he was known to be irascible with the hoity-toity clientele that frequented the Jackson Square neighborhood, but—
no
customers? That just wasn’t possible. According to Miranda, Oscar’s business had been booming in recent years.
For the last six months, every time I’d come to visit, it seemed that more and more shipping containers had been crammed into the store. I glanced around the room at the bulky wooden crates and cardboard boxes stacked up against the walls, an uncomfortable realization gnawing at my stomach.
I slipped deeper into the cushions of the dental chair, my forehead pounding, desperately missing the quiet predictability that had been my life just two weeks earlier. It felt like everything that meant anything had been turned upside down. My previous identity, the careful security of the life that I’d constructed—it had all been stripped away. All of those long, quiet hours of solitude glazed over in my memory as if they’d been lived by someone else. I thought wistfully of my old, dark cubicle with its cloth covered, sensory depriving, Monty-proof walls.
Monty, I thought irritably, muttering in my half-asleep state. Miranda seemed to think that I should distance myself from him. She must know, I mused, about his break-in to the Green Vase the week before Oscar died.
I sighed heavily. That was easier said than done. Monty was everywhere, at every moment; there was no way to avoid him. Any minute now, I expected to hear the rap of his knuckles on the front door. I clenched my eyelids firmly shut. I would simply pretend not to hear him.
But Monty’s inescapable voice wormed its way into my head. He was giving the Green Vase renovation presentation to the board. His flat-pitched monologue droned in the deep background of my consciousness as the flat face and protruding, beaked nose of Gordon Bosco came into focus.
Gordon was seated at the front of the boardroom, a thin smile on his vanishing lips, his beady, black eyes staring at me. He leaned forward on the table, resting his weight on his right elbow as his wrist raised up so that he could prop up his chin on the palm of his hand. The cuff of his dark suit jacket slid down and a flickering flash of gold glimmered at his wrist.
Suddenly, Gordon stood up and walked across the room. He was no longer at the board meeting; he was in the Green Vase showroom, leaning over a wooden shipping crate, rummaging through it—looking for something.
I blinked and the vision changed. The rounded shoulders were no longer clothed by a double-breasted suit. A stained, navy blue collared shirt had taken its place.
I walked closer, my feet leadening. I struggled to lift each foot in front of the other, the foggy atmosphere of the room murking thick around my head. I knew those bent and sagging shoulders, that stale cooking smell, the guttural grunts the man made as he sifted through the contents of the crate. He stood up, as if to stretch a sore joint in his back.
“Oscar?” I called out questioningly. My voice echoed through the ether, waking me from the dream.
I reached back and pushed in the recline lever, righting the dental chair. Turfing a disgruntled Rupert to the floor, I got up and walked over to the nearest wooden shipping crate.
Grabbing the same crowbar Monty had so inexpertly used on the kangaroo’s wooden housing, I tilted the crate on its side and slid the bar between the shipping brads. They popped off easily, as if they had only been superficially fastened. I pulled up the lid and looked inside.

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