How to Wash a Cat (22 page)

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Authors: Rebecca M. Hale

BOOK: How to Wash a Cat
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A sea of cedar shavings spread across the surface of the crate. I dove my hand in, searching for the packaged contents. Up and down the interior I searched, sending more and more shavings out onto the floor.
Rupert chased a couple of cedar chips across the floor and then peeked over into the box, trying to figure out the new game I appeared to be playing. His back end wiggled for a preparatory moment; then he leapt in, disappearing beneath the surface of the chips.
A snowstorm of shavings exploded in the Green Vase as a submerged Rupert attempted to swim his way to the surface. I jumped into the box, chasing his whirlwind with my flailing arms. In short order, at least half of the crate’s volume of cedar shavings had spilled out on the floor. By the time I hoisted Rupert out of the crate, I was certain that it had held nothing but packing materials.
I sat in the open crate for a moment, itchy shavings clinging to my hair and sliding down the inside of my shirt. Another sealed crate loomed a couple of feet away.
Rupert bounced behind me as I climbed out of the crate and crossed the room to the new target. He hopped excitedly at my feet as I opened it. This time, he dove in as soon as I cracked the lid.
Rupert rooted like a pig through the cedar shavings as I ran my hand back and forth inside the crate. This one was also empty.
I dragged an exhausted Rupert out of the crate and sat down on the lid, my eyes searching the Green Vase, studying the room as if I’d never seen it before. Standing next to the cashier counter near the front door, the stuffed kangaroo seemed to smile at me, the corners of its stitched-together mouth tilting upward in an inquiring, needling manner.
I got up and strode purposefully over to it. The faint scraping sounds of Ivan’s construction work ground subtly outside as I stared into the dead animal’s glass eyes, pondering its inquisitively smug grin.
The lips of the mouth were stitched together with a straining black thread—not the clear, nearly invisible fiber that had been used to sew up the rest of the body, but a heavy black sewing thread—like the kind Oscar had used to mend loose buttons and small tears in his clothing.
The shaft of every hair pimpling, I walked around the cashier counter, pulled open a drawer, and fished out a pair of scissors. Retracing my steps to the front of the kangaroo, I carefully began snipping away the black threads.
Snip. Snip. Snip. The mouth softened its expression as the lips began to part. I reached the last black thread, and the jaw dropped open. Easing up on the balls of my feet, I looked inside.
A wadded up piece of cloth seemed to be wedged in the oral cavity of the beast.
I reached cautiously into the gaping mouth and pulled out one of Oscar’s threadbare handkerchiefs. It was wadded up into a ball. Something had been wrapped inside.
The tulip embossed handle on the front door to the Green Vase creaked as it began to turn. I tilted the kangaroo’s jaw back up, shoved the cloth and its contents into my pocket, and spun around as Ivan leaned in through the opening door.
Chapter 25
“I THINK I’M about done for today,” Ivan said, poking his head into the shop. His face was covered with the residue of the day’s work, every inch of skin smudged with grime. A dark mixture of soot and sweat blackened his baseball cap.
“Great,” I said, surreptitiously trying to smooth down the bulge from the package I’d stuffed into my pocket. I stepped away from the kangaroo, hoping Ivan wouldn’t notice the missing stitches. The mouth looked a lot more natural now that its cargo had been removed.
“I don’t think we’re expecting rain this weekend, but I’ve tarped up the exposed portion just in case.” Ivan wiped his forehead with his wrist; he looked tired and spent from his efforts tearing out the brick wall. “I should be able to start laying the new brick on Monday.”
I nodded encouragingly, holding my breath, waiting for Ivan to leave, but instead he stepped towards me, his hand brushing a stray cedar chip from the top of my head. “What have you been up to?” he asked, chuckling.
“Just going through some of those shipping crates,” I replied nervously, glancing quickly at the kangaroo’s mouth. It looked as if it might fall open at any second.
“Oh, find anything interesting?” Ivan asked casually as he leaned against the cashier counter.
I couldn’t help feeling as if there was an underlying urgency to his relaxed tone. I shrugged my shoulders, trying to shake my suspicions. “Not really.”
It’s what
wasn’t
in the crates that was interesting, I thought to myself.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about,” Ivan said, his eyes uncharacteristically averting mine.
I waited, every nerve tensing. A sliver of space had opened up between the kangaroo’s lips.
“I don’t know if you were aware,” Ivan continued, looking more and more uncomfortable, “but your uncle had a . . .” He paused, seeming to search for a delicate phrasing. “. . .
discreet
relationship with the construction industry here in San Francisco.”
“Yes,” I replied hurriedly, a sigh of relief whooshing through me. “I knew about that.” I slid further into the middle of the room, hoping to draw Ivan’s line of sight away from the quivering mouth of the kangaroo.
Ivan smiled as he rested a soiled elbow on the cashier counter, his right shoulder now dangerously close to the parting lips of the kangaroo. “That makes this much easier.”
“Wait,” I said, catching on. “
You
were his contact?”
Ivan nodded. “It was Harold, actually. I only recently started helping out.”
“Mmm,” I said encouragingly. I watched, horrified, as the kangaroo’s top row of teeth became visible. “Is that why Harold was here that Thursday night when he caught Monty in the kitchen?” I asked quickly.
Ivan shrugged. “I guess so.” He pursed his lips as if there were more words to come out. “I brought it up because I thought you should know—Harold took Oscar to a construction site that night, the Thursday right before he died.” Ivan looked down at his feet as the kangaroo’s jaw cracked open a full half-inch.
I held my breath, afraid that any other action would cause the mouth to drop completely.
Ivan shuffled his feet uncomfortably and then looked up at me. “I don’t know what Oscar was looking for, but I can sneak you in there Monday night if you’d like to take a look around.”
“Sure,” I said tensely, trying to make as little motion as possible.
“Great,” Ivan replied, finally turning towards the door. “I’ll be off then.”
The mouth fell open as Ivan’s hand turned the gold-plated handle. I swooped in behind him and stood on my tiptoes, trying to block as much of the front of the kangaroo as possible with my head and shoulders. “I’ll see you Monday night then,” I said stiffly, a smile plastered on my paralyzed face.
“Well, I’ll be here Monday morning to start laying down bricks,” Ivan said, looking over his shoulder, a flicker of a question lighting the back of his eyes.
“Of course,” I said, my voice squeaking from the pain in my toes.
“Are you all right?” Ivan asked, looking concerned.
I vibrated my head affirmatively, trying to maintain both my balance and the extra height.
“All right then,” Ivan said, touching the brim of his baseball cap as he stepped out the door. “Have a good weekend.”
I nearly tripped over my numbed feet as Ivan’s truck pulled away from the curb. I checked to make sure Monty wasn’t about to bound across the street; then I reached into my pocket to retrieve the rolled up handkerchief.
It was a traditional red and white design, one of a collection that Oscar had always carried around with him. The crumpled fabric had been worn threadbare from repeated washing. I held it in the palm of my hand, slowly, carefully, unfolding the edges, exposing the object inside.
It was a wire cage, roughly two inches square, that looked as if someone had unfolded an extra-large paper-clip and re-bent it into the shape of a box.
A small scrap of paper had been fed into the wire cage. I pulled it out and unfolded it on the counter. Oscar’s handwriting scrawled a single line of text.
It’s in the tulips.
I looked up at the silently smiling kangaroo. “What in the world is that supposed to mean?”
I SPENT THE weekend packing up my apartment and ferrying loads of belongings over to the flat above the Green Vase.
In between trips, I’d re-sewn the kangaroo’s mouth with a black, cord-like thread I’d found in a drawer in the kitchen. The effort had been clumsy and awkward. Even though the animal had clearly been dead for ages, I’d cringed each time I’d stuck the needle through the thick skin of its lips. Whatever the future focus of the Green Vase turned out to be, taxidermy was not in the cards.
By Sunday night, I was completely exhausted from the move. I took a hot shower and curled up in bed with a soothing cup of herbal tea and the Ralston book I’d checked out from the library.
It was a clear night, as Ivan had predicted. A nearly full moon shone through the flimsy curtains in the bedroom. Rupert and Isabella curled up together at the foot of the bed, sleeping peacefully as I turned the pages, my mind wandering drowsily. My mouth was half-open in a yawn when I heard the first bump.
At first I thought it was someone driving by on the street outside, probably a cab bottoming out on a pothole, and I didn’t think much of it. I took another sip of tea and returned to my book.
The second bump seemed nearer, as if it were inside the building. Isabella jerked up with intruder-alert eyes, jumped to the floor, and headed down the stairs to the kitchen. I sat bolt upright, tensely listening.
The third bump brought me out of the bed. I grabbed my robe and quietly crept down the stairs to the kitchen, my insides churning with terror.
A crashing sound came next, followed closely by the tinkling of breaking glass. Now, I was both terrified and angry. I pulled out my cell phone and was about to dial the police when Rupert sped happily past me, his fluffed-up tail flag-poled in a greeting stance.
Still gripping my phone in my hand, I slid noiselessly down the stairs to the first floor. Skulking around the corner of the stairs, I grabbed the gold-headed cane from its display case and hurdled silently over the open hatch to the basement.
Someone had apparently come up from the tunnel and was trying to flee out the front door of the Green Vase. That someone was now bent over the padlock I’d hooked into the framing of the front door.
It was pitch-black in the back corner of the store where I stood. Near the front, moonlight streamed in through the clear plastic covering Ivan had stretched across the windows. It was just enough light to illuminate the shadow of the curly-headed intruder who was desperately fumbling with the latch to the door while a joyful, bunny-hopping Rupert danced circles around his feet.
I raised the cane over my head like a baseball bat and snuck closer, hoping to instill a serious fright in my obnoxious neighbor, before he had a chance to explain away his second break-in to the Green Vase.
Monty continued to struggle with the lock as I crept up behind him. I lowered the head of the cane to tap him on the shoulder—just as his left hand reached up to scratch his head. The two objects collided in the vicinity of Monty’s left ear.
Apparently under the impression that he was being attacked by the dreaded, ear-biting spider, Monty yelped and jerked his hand back.
Unfortunately, his hand caught the hook of the cane, whipping it out of my hands. It flipped through the air, as if in slow motion. I watched the inevitable path of the cane’s trajectory as Monty spun around in time to be beamed across the nose.
His painful howl echoed through the Green Vase.
“Monty,” I had to yell to be heard over his scream. “What are you doing here?”
He glared at me through his hands, which were plastered up against his bleeding nose. I flipped on a light switch and helped him into the dental chair.
“Here,” I said, handing him a paper towel, “tilt your head back.”
The bleeding stopped a couple of minutes later, and he started to explain, his voice muffled by the paper towel clamped down on his throbbing nose.
Chapter 26
“DO YOU THINK I need to see a doctor?” Monty mumbled thickly from his prone position on the fully reclined dental chair.
“Not yet, you don’t,” I replied testily, brandishing the cane over his head.
“Hey,” he said defensively, gently palpating his bloodied nose. “There’s no need for violence.”
“What are you doing in here?” I demanded, looking pointedly at the open hatch to the basement.
He raised himself up on an elbow, still holding the paper towel against his nose. “Please, let me explain.”
Sighing, I crossed my arms in front of me, hooking the curved head of the cane around my forearm.
“It all started when . . .”
“It’s late, Monty,” I interrupted wearily. “Let’s make this the abbreviated version of the story.”

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