How to Wash a Cat (27 page)
Authors: Rebecca M. Hale
Chapter 31
MONTY AND I walked back towards Jackson Square without talking, our flaking footsteps the only conversation. Monty’s favorite wingtips, I noted, would have to be retired.
The lights from Monty’s studio shone ahead as we turned the last corner. I glanced over at him nervously. He had the disturbing look of a pending comment on his face, as if he had captured a thought that had been buzzing around in his brain and might, at any moment, expel it.
I sized up the distance to the front steps of the Green Vase. Thirty yards. Twenty yards.
I held my breath as we passed Frank Napis’s darkened store. My right foot had broken even with the first crenelated column on the edge of the new brick front of the Green Vase—when Monty cleared his throat.
“Boy, am I tired,” I said, yawning pointedly over the sound.
“Have you been thinking about my theory?” Monty asked, undeterred by the yawn.
I paused, ruefully eying the five remaining feet to the front door. I edged slowly towards it, my hand searching my pocket for the tulip key.
“Which one?” I replied, gritting my teeth. My left foot slid backwards feeling for the first raised step.
“The Oscar theory,” he said, and then annotated, “that he pulled a Leidesdorff.”
Monty gulped as I glared at him, my eyes fuming, but he pressed on. “That he faked his death.”
“No, Monty, I haven’t,” I said, my tired voice echoing the exhaustion within. I pulled out my key and engaged it in the lock. “I told you. That’s ridiculous.”
He swooped his index finger in front of my nose. “He’s out there—I know it!”
“Good night, Monty,” I muttered bitterly. I turned and walked inside, slamming the door shut behind me.
Something felt amiss in the darkened interior of the Green Vase. In my rush out the front door earlier that evening, I’d only managed to turn the tulip key in the lock. There hadn’t been time to hook the extra padlock over the handle.
I had the uneasy feeling that someone had paid a visit while I’d been gone.
My eyes searched the showroom, panning over the dusty bookcases and looming wooden crates. And then I saw it—next to the slender green vase glowing in the dim light entering the room through the plastic-tarped windows.
Sitting suggestively on the cashier counter was a brand-new, unopened bottle of cat shampoo.
“Dilla,” I thought with exasperation. “All right, all right,” I mumbled. “I’ll give him a bath.”
I WOKE UP early the next morning, unsettled and out of sorts from a night of tossing and turning, still trying to ignore Monty’s parting comments.
A bright sun hit the street outside, promising a gorgeous day ahead. I dug my running shoes out of a box of my belongings and headed out the front door, leaving a note for Ivan in case he came by to resume his brickwork before I returned.
Jackson Square was vacant, not surprising for such an early hour on a Tuesday morning. But as soon as I turned up Columbus, the fresh, clean sidewalks became tangled with energetic dog walkers, briskly rolling baby strollers, and sleepy waiters sucking down espressos out of steaming paper cups.
The city’s network of electrically powered buses charged through the streets, menacing at any vehicle or pedestrian that dared to step into their path. Plucky taxi-cabs darted in and out behind the battered bumpers of the buses, taunting the metallic beasts. Overlooking this honking, hollering chaos, several wizened residents of Chinatown practiced tai chi on grassy stepped terraces cut into the housing-packed hillside, their peaceful meditations unheard by the snarl of traffic below.
I jogged along the sidewalk, winding through the melee of breakfast tables tumbling out of the tiny Italian bistros. The traffic became less aggressive as Columbus skirted down towards the edge of Fisherman’s Wharf, and I peeled off to the swimming cove where William Ralston had taken his last, waterlogged breaths.
This bright, sunny morning, the area was already crowded with a screaming, squawking mix of kids and seagulls—wild legs running in all directions. I climbed halfway up the concrete steps to ensure a safe distance from both creatures and sat down for a rest.
The bay stretched out before me in a beautiful, lazy smile, its deep, blue surface reflecting the cornflower expanse of the sky. The sun baked down on the concrete steps, caressing my forehead with its soothing warmth.
The markers of a swimming lane bobbed in the water in front of me, but there were no takers this morning. I knew without testing that the beguiling water in the bay would be a frigid, wet-suit-requiring temperature.
I couldn’t help but wonder about William Ralston and his daily swims in this protected cove. What kind of person would subject himself, over and over again, to a dunking in that numbing, life-sucking cold? It seemed more a form of penitent self-flagellation than a health regimen.
I tried to imagine his short, tubby figure charging bravely into the chilly water, pushing it out in front of him as he waded in up to his waist. I watched him dive under, the paralyzing freeze of the water blanketing around his torpedo-shaped body, curling its cold, icy fingers around his heart, clamping down on the straining muscles as they struggled to keep pace with the pounding waves.
Ralston had been out near the edge of the cordoned swimming area, almost past the last buoy, when he’d seized up. A crowd of people had collected on the shore, shouting for the lifeguard, speculating on the identity of the victim, watching as a rescuer pulled the lifeless, barrel-chested body up into a small boat.
In the days that followed, the city had run wild with rumors on the cause of Ralston’s death: suicide, poison, the unrelenting pressure of the scandal-seeking press. The findings of the coroner’s jury that his death was due to natural causes did little to stem the speculation.
For all of his success, Ralston had been a troubled, isolated figure. The ouster from his failing bank was but the last tragedy of his fortune-filled life.
Early on in his career, he had fallen madly in love with the granddaughter of shipping magnate Cornelius Vanderbilt, a young woman named Louisa Thorne. Ralston succeeded in obtaining her family’s approval of their courtship, and the happy couple giddily began to plan their wedding. But not long after their engagement, Louisa fell gravely ill and, after several bed-ridden months, died days before the scheduled betrothal.
Ralston never recovered from the loss; he carried a miniature portrait of Louisa in the front breast pocket of his suit—every day for the rest of his life. When he eventually married, his consolation bride was the niece of a close friend. Built on this foundation, the marriage was destined for strife. His wife’s feelings of neglect and abandonment were only compounded by the christening of several of the Ralston children as namesakes for the long-deceased Louisa.
Ralston’s other passion—second only to the ever-present ghost of Louisa—was his beloved city of San Francisco. Even as his bank began to founder, he decided to finance the construction of a five-star hotel that would cement her standing in the world as a first class city.
Ralston obsessed over every detail of the aptly named Palace Hotel, bedecking the windows with silk hangings and the marble floors with finely woven carpets. He mined far-flung forests for the best teak and mahogany panelling. No detail was too small; no expense too extravagant.
But now, as the icy water swirled around him, even that dream was slipping through his manacled fingertips. His pending bankruptcy threatened not only his bank, but the yet to be completed Palace Hotel as well.
In my mind’s eye, I saw him drop further and further into the deep silence of the circling, scavenging water, sinking under the weight of his own despair.
A scrum of screaming children scaled the stairs, racing towards my seated position. I stood up and continued my jog.
My running shoes followed the edge of the bay, treading on an asphalt trail that took me up a heart-pounding hill into an abandoned army base that had been turned into a public reserve. Towards the crest of the hill, the asphalt path ducked under a dark tunnel of cypress trees. For several strides, I was hidden beneath a canopy of leafy, sea-infused green.
As I hit the downward slope on the opposite side, the trail broke out into an open field. I rolled down the path, tracking along the water’s edge as my route skirted the long line of the Marina Green.
The wind swept across the dandelion-infested field, buffeting a stone head that stared out from a concrete obelisk. I cut across the weedy grass to inspect it more closely.
William Ralston’s round, bearded face protruded from a relief set in the base of the skyward-pointing monument. The discolorations of the stone made his wide, balding forehead look sunburnt and wind-chapped.
Ralston’s memorial marker had been positioned with his back to the scenic bay—so that he faced the skyline of his beloved city. Underneath his portrait, the glowing tribute read:
HE BLAZED THE PATH FOR SAN FRANCISCO’S
ONWARD MARCH TO ACHIEVEMENT AND RENOWN.
I left Ralston’s proud gaze and crossed over into Crissy Field, a public park fronting the famed Presidio.
The wind picked up in intensity as I headed closer and closer to the foot of the Golden Gate Bridge, my feet crunching rhythmically on the cinder pathway. The whipping air streamed around me, lifting up the damp, sweaty roots on the underside of my head, softly cooling my overheating skin. A thousand troubled thoughts soared out of my head, numbed by the constant caresses of the wind.
The path turned to pavement as I started the last stretch to my destination. Waves crashed along the rocky embankment, foaming up, licking at my heels.
I approached the gaping mouth of the bay, and the city slipped from consciousness. The wild periphery of the Pacific roared around me, a mystical, untamed force. A voice made of wind and crashing water pealed across the span, pummeling me with its unwavering certainty, its overbearing confidence.
I remembered a line from Oscar’s Leidesdorff story. “This is a place where anything is possible. You can do, or become, whatever or
whoever
you want.”
whoever
you want.”
I dug my feet into the pavement, desperately resisting the seductive coaxing of the wind.
But I was too weak to repel it.
The mirrored surface of the bay winked mischievously as my thoughts plunged down into the mire of Monty’s persistent theory.
Chapter 32
MONTY’S RIGHT FOOT
kicked out from under the red brick archway in front of the entrance to the Green Vase as I turned the corner into Jackson Square. His foot was encased in a brand-new, brown leather wingtip. The rest of Monty followed the foot.
kicked out from under the red brick archway in front of the entrance to the Green Vase as I turned the corner into Jackson Square. His foot was encased in a brand-new, brown leather wingtip. The rest of Monty followed the foot.
I nearly turned and ran the other way when I saw him.
“Ah, there you are,” he greeted me, a look of relief on his face.
“Don’t you ever work in your studio?” I asked, wondering how long he had been standing in my doorway.
He didn’t answer my question.
“I was thinking,” he said, touching a long finger to his forehead. “We should make a visit to Mission Dolores, the chapel where your friend Leidesdorff was supposed to have been buried. Come on, I’ve got to be back in a couple of hours.”
I threw my hands up and looked down at my sweaty running gear.
“All right,” he conceded. “I’ll give you ten minutes for a shower.”
“Gee, thanks,” I said, brushing past him. I un-hitched the padlock and turned the tulip key in the door.
FORTY-FIVE MINUTES later, Monty and I stood at the corner of 16th and Dolores, staring up at a towering church.
“Not bad digs for a final resting place,” Monty said, standing on the sidewalk, gawking up at the stately building. “Maybe I should get on their waiting list.”
Cream-colored walls rose up in a cluster of dome-capped turrets. Each dome formed a smooth onion shape, embossed around the bulb with bright, turquoise tiles.
Spanning across the turrets, the stone figure of a penitent priest presided over an ornamented façade. The priest’s head bent down towards the pavement, positioned so that he could whisper his benediction to the congregation as they exited the church. The statue perched fearlessly on its parapet, several stories above the street, bathed in sunlight.
“They’re not accepting any new applicants,” I informed a disappointed Monty. “There aren’t any active cemeteries within the city limits. Most people are buried in Colma, a couple of miles to the south.”
Monty eyed me curiously.
I bit my lip, staring up at the haloed priest. “That’s where Oscar is.”
Monty cleared his throat and asked tentatively, “Did you have to pick out his plot?”
I shook my head. Still looking skyward, I replied, “Oscar had already purchased one.”
I set off briskly down the street before Monty could start in on another Oscar death theory.
“Anyway, that isn’t the location of Leidesdorff’s grave,” I called out over my shoulder as I pointed to a smaller building next to the turreted church we’d been admiring. “This is the original Mission.”
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