How to Wash a Cat (33 page)

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Authors: Rebecca M. Hale

BOOK: How to Wash a Cat
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Heavy drops of rain began to splinter against the stained glass ceiling. I glanced up, envisioning the tempest swirling above, thankful that, for once, I would be safely out of the water’s reach.
Dilla spied me from across the room and raised her hand in a wave. She threaded her way through a sea of small, circular tables covered with sheets of almond pink taffeta, each one festooned with flowers and a heavy calorie count of cat-inspired confections.
Dilla was decked out in a low-waisted, flapper-style dress made from a shimmering silver fabric. A matching silver headband swept back the tight gray curls on her head while the tulip necklace hung around her neck. She bustled effortlessly through the growing crowd, acknowledging the guests as she swished by them.
“There you are, dear!” she said, smiling broadly. “They’ve taken the kitties to the dressing room. Here, I’ll give you a tour on the way back.”
Dilla led me into the ballroom, pointing at the elevated stage lining the back wall. “Monty will conduct the auction from the main stage,” she said, her eyes sparkling with excitement, “while the kitty cats parade back and forth on the catwalk.”
I shook my head, amused at the cat-sized runway that cut up through the center of the room, running perpendicular to the stage. Monty was nothing if not creative.
Waiters percolated through the taffeta tables with drinks and samplings from Monty’s cat-shaped cupcakes. Monty himself bopped through the crowd, chatting and glad-handing with the guests, most of whom were connected in some way to Jackson Square. The curls on the top of his head bounced merrily up and down; his face flushed as he soaked up compliments.
“Well, thank you, thank you very much,” I heard him gush to Etty Gabella. “Yes, the cupcakes were my idea. That frosting is delightful, don’t you think?”
Across the room, I watched as the thickly mascaraed eyes of Miranda Richards honed in on Monty’s giddy figure. Her long, blood-red nails clicked against the catwalk platform, ominously transmitting her displeasure.
Miranda had chosen a hip-hugging, neck-plunging, red velvet gown for the night’s event. Her hair was styled with a gleaming gold comb, the handle of which poked up out of her upswept hair. Her face was even more made-up than usual, enhancing the vampy effect of the outfit.
The gold fin of the comb sharked through the tables as she closed in on Monty. If he hadn’t been so self-distracted, I would have tried to warn him. As it was, I could only shudder as Monty swung away from Etty and found himself face to face with Miranda’s glowering Medusa.
Monty grimaced and instinctively lurched backwards, almost toppling a surprised, cupcake-carrying waiter. Monty spun sideways, trying to avoid the tumbling tray of pink frosting—and staggered straight into the arms of a nearly unrecognizable but clearly disgruntled Harold Wombler.
Harold had traded in his shredded overalls, for one night at least. The stiffly-pressed fabric of his tuxedo fell awkwardly onto his wrinkled frame. The pale skin of his scalp peeked out through the track marks of the brush that had combed through the greasy strands of his stringy black hair.
Monty smiled weakly into Harold’s gruff, grisly glare as Miranda’s long red nails cinched into the back of his collar.
Dilla tugged me towards the back of the stage and slid open a door that had been camouflaged in the wall paneling. I left Monty to his fate and followed her into a tiny dressing room where Rupert and Isabella waited impatiently in their crates.
Dilla shut the wall-panel door and pulled out the flat, wooden box that held the cat costumes. “Is everything ready on your end?” she whispered tensely.
I nodded solemnly as she handed me Isabella’s chain mail costume.
Dilla picked up a silvery feather stole and looped it several times around her neck. She patted me on the shoulder, and, with a wink, whispered in my ear. “The rest of the pieces are in the box, dear. I’m heading back outside. I’ll catch up with you later.”
I waited for the door to shut behind her before I dug into the folds of the box, fished out the tulip necklace, and stashed it in the pocket of my dress.
I TURNED TO pull the rest of the cat costumes out of the box but jumped as a scraping bump sounded against the shared wall with the ballroom. A second later, the sword of Miranda’s pungent perfume sliced into my nose.
The frostiness of her voice followed the perfume through the wall. “There’ll be no shenanigans tonight, Mr. Carmichael. Do you understand me?”
Monty squeaked out a response. “Oh, no. No, of course not, Miranda.”
“I’ll be watching you,” she replied threateningly. She must have turned away from the wall because her voice began to fade out as she muttered, “You
and
my mother.”
Tentatively, I slid open the paneled door and found a pale-faced Monty cowering against the wall. Miranda’s curvy, crimson figure marched towards the entrance of the ballroom where Dilla hovered, no doubt waiting for the Mayor to arrive.
Monty looked like he was about to faint. I pulled him into the dressing room.
“For the record,” Monty hissed, “I
really
don’t like this plan.” The haggard look had returned to his eyes.
I gave him my sternest stare.
He threw his hands up in the air. “Miranda’s going to
kill
me,” he said, his whole body cringing.
“That’s never slowed you down before,” I replied caustically. “Don’t worry,” I smirked. “I’ll protect you.”
Grumbling under his breath, Monty picked up Rupert and carried him through the door to the ballroom.
I followed with Isabella. She leapt out of my arms as soon as I neared the catwalk, ready to begin her part in the evening’s festivities.
Monty carried Rupert up the steps to the stage and gently set him down on the platform. Rupert walked a couple of paces up the catwalk, paused, and then wandered back to where Monty stood on the stage, fiddling with his microphone.
Rupert plopped his furry back end down next to Monty’s feet. His bulging stomach poked jester-like out of his costume as he hungrily eyed a nearby table of cupcakes.
I glanced around the ballroom and found Frank Napis’s turbaned head bobbing through the crowd. I shifted my position, trying to get a better look, but my view was blocked by a wave of neck turning that swept across the room. A chorus of gushy, female sighs confirmed that the Mayor had arrived.
A scuffle broke out in the hotel’s main corridor as the Mayor’s security personnel tackled a man in a bright yellow chicken suit. He had been showing up at the Mayor’s public appearances ever since the newspaper report of the incident at the Italian restaurant.
Somewhat flustered by the loud clucking in the hallway, the Mayor hesitated at the entrance to the ballroom. He looked as if he was about to turn around, but a beaming Dilla quickly latched on to his arm and pulled him inside. Dilla began guiding the Mayor through the ballroom, her silver dress shimmering as she waltzed proudly beside him. Miranda trailed close behind them—intent on preventing Dilla from providing any further inspiration to the chicken imposter outside.
Sheets of rain curtained the domed, stained glass roof of the ballroom as a loud screech of feedback sounded from Monty’s microphone. “Good evening everyone.” He adjusted the sound down. “Good evening. Yes, that’s better.”
Monty’s voice boomed over the pelting rain. “Welcome to tonight’s charity event. We’re so glad you could make it. I’m Montgomery Carmichael, and I’ll be your auctioneer tonight. I’d like to thank our hostess for the evening, the lovely Dilla Eckles . . .”
Rupert remained seated on the podium, staring up with interest as Monty described the non-profit, no-kill shelter that would benefit from the evening’s auction. As Monty spoke, Isabella began to saunter regally up and down the runway, glamorously blinking her long eyelashes at the crowd. Monty explained how the auction would be conducted, then invited the guests to approach the catwalk to inspect the cat costumes during the intermission.
I sat down at a taffeta table, watching as the crowd mingled towards the stage and catwalk.
Miranda must have been wearing an extra-strength version of her perfume, because a whiff of it hooked my nose from halfway across the room. I spent several seconds trying to stifle a perfume-induced sneeze before finally giving in.
“Ah . . . choo!”
“Bless you,” Ivan said, appearing at my left shoulder.
He was dressed in a rented tuxedo that didn’t quite fit his muscular frame. He tugged at the black tie circling his neck, looking as uncomfortable in his getup as I felt in mine.
“Cupcake?” he offered, holding up a small plate loaded with the tiny, pink-topped cakes.
“Thanks,” I replied, trying to mask my unease. I took the nearest cupcake from Ivan’s tray and carefully bit a corner off. “Mmm,” I hummed nervously, attempting to make a show of appetite.
An even stronger surge of Miranda’s perfume zoomed into my nostrils. My second sneeze nearly blew the icing off the cupcake.
“Gesundheit,” Ivan said, laughing as I tried to wipe icing from my fingers. “Here, have something to wash it down.”
He handed me a small cup of punch. The juice was a deep, berry red. It was a much darker color than the pink liquid in the cups I’d seen circulating on the waiters’ trays. I looked back up at him, intending to decline the drink, but he was staring at me so intently, so eagerly, that I smiled back and took a sip.
I nearly choked on the tartness of the drink. That batch must have gotten a double dose of powder mix, I thought, still gagging as I set it down on the nearest table.
I scanned the room for a glass of water and found, instead, the beady eyes of Frank Napis—staring at me from underneath his blue silk turban. The strangest smile curved on the thin lips that lurked beneath his hulking mustache.
Monty shuffled up behind Frank and tapped him on the shoulder. Anxiously palming his microphone, Monty whispered something in Frank’s ear.
Frank glanced up at the stage and began to walk towards it. Monty nodded grimly in my direction, indicating it was time for me to take up my position.
“Shall we take a look then?” I asked Ivan, the inside of my mouth still puckering. I ushered him towards the opposite side of the catwalk.
Rupert waddled up to me, licking a pink, frosty substance from his lips. I gently lifted him off of the platform and into my arms.
A beaming Dilla led the Mayor up to the catwalk. Miranda—a dark, suspicious look on her face—shadowed behind them.
I lost Ivan in the crowd gathering around the Mayor. Rupert and I slipped back towards the entrance to the kitchen as Dilla’s carefully choreographed voice gushed, “Now, Mr. Mayor, I understand you’re a bit of a diamond aficionado.”
“Yes, well, I used to own a small shop on Union Street,” he replied affably, his handsome face unaware of the trap Dilla was about to spring.
Dilla stroked his sleeve adoringly as the surrounding crowd leaned in. “These are pretend jewels of course, but you’ll have to tell me what you think. They’re from my late aunt’s estate, you know.”
Mr. Wang popped out of the doorway to the kitchen. “Good luck,” he wheezed to me, patting Rupert on the head.
Over on the catwalk, Isabella strolled up to Dilla and the Mayor for an inspection. The lights from the ceiling above were focused on this stretch of the catwalk, so that the clear stones in Isabella’s costume sparkled against her coat.
“Dilla,” the Mayor gasped. “I thought you said this was costume jewelry.”
The Mayor reached into his suit pocket for a monocle-sized eyepiece. He fitted it over his left eye and leaned towards the catwalk. Isabella paused, waiting, as he squinted at her costume.
Dilla nodded emphatically to a blanching Monty, who had edged up behind Napis’s towering turban. Reluctantly, he pushed a button on his microphone, switching the device’s input to a wire hidden in Dilla’s silvery scarf.
The Mayor’s voice echoed through the room. “In between the colored stones,” he said, still studying Isabella’s costume. “I’d swear those are
real
diamonds.”
The room fell silent as the bewildered Mayor shook his head, trying to make sense of his inexplicably booming voice.
A faint, clicking sound ticked behind the wall. A second later, the lights went out.
The darkness was accompanied by a general sense of chaotic commotion. I ran into the kitchen with Rupert and raced down the corridor in the darkness, sliding on the slick tile floor in front of the line of walk-in refrigerators, desperately listening for the clinking sound of Isabella’s costume. I let out a sigh of relief as she met us at the broom closet.
The lights came back on as I lifted up the hatch.
I tried to imagine the look on Miranda’s face as Dilla swooned into the unfortunate Mayor’s arms and sobbed convincingly, “My necklace! My necklace! It’s gone!”
Chapter 41
PERCHED ON THE edge of the open hatch in the floor of the broom closet, I ripped off my high heels and crammed on the pair of running shoes I’d stashed earlier that evening.

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