How to Wash a Cat (34 page)
Authors: Rebecca M. Hale
Rupert hopped up and down impatiently as I slipped one handle of a wide-mouthed canvas bag over my head. I held the bag open for him, and he quickly clambered inside.
The bag bulged as Rupert scrambled to right himself. One of his back legs jabbed through the canvas into my stomach.
“We rehearsed this part, remember?” I said painfully as Rupert’s head finally poked up out of the top of the bag.
I started down the ladder, pausing when my head sank even with the floor of the closet. Isabella climbed nimbly over my back and teetered on my shoulders as I continued my descent to the tunnel below. With all of this awkward cargo, the ladder seemed a lot longer than I remembered, but we finally made it to the bottom.
Isabella leapt from my shoulders as soon as my feet hit the slick concrete floor. I reached into the bag, squeezed my arm around Rupert, and pulled out Oscar’s trusty flashlight. I flicked it on and raced down the tunnel after Isabella, the black silk folds of my dress rippling out behind me.
The walls buzzed with a speculative chatter that propagated ahead of us, building up into a cheer as we sped through the dark passageway. The chain mail of Isabella’s costume clinked in half time with my pounding feet. Rupert gripped his claws into the canvas bag as it bounced wildly off of my chest. An exhilarated thrill electrified every nerve of my perspiring body.
We passed the metal rungs that led up to Mr. Wang’s flower shop. A few minutes later, the walls of the tunnel changed from slime-covered concrete to damp red bricks.
Nearly breathless, I pulled up at the entrance to the basement of the Green Vase. Panting heavily, I pulled the tulip key out of a zippered pocket in the canvas bag and engaged it in the lock. I followed Isabella into the basement, intentionally leaving the door ajar behind me.
I released Rupert from the canvas bag and climbed into one of the dusty wardrobes. The cats squashed in with me, Isabella keeping her keen blue eyes pasted on the opening in the brick wall.
I clicked off the flashlight, leaving us in the dim darkness of the single bare light bulb on the opposite side of the basement. Through the loose slats in the doors of the wardrobe, I could just make out the glossy black eyes of the stuffed kangaroo as it stared into the dark entrance of the tunnel.
WE DIDN’T HAVE long to wait. As soon as we settled into our spying position, the brick door creaked forward, pivoting on its interior hinge. I held my breath as a darkened figure in a black tuxedo emerged and stepped cautiously into the basement.
The furry fence of an imposing, red-haired mustache covered the man’s mouth. Generous amounts of wax had been applied to the fixture, particularly at its curling ends.
A blue silk turban was wrapped around the man’s head—covering most of his tower of frizzy brown curls. His watery green eyes searched the darkness as he approached the kangaroo.
“I feel ridiculous,” Monty said as he placed a hand on the kangaroo’s shoulder. The pillow he’d stuffed under his cummerbund bulged out around his slender waist.
“You look great,” I assured him from my camouflaged position in the wardrobe. “Very convincing.”
Monty sent a nettled look in my direction and leaned in towards the kangaroo’s face. Gingerly, he tipped open the mouth—free, once again, from the constraints of the thick black thread.
A tangible tension swept the air as the entrance to the tunnel creaked open a second time.
Chapter 42
“FRANK—I DIDN’T think you could move that fast,” a man whispered coldly out of the darkness.
I knew the voice, but it carried a harsh edge that twisted it into something strange and unfamiliar.
Monty’s face was frozen, inches away from the kangaroo’s gaping mouth. A bewildered expression muddled through his green eyes as they flickered briefly towards the location of my hiding place.
“I bet you thought you’d outsmarted me.” One of the man’s tanned, calloused hands clenched into a boulder-sized fist. “You and Dilla.”
The fury of the speaker nearly strangled his voice. “But you see, it’s very simple. Gordon wants the formula, and I want the diamonds.”
The fake mustache bobbed up and down as Monty licked his lips and moved his fingers towards the open oral cavity.
“The gig’s up.” The voice grew louder, sneering, more irritated. “I know who you are—underneath that turban, behind that mustache.”
A shadow stepped into the room. The faint light illuminated the strong bulky shoulders, the chiseled face . . . the red, knitted tissue of the scar that framed the rim of his jawbone.
“Step away from the kangaroo,” Ivan paused, savoring the next word, “Oscar.”
Monty’s eyes bulged. A trickle of sweat slid down his face as Ivan lurched forward and grabbed his shoulder.
“Ivan, that’s not Oscar.”
It was a sharp, female voice we all instantly recognized. “Or Frank, for that matter. He’s not that tall, even
with
that ridiculous turban.”
with
that ridiculous turban.”
Ivan whipped around as Miranda Richards stepped into the basement, her evening gown and heavy makeup seemingly unruffled by the trip through the tunnel.
Tucked inside the wardrobe, I shuddered as the floral fog of her perfume seeped through the crack between the doors. I put my hand over my nose, trying to form a barrier against the sticky sweet aroma, but its forceful fingers pried their way in. A faint trickle of irritation ran up and down my throat as the skin on the inside of my nose swelled in reaction to the offensive odor.
“Miranda? What are you doing here?” Ivan’s hardened features rippled with uncertainty.
Monty shrunk out from under Ivan’s loosened grip, dipping his shoulder as he rounded the kangaroo, careful to keep his face blocked by the animal’s stuffed head.
“Following this ill-conceived circus,
obviously
,” Miranda replied sharply.
obviously
,” Miranda replied sharply.
She glowered at Ivan. “I warned Oscar about you. I knew what you were up to—but Oscar wanted to give you a chance.” She glanced in Monty’s direction, her eyes piercing through the stuffed kangaroo. “He always gave people a second chance.”
Ivan wiped a thin layer of sweat from his brow as Miranda stepped into his face and poked a long, red fingernail into his chest. “I watched you work your way through Jackson Square on all of those renovation projects—looking for the entrance to the tunnel—looking for that wretched Ralston diamond. I knew you’d eventually worm your way into the Green Vase.”
She sniffed, jabbing her nail at Ivan’s ill-fitting suit. “But I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to fall for
this
little caper.” She stepped around the kangaroo to glare at Monty. “I’ll get to you in a minute, Mr. Carmichael.”
this
little caper.” She stepped around the kangaroo to glare at Monty. “I’ll get to you in a minute, Mr. Carmichael.”
Monty stepped sheepishly around the kangaroo, his narrow head comically balancing the wobbling turban. “Ah, Miranda, Ivan, good to see you,” he said, his fingers nervously twiddling the fake mustache.
Miranda circled in front of the wardrobe. The intensity of her perfume surged around me. I began gulping in air through my mouth, desperately trying to avoid a sneeze.
“How can you think Oscar’s still alive?” Miranda’s scornful voice ilked accusingly at Ivan. “You were here the morning he died. Or, shall I say,
when
he died. You saw him go down, and you used the opportunity to search his basement. Then you left him on the floor and locked the door behind you.”
when
he died. You saw him go down, and you used the opportunity to search his basement. Then you left him on the floor and locked the door behind you.”
“No,” Ivan said, stepping back from Miranda’s frightening glare. “No, he was perfectly fine when I left. It’s your mother you should be talking to. Oscar kicked me out when Dilla arrived.”
Miranda’s eyes slanted into charcoal-colored slits as Ivan drew himself up, his lips firming resolutely. “Oscar’s not dead. I’m sure of it. He found the recipe to Leidesdorff’s sleeping potion. He used it to fake his death . . .” Ivan’s face hardened again. “. . . after he found the diamond.”
Miranda grabbed Ivan by the tie and bent him down towards her. “You fool. Leidesdorff didn’t fake his death—he faked the symptoms leading up to it. Leidesdorff drowned the day after his fake funeral . . . just as the side effects from the toxin were about to kill him. Oscar found his body buried in the lot behind us.”
Miranda shoved Ivan back towards the wall. “The potion doesn’t work.”
A feverish sweat dripped down my face as Miranda’s perfume waged a second assault on the wardrobe. My nose blistered from the burning vapors. I couldn’t hold back the sneeze much longer. I braced myself for the inevitable blast.
But the silence in the basement was broken by another sound—one that emanated at my feet.
Everyone turned towards the wardrobe as Rupert belched out a cupcake-smelling hiccup.
Chapter 43
“IT DOESN’T . . . WORK?” Ivan’s voice murmured through the basement, dazed and disbelieving.
Three short footsteps slammed against the concrete. The door of the wardrobe flew open, and Miranda’s furious face leaned in. “I tried to put you off this,” she spit out at me as a gagging wave of perfume gushed into the wardrobe. “I tried to warn you.”
But as I looked up and over Miranda’s shoulder, the sneeze begging to be released from my nose was suddenly snuffed out—by the sight of the pale, de-turbaned man standing in the open door to the tunnel. Miranda read my stare and snapped her head out of the wardrobe.
The group of us stared in silence at the half-Frank Napis, half-Gordon Bosco figure who had just entered the basement.
Freed of the towering blue turban, his bare, balding head glistened in the dim light of the basement. The furry, orangish-red mustache hung lopsided from the flat plate of twitching skin above his thin, vanishing lips.
His demeanor was surprisingly unconcerned. “That’s very interesting, Miranda,” he said, calmly removing the limp mustache from his lips. “But I disagree.”
Minus the fuzzy Napis mustache and the protruding Bosco nose, the man’s face faded almost into nothing, a soft lump of un-molded, shapeless clay.
Ivan shook his head, as if trying to clear his vision. Half-formed words sputtered out of Monty’s mouth like water from a faulty sprinkler.
“Fra—? Gor—? Nooo . . .” The turban wobbled on Monty’s head as he slapped a hand on one of his bony hips. “Well, I’ll be a purple-legged hinky bird.”
Miranda scowled. “Of course it doesn’t work.” Her thickly painted lips scrunched up derisively. “I should know. Leidesdorff’s fiancée—the maid he brought here from New Orleans—is my great aunt, several times over.”
I stumbled out of the wardrobe, my legs cramped and stiff. Rupert hopped out behind me and took a seat in front of Monty, curiously staring up at his wobbling turban and fake mustache. Isabella circled the room, her costume twinkling in the dim light as she paused to sniff at a small puddle of water collecting near the entrance of the tunnel.
Miranda glared callously at the un-masked man. Unfazed, he gazed steadily back at her.
“Did you really think I didn’t know,” she spat bitterly, “that it was
you
parading around in that turban, causing all of the trouble with the board?”
you
parading around in that turban, causing all of the trouble with the board?”
“To the contrary, Miranda” he replied, his voice calm and even. “I was counting on it.”
She stepped back from him, shaking her head. “Oscar wouldn’t let me confront you. He told me not to worry. He said that he had a plan.”
Monty’s right forefinger swung into action. “Aha!” he exclaimed, pointing at the ceiling. “I knew it. Oscar
did
fake his death!”
did
fake his death!”
Monty dove behind the kangaroo, deflecting the blunt of Miranda’s withering glare.
“I told you,” she said, gritting her teeth, “all of you. The potion doesn’t work.”
Ivan gulped and tugged on his collar, his eyes nervously flitting back and forth between me and Miranda.
The short, featureless man stroked his chin thoughtfully. The pale skin above his thin lips twitched in the eerie glow of the basement. “Tell us then, Miranda,” he said, his voice clear and deliberate. “Tell us what really happened to William Leidesdorff.”
She glowered at him for a moment. Then, with a deprecating sigh, Miranda began to tell the story—the same one Dilla had relayed to me earlier that afternoon.
Chapter 44
“WILLIAM LEIDESDORFF MADE—and lost—his first fortune in New Orleans. It was the gambling. He couldn’t walk away from a game of chance.” Miranda swished through the basement as she spoke, filling it with her red velvet gown and swamping perfume.
“He was flamboyant and charismatic . . . worldly and charming . . . and, for a brief period, wildly rich. All of the women in New Orleans had their eye on him, but there was one French debutante who was particularly infatuated.”
“Hortense,” Monty and I said in unison.
Miranda nodded, her eyes registering a slight irritation from our interruption. “As Leidesdorff’s gambling debts mounted and threatened to sink his business empire, he was quickly dropped from most social circles.”
Miranda sighed sourly. “But Hortense was young and naive. She only became more obsessed with him. When her family rejected their proposed marriage, she ran away with him to California. The family told everyone that she had died to try to mitigate the resulting scandal.”
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