How to Wash a Cat (36 page)

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Authors: Rebecca M. Hale

BOOK: How to Wash a Cat
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It was the same red color as the juice Ivan had offered me earlier at the Palace Hotel.
“I ran a little experiment a while back. I injected a single drop of the toxin into the earlobe of our arachnophobic friend here,” Gordon said casually. “Predictably, his ear swelled up like a balloon. Then, I sent him over to Oscar’s for the antidote.”
Still tugging desperately down on the blue silk turban, Monty’s eyes bulged. “Oscar gave me a drink of water . . . I thought it was water . . .”
The red drop hanging from the tip of the needle let loose and fell to the floor. The drop of liquid formed a neat circle on the concrete. Slowly, the circle turned from berry red to a burnt reddish shade.
It was the same color as the stain on the floor of the Green Vase.
My face flushed with the heat burning under my forehead.
“If a larger dose is administered, the toxin causes the fever, encephalitis, and, finally, comatose state that William Leidesdorff experienced, sometimes interrupted by hallucinations. I am quite certain, however, that all of those nasty side effects can be prevented and a convincing comatose state still achieved—with use of the appropriate antidote. That’s what Oscar was holding back from me. That’s the last piece I need.”
The voice fell away, as distant and blurry as Gordon Bosco’s fading, nondescript face. “Are you feeling ill, dear. You look a bit feverish.”
The freezing water bound itself around my knees, lashing frosted welts against my legs. I collapsed onto the floor, icy drops splashing and sizzling against my burning cheeks, as a great roaring rush echoed through the tunnel.
Chapter 46
A TOWERING WALL of water crashed through the entrance to the tunnel and pounded into the basement, submerging us all in a swirling vortex of upended shipping crates, streaking mascara, bobbing turbans, and fake mustaches.
The soggy, white lump of Rupert floated past me, the jewels in his chain jacket leaking a rainbow of color into the water. I tried to grab onto him, but he tumbled by, just out of reach.
Out of nowhere, one of Monty’s long, stringy arms chased after Rupert’s white blur, and his fingers latched onto the netting of the chain jacket. Monty’s free arm looped around the kangaroo’s neck and together he and Rupert rode up through the hatch on the shoulders of the inexplicably buoyant kangaroo.
A million thoughts swam through my bleary, waterlogged head as I sank deeper into the turbulent water.
William Leidesdorff’s terrified, thrashing figure tumbled past me, the arms of his brown suede jacket flailing inches from my nose. Underneath his thick lamb chop sideburns, the swarthy skin of his handsome face contorted with confusion, struggling to understand the unseen force that had struck him down.
He was followed by Hortense, already exhausted from the hours of paddling the small, loaded dingy through the choppy waters of the bay. The thick folds of her dress pulled down on her as she fought to tread water, each ream of fabric a ballooning weight. Already, her face was scarred by the unthinkable awareness of Leidesdorff’s lifeless body sinking through the depths below. As fewer and fewer bubbles percolated to the surface, her mind broke from the realization that her world had changed forever.
A moment later, the round, torpedo-shaped body of William Ralston flashed past me, his short, stubby arms making ineffectual cuts at the hard, unrelenting sea. The hungry waves slipped their drowning tentacles into his lungs, feasting on his denial, his refusal to acknowledge the failures that had drowned his business, his hopes, his dreams . . . his life.
The liquid weight of the water pushed up against my chest and bruised my back against the concrete floor. A numbing darkness circled around me, stifling all thought, all action. I found myself curtained in the deep, cloth-covered silence of my cubicle—filled only by a constant stream of colorless, meaningless numbers, slowly stealing seconds . . . minutes . . . hours . . . until there was no more time left.
Somehow, I sensed Oscar’s presence in the basement, looming just beyond the boundaries of my limited vision. His voice carried through the water. “We’re almost done. We can’t turn back now.”
I looked up through the layers of sparkling water to a perfect blue sky. Oscar’s voice sounded again. “It’s in the tulips.”
I shook my head, flustered even in the depths of my delirium. “What does that mean?” I tried to shout, but the water had sealed my lips tightly shut.
Two white kitty cats sat by the side of the warehouse, hiding in the leaves of the three petaled tulips. In the tulips . . .
My chest prickled as if punctured by a million cactus spines. My brain pounded against my skull. The hot feverish pressure swelled in my head. I couldn’t take much more.
One of Miranda’s sharp red nails circled around my neck. I looked up into her face, streaked with black smears of mascara, her eyes dark, glowing circles.
Gordon stood behind her, smiling serenely, watching as Miranda deftly prized open my mouth and poured in a sickeningly sweet liquid. My mouth was filled with the horrible taste of her highly concentrated, floral perfume.
Isabella chirped sharply as Harold Wombler bent down on the floor next to Miranda. His slippery, sliding fingers began to stuff tulip petals into my gaping mouth. Their silky smooth texture provided an instant comfort to my pulsing tongue.
Gordon Bosco beamed triumphantly and scampered to the other end of the basement, up the rickety stairs and through the hatch as a giant sucking sound pulled the water back into the tunnel and slammed the door shut.
Chapter 47
I OPENED MY eyes to the cold, antiseptic atmosphere of a hospital. The dark and quiet of the room was interrupted only by the regular beeping of the machines surrounding my bed. A remarkable sensation of antiseptically soaked oxygen passed freely in and out of my lungs.
I pushed myself up on my elbows to study the other occupants of the room. The turban still perched on his head, Monty slumped in a chair near the door, his long face smashed up against the wall, a slimy string of drool hanging from his bottom lip.
Miranda paced the far side of the room in one of her bright red, fitted suits. She forced her painted lips into a half-smile as she leaned over my bed and asked, “You’ve come through it then?”
I blinked, suddenly remembering the flood in the basement. “What happened?” I gasped as the words seared my parched throat. “Where are Rupert and Isabella?”
Miranda waved her manicured hand dismissively. “They’re fine—staying with Mr. Wang until you’re ready to pick them up.”
I put my hand against my damp, clammy forehead. “Where did all of that water come from?”
“There wasn’t any water,” Miranda snapped. “Ivan hit you with the toxin. It can cause extreme delusions—of drowning.” She smirked. “You’re lucky I was there with the antidote.”
“Antidote?” I murmured, my head still groggy.
Miranda let out a tired sigh. “A concentrated extract of tulip petals. I had the cupcake frosting laced with it, but I guess it wasn’t enough to offset the dose you got. I’ve been carrying the stuff around with me for weeks—ever since Oscar . . .” She pursed her lips. “I’m surprised you haven’t noticed—it has a pretty strong smell.”
I rubbed my eyes, remembering the last scene from the basement. “You . . . poured it down my throat.”
Miranda nodded. “It has to be administered orally, to be effective.” She shook her head, as if disappointed in my performance. “Now Gordon Bosco has the antidote—although I’m sure he’s dropped that name for good now.”
“I thought he wanted it for his biotech company?” I asked, feeling bewildered.
Miranda’s high heels stamped a semi-circle through the cramped space around my bed. “The company was a ruse, a shell with no employees—it gave him a legitimate excuse to pursue the potion. No, he’s got some other purpose in mind, I’m afraid.”
She pursed her lips. “Ivan, of course, has been arrested. He had already committed several violations of his parole, but the poisoning on top of that should put him back in prison for a while.”
I gripped the sides of the bed, suddenly feeling the loss of time. “How long have I been . . . asleep?”
Miranda rolled her eyes, “Several days now. I didn’t think you were ever going to wake up.” She glanced over at Monty’s snoring frame and wrinkled her powdered nose. “
Please
tell Mr. Carmichael to go home and take a shower.”
Miranda leaned over my bed, her eyes harshly probing my face. One of the red claws pressed into my arm. “My mother disappeared in all of the melee at the Palace Hotel,” she said sharply, her eyes interrogating me. “I don’t suppose you know where she’s run off to?”
“Harold was there, too—in the basement,” I murmured, now feigning my fogginess. “He put tulip petals . . . on my tongue.”
“No. No, he wasn’t.” Miranda turned away from the bed, her voice lacking its usual conviction. “You must be mistaken.”
I CHECKED OUT of the hospital two days later. Mrs. Wang dropped the cats off soon after I arrived back at the Green Vase. I released Rupert and Isabella from their cat carriers and shut the door behind us.
“Have you got it, then?” Mrs. Wang asked—in a voice that sounded an awful lot like Dilla Eckles.
I smiled, pulled the tulip necklace out of my pocket, and handed it to her.
She took the necklace from me, twisting its tulip chain links over in her hands. Turning back towards the door, she flipped open the locket. I watched over her shoulder as the faded photo of Leidesdorff honed in on the door handle.
Mrs. Wang carefully fed the edge of the locket lid into a flat, curling crevice carved into the sculpted tulips in the facing surrounding the handle. The slightest click sounded as the ridges engaged with a hidden fixture and a cavity behind the facing popped open.
Mrs. Wang reached inside and plucked out a package. She turned to me and pressed it into the palm of my right hand.
“Oh, no, honey, this is for you,” she replied to my surprised expression.
“What am I going to do with . . .” I sputtered.
But she was already out the door, disappearing down the street.
A week later, my tires crunched on the gravel of the cemetery’s parking lot. A light, misting rain began to fall as I stepped outside of the car and zipped up my rain jacket.
Monty babbled along beside me as we followed a group of mourners down a cinder path into the maze of stone markers. “It was so sudden—shocking really.”
“He had chronic emphysema from all of that smoking,” I replied, trying to hide my emotions. “He lived a lot longer than the doctors thought he would.”
After Mr. Wang’s funeral, Monty and I walked up the hill to Oscar’s headstone. The falling moisture had collected on the shoots of fresh grass covering his grave, pooling into sparkling, jewel-like drops on the bending tips of the blades.
I stared down into the shimmering green, waiting for Monty’s inevitable commentary.
“You could have him dug up,” he said. “Exhumed, I believe, is the proper term. So that you would know, one way or the other, for certain.”
I shook my head.
Monty raised his finger to the dark clouds above our head. “Shouldn’t you at least consider . . . ,” but his voice trailed off at my resolute expression.
I reached into my pocket and ran my fingers over the cold, cool surface of the stone resting inside.
“Well, are you up for dinner?” Monty asked energetically. “There’s a new restaurant that just opened up. All of the critics are raving about it—it’s radical San Francisco cuisine. They’re serving fried chicken.”
The rain began to fall harder as we walked out of the cemetery to the parking lot—the drops sliding harmlessly off of the firm outer layer of my skin.
“I’ve got a new idea for your store.” Monty offered, undeterred by my silent pondering. “I’ve been discussing it with Rupert. He’s quite keen on it—well, he will be once he gets used to the idea.”
I rolled my eyes towards the dark sky above us.
“Forget about antiques and accounting. You need a break from all of that. It’s time for a dramatic change.” He swung his arms out grandly. “I think you should open up a salon—for cats! You know, where they can get bathed, blown dry, and manicured. People would definitely pay for that, here, in San Francisco.”
I shook my head, trying not to laugh. “Monty,” I said, finally speaking, “I really don’t think . . .”
“I’ve got a friend over at the
Chronicle
. I bet we could get him to do an article on you. I can see the headline now:
FORMER ACCOUNTANT AND FELINE ENTHUSIAST
REBECCA M. HALE SHARES HER INSIGHTS ON
HOW TO WASH A CAT

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