Nine Lives Last Forever (14 page)

THE PHOTOGRAPH SHOOK
in my hand as I stared down at the loathsome face of Frank Napis. My eyes fixed on the arm embracing my late uncle’s shoulder, my stomach sickening at the sight. The Napis in the photo, I felt certain, was up to no good.

I tried to read into the eyes of my uncle, the small sliver of them that was visible beneath his wild, bushy eyebrows. Had Oscar known then that Napis was a fake and a fraud? Had he any inkling of the danger residing within the man standing next to him?

The dark corners of the room expanded around me, blooming into blackened flowers whose petals snuffed out the meager lightbulb on the opposite end of the basement. I was left alone with my flashlight, the dreary fascination of the photo—and the eerie sensation that my cats and I were not alone.

The surface of my cheeks dropped in temperature; my forehead became a damp sponge of sweat. I spun around in a frantic circle, wildly waving the flashlight across the crowded basement, spanning its beam along the crumbling brick walls, trying to squelch my panicked imagination.

Isabella and Rupert looked up at me, startled by my actions. I grabbed hold of the side of the wardrobe and took in a deep breath, trying to calm the pounding in my chest.

But as my racing pulse began to slow, a slight shuffling sound issued from the opposite side of the basement. The suctioned underside of a set of tiny webbed feet were inching across the cold, grimy concrete floor.

Two fuzzy white blurs leapt up into the air, bolting off on an instant hunt. I nearly dropped the flashlight in my effort to jump out of the cats’ way.

It was impossible for me to keep up as Rupert and Isabella took off on their pursuit. Several feet ahead of me, Isabella’s sleek form soared up and over a low pile of debris before disappearing again into the crowded maze of boxes and crates. I juggled the flashlight, trying to train its beam on the path of rustling cardboard and fluttering sheets as the cats raced across the basement.

The thudding sound was barely audible over the crashing chase of the cats. They appeared to be headed to the far corner of the basement, near the fold-down stairs.

Brow furrowed, I crept back across the room, all the while trying to get a line of sight on the action at the front.

Rupert’s heavy bulk leapt through the air, swatting ferociously at a green springing form that my eyes couldn’t quite focus on.

I crawled over an upended box, scraping my elbows against the rough edge of a crate as I eased myself closer. Brandishing my flashlight like a sword, I slowly cut its beam into the dark corner behind the steps where the cats appeared to have trapped the basement’s intruder.

This corner of the basement was the current home of one of the more intriguing items from Oscar’s eclectic collection—the stuffed carcass of a large kangaroo. I had found it packed into a shipping crate shortly after Oscar’s death. The product of an ill-fated attempt at amateur taxidermy, the kangaroo was posed in an upright position with its right arm crooked out to rest on its hip.

I still had no idea how the kangaroo fit in with Oscar’s Gold Rush interests. The beast’s crate had been marked with an Australian shipping address and lodged over the top of the trapdoor to the basement. Oscar had used the kangaroo’s mouth cavity to hide a clue related to Napis’s poison—one that I had unfortunately failed to appreciate until it was too late.

The kangaroo had stood for a time in the showroom next to the cashier counter, but the dead animal was too gruesome to look at on a daily basis, and I didn’t need any help scaring off potential customers, so I had moved it down to the basement.

Isabella inched up on the kangaroo, stalking a silent circle around it as Rupert climbed up the drop-down steps to get a higher level view. Rupert poked his head through the opening between the slats, pushing his face toward that of the kangaroo, his pink nose percolating with interest.

Isabella made a long trilling sound at my feet as I trained the flashlight on the stuffed kangaroo’s head. Slowly, I slid the light upward from the curious expression of the kangaroo’s crudely sewn-together mouth, past its bewitching glass eyes, to the furry, curved crown of its head.

A small frog blinked in the direct light of the beam.

“Ooh!” I exclaimed, shocked to finally meet the froggy interloper face-to-face. I have to admit, I was greatly relieved to see that this frog wasn’t wearing a mustache.

I leaned forward to study the creature more closely. It appeared to be a small garden-variety frog, similar in color and size to the one that had landed on Monty’s head in City Hall the previous afternoon.

The frog’s webbed feet stretched out, nervously gripping the stuffed kangaroo’s mottled fur. The shiny film of its thin, membranous skin glistened in the illumination of the flashlight.

“Ribbit.”

I jumped back, startled by the noise. The flashlight bounced out of my hands and flipped up into the air, the arc of its beam flashing momentarily on Rupert’s furry, round, midair figure, hurtling from the back of the steps toward the head of the kangaroo.

There was a muffled crash in the darkness behind the stairs as I scrambled after the tumbling flashlight.

When my fingers finally wrapped around the handle and swung the flashlight back into the corner behind the stairs, the scene had changed completely.

A wobbling Rupert was shakily wrapped around the kangaroo’s shoulders while his blue eyes rapidly searched the room for the escaped prey. Isabella sat serenely on the floor next to the kangaroo’s feet, placidly licking one of her front paws. There was no sign of the frog.

A man’s curly brown head popped down from the hatch.

“Hello! What’s going on down here?” he called out inquisitively.

I flipped the light up at his face, blinding him in its beam.

“Front door was unlocked,” he explained, squinting his eyes in the glare.

“Hmmnh,” I replied, not entirely satisfied. Montgomery Carmichael had a disturbing habit of making unauthorized visits to the Green Vase showroom.

I was at least relieved to see that he had resumed his regular attire and hairstyle. I focused the flashlight on the edge of the hatch where the sleeve of Monty’s white cuff emerged from his gray sweater.

A bright green frog-shaped cufflink hung from the cuff.

It was too much of a coincidence. Monty had a vast collection of whimsical cufflinks, and he took great care in making each day’s selection. Whatever frog-related scheme Dilla was cooking up with the Vigilance Committee, it was a safe bet Monty was chin deep in it, too.

I returned the light to Monty’s face, focusing the full force of its interrogating beam directly into his eyes.

“What’s with the frogs?” I demanded.

HAROLD WOMBLER’S RAGGED
construction boots shuffled past the massive concrete struts that formed the base of the TransAmerica Pyramid building. The shadows fell on his hunched shoulders, darkening the rough patches of stubble on his face, as he turned onto the sidewalk leading into Redwood Park.

The Thursday lunch crowd had begun to trickle in, their numbers migrating to the park’s center where a small, unshaded circle was receiving an unusual boost of solar energy. Harold watched as a group of office workers mingled around the flat wooden benches, unpacking their bundles of portable food. A few stripped off their suit jackets to revel in the unseasonably warm temperature.

The sunny weather did little to brighten Harold’s dark mood. He was still out of sorts from his morning trip to the Cliff House. He didn’t mind the early hour or the drive out to the far side of town—it was the company he objected to. There were few people in the world Harold loathed more than Montgomery Carmichael.

Harold gimped along beside a line of redwood trunks and headed toward the fountain. Mark Twain’s bronze frogs were enjoying their perpetual splash, their frozen, outstretched flippers forever reaching for the next stone lily pad.

Harold’s bloodshot eyes studied the mossy rocks beneath the surface of the pooling water. The roar of the fountain drowned out the conversation of the nearest lunchers, allowing him to collect his thoughts.

After a moment’s meditation, Harold pulled his faded baseball cap down over his eyes and grumpily hobbled over to a bench on the edge of the park that was occupied by an elderly Asian woman. The woman’s face was shadowed by the ring of redwoods skirting the backside of her bench, but Harold had no trouble identifying her. The bright green go-go boots on her feet gave her away.

Dilla tucked her scarf around her neck as Harold collapsed down onto the opposite side of the bench. With a nod, she handed him a bundle wrapped up in paper emblazoned with the name of a nearby deli.

Harold tore hungrily into the package. The pricey gourmet sandwich inside promised a hearty meal. The thick slices of fresh bread had been baked that morning. In between the slices lay a substantial pile of cheddar cheese, smoked ham, crisp lettuce, and juicy tomatoes; a generous smear of Dijon mustard seasoned the tasty heap. Harold savored the first bite before turning his head toward his bench companion.

“Thanks, Dilla,” Harold said as he pulled a sour dill pickle out of its separate wax paper wrapping. He was still cranky, but the sustenance of the sandwich made up, in part, for the unpleasantries of the morning.

Dilla tapped the toes of her boots against the pebbled pavement as Harold continued to munch. “How did it go at the Cliff House?” she asked cheerily.

Harold muttered bitterly into his sandwich. The only interpretable word was “Carmichael.”

Dilla giggled. “Did everybody show up?”

Harold nodded and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “The PM gave me a wave. Pleased as punch to be running the show.”

“The PM?” Dilla repeated, her voice briefly puzzled. “Oh, the Previous Mayor,” she added quickly, breaking the code. “Yes, he loves to be involved,” she said, laughing. “I think he’s enjoying this little project. He says he’ll support anything that might get those two stubborn men working together again.”

Dilla stretched out her legs to reach into one of her pants’ pockets. “He’ll be looking for you at this restaurant tomorrow at noon,” she said, handing Harold a piece of paper.

Harold unfolded it and scanned the information. “Not a very discreet location,” he said skeptically. “I thought the point was to keep this hush-hush until you get everyone on board.”

“The PM has a busy schedule. It was the only time I could get,” Dilla replied with a harried sigh. She pointed at the piece of paper. “That’s his regular spot. He eats there every Friday.”

Harold’s wrinkled face curdled sourly. “Isn’t this French? You know I hate foreign food.”

“I’m sure they buy all of their ingredients locally,” Dilla replied tartly.

Harold grumbled into another bite of his sandwich. “So where are we with the Mayor and the Board?”

Dilla tugged on her scarf again. “The PBS—that’s President of the Board of Supervisors,” she translated with a smile. “He’s a member of the
Green
Party, so there shouldn’t be any problems there. He seems quite keen on the idea actually.”

She sighed with a slight air of frustration. “But the Mayor is going to be a much bigger challenge than I thought. He harbors some, er, misconceptions about our little friends.” She tossed her hands into the air. “I think it’s just that he’s never really got to
know
one of them. For some reason, he’s intimidated by them.”

Harold snorted his disapproval. “You know, I never voted for the man myself.”

Dilla tutted her finger admonishingly at Harold. “The PM,” she winked, “has a plan. He’ll discuss it with you at the meeting.”

Harold grimaced. “At the
French
restaurant.” He finished off his sandwich and began gathering up the remaining refuse.

“This new Vigilance Committee you’re putting together,” Harold said thoughtfully as he wrapped up his half-eaten pickle. “It’s a worthy cause you’re promoting, don’t get me wrong. But you didn’t need to bring back the VC to pursue this project. Are you sure there isn’t some other
alternative
reason for stirring all of this up again?”

Dilla swung her feet out from the bench, grateful for the protection of the mask. It made it much easier to hide her facial expressions. “I can’t imagine what you’re getting at, Harold.”

Harold crimped his wrinkled face skeptically as he crunched the paper wrapping into a ball and tossed it through the air to the nearest trash bin. “I guess you’ll need some of the Sutro money to make all of this work,” he said with a shrug. “Are you certain it’s still hidden in the same place?”

Dilla leaned back on the bench, tilting her head skyward. “As certain as one can be about this sort of thing,” she replied, the slight wavering in her voice belying a trace of doubt. “It was a long time ago, you know. There’s always a chance Oscar moved it, but I doubt it. That wasn’t his style.”

Harold rubbed the stubble on the end of his chin. “You’re not worried about . . .”

“Old what’s his name?” she asked, her voice brittle despite her attempt at breeziness. “I’m not afraid of Frank.”

“No, no, of course not,” Harold said wryly. “That’s why you’re running around in this”—he waved his hands at her costume—“
outfit
.”

“Ah, for strategy, dear,” Dilla replied, wagging her finger at him. “For strategic advantage.” She tugged self-consciously on the hem of the baggy sweater before lifting her chin and straightening her shoulders defiantly. “Anyway, I’m heading over to the site this afternoon to check it out—we’re getting close enough now. We need to be sure.”

Harold chuckled and said teasingly, “Don’t you think you’re a little too old to be riding on a merry-go-round?”