Nine Lives Last Forever (24 page)

A jubilant rush of laughing children swarmed past Dilla as she held open the swinging glass door. A few kids stopped at the pizza table, but most continued straight into the maze of animal rides inside the merry-go-round’s carousel. Each child climbed up into a carved seat, their tiny hands wrapping around the gilded poles that anchored their chosen steed to the platform.

Dilla pressed a button and the carousel began to turn. The poles pushed the painted animals up and down, and countless swinging tails, bucking heads, and prancing feet swung into action. Each animal was adorned with a checkered jacket and a generous coating of sparkling plastic jewels. Mirrors in the ceiling and base reflected back the pumping motion of the ride’s glittering beasts, to dizzying, multiplying effect.

At each stopping interval, the youthful riders switched from one animal to the next. The merry-go-round offered a broad sampling of carved creatures, including horses, lions, giraffes, goats, dragons, and a single gold-trimmed frog.

Eventually, the birthday candles were lit, the celebratory song sung, and the frosted chocolate cake devoured. Dilla allowed the children one last spin on the carousel as their parents began stopping by to pick them up.

Throughout the birthday party, Dilla had struggled to keep track of her short-statured charges. The mesh screen in the frog costume’s head only allowed her to see the space directly in front of her; she had no side vision. As the parents filtered in to pick up their offspring, Dilla was relieved to find that no one had gone missing. Each parent was easily matched with a child.

In her concerned monitoring of the children, Dilla failed to take notice of the non-parent entrant who slipped in through the door of the glass enclosure and shimmied around to the opposite side of the carousel.

Two hours after they’d begun, the last guest departed, and the birthday boy and his pile of presents were trundled out the door. Dilla leaned up against the glass pane, a smile on her face as she watched the boy’s father scoop up his exhausted son and carry him down the stairs.

Dilla’s own tired eyes rested for a moment on a cluster of purple tulips sprouting out of a round, globular planter near the merry-go-round entrance. Finally, she thought wearily as she pulled off one of the green mitted gloves, it was time to check that frog.

Dilla rotated the key in the lock of the glass enclosure, unaware of the malicious eyes pinned to the furry green back of her costume.

After loosening the straps that connected the frog head to the shoulders of the jumpsuit, Dilla pulled the contraption up and over her sweating forehead, appreciating the unobstructed freedom of her face. As she crossed the glass enclosure and climbed up onto the merry-go-round’s platform, she let out a deep breath, releasing months of pent-up tension. In that brief moment of relaxation, with her senses dulled by the suffocating hours spent wrapped inside the frog costume, she didn’t hear the footsteps sneaking up behind her.

Dilla bent over the front of the frog ride and ran her fingers along the animated creature’s wide, smiling mouth. The lever that triggered the jaw to open was tucked into the side of the metal frog’s head, disguised by the gold-painted harness that looped around its body. The lever was rusted and frozen in place from lack of use, but, with effort, she was able to force it into position. Slowly, the rim of the frog’s metal lips began to part.

As the frog’s bottom jaw rotated downward and Dilla peered inside, her mouth fell open in surprise. The cavity was an empty void—vacant except for a couple of dusty spiders and a small folded piece of paper.

Dilla snatched the paper from the cavity. The expression on her face registered disappointment and confusion as she unfolded the paper and quickly scanned the message written inside.

Dilla leaned back from the frog—and froze at the image of the man reflected in one of the many mirrors that covered the merry-go-round’s center spoke.

Slowly, she turned to face the intruder. Her voice trembled with frustration and fear as she showed him the paper and said, “We’re too late. The gold is gone. Oscar must have moved it.”

I RETURNED HOME
from the grocery store Friday night with a package of organic free-range chicken legs and a variety of replacement spices for the containers in Oscar’s spice rack. Unwilling to risk another sleepless night with a despondent, chicken-obsessed Rupert, I had decided to try to recreate Oscar’s fried chicken recipe for myself. If the startup chef at the Mission frog leg restaurant could reverse engineer the coating mixture, so could I.

I carried my bundle of chicken-related ingredients up to the kitchen and spread them out across the counter. Rupert sat down on the floor nearby, closely surveying the spread as I searched through Oscar’s cookbook shelf for
The Art of Chicken
. Oscar had never actually used the book when cooking his dish, but I had planned to start with a traditional recipe and then proceed with the most likely modifications. I was on my second pass through the bookshelf when I heard a banging on the front door downstairs.

With a stern, admonishing look at Rupert, I sprinted down the steps to the showroom. Isabella leapt past me as I ducked my head to dodge the low-hanging beam above the sixth step. She was already on top of the cashier counter, sharply eying our visitor, when I reached the showroom.

I groaned at the image of the man whose face was plastered up against the front window. I’d had more than my quota of Monty for one day. It had only been a couple of hours since we’d returned from the Cliff House. Reluctantly, I turned the lock to let him in.

“Greetings and good evening,” Monty said, rolling the words as he pushed open the door. He strolled jauntily inside and paced to the back of the showroom where he plopped down onto the dentist chair. In a single smooth motion, he kicked back the recliner lever and propped his leather pointed-toe shoes up on the footrest.

I brushed my hands against the front of my apron, thinking nervously about my exposed chicken upstairs. Rupert couldn’t be trusted to act against instinct for very long.

“What’s up, Monty?” I asked briskly.

Monty raised a knobby forefinger into the air. “The other day, I believe you mentioned that your cats had chased down a frog—here in the Green Vase?”

Isabella chirped affirmatively before I could respond. Monty swung his finger to point it in her direction.

“Yes!” he exclaimed as Isabella licked her lips. “That’s what I thought.”

Monty sucked in his breath and jumped up from the recliner. Slapping his hands together, he announced, “I need to borrow your cats.”

“No,” I replied immediately, no thought needed. “Absolutely not.”

“Wait, wait,” he said, waving his hands in the air. “You don’t understand.”

I heard a suspicious thump against the ceiling. Isabella and I looked at each other, and, in unison, both of us moved toward the stairs.

“Come on up to the kitchen,” I said as I sprinted up the steps. “I’ve got to rescue my chicken.”

 

 

“SO, ABOUT THE
cats,” Monty mumbled through a mouthful of fried chicken. “I just need to borrow them for one night—to sneak them into City Hall.”

Monty was seated at the kitchen table, an attentive Rupert on the floor near his feet, both of them sampling my efforts to duplicate Oscar’s fried chicken recipe.

“No,” I repeated automatically as I dropped another leg into the black wrought iron skillet. I had been unable to find Oscar’s chicken cookbook, so I was estimating the appropriate amounts for each ingredient. So far, I had tried a different coating combination on each piece of chicken.

“Wait, what?” I asked as I covered the skillet to shield against the popping grease. Monty’s request had finally registered in my chicken-distracted brain. “Why would you want to take them to City Hall?”

Monty peeled off a small piece of meat from the latest sample and dropped it into a bowl on the floor near his feet. With a loud smacking sound, the chicken instantly disappeared into Rupert’s stomach.

“You’re still missing something,” Monty said, tasting another bite. “Oscar’s chicken had a lightness to it. There was something else in the crust. I think you need to add another ingredient.”

“Monty, you never tasted Oscar’s chicken,” I protested.

“Ah, but I smelled it every Saturday night before I left the studio,” he replied. He closed his eyes, remembering. “The scent floated across the street. It soaked into everything. I used to dream about that chicken.” He held up a bare bone. “This isn’t it.”

“Hmm,” I said, studying the lineup of spices. I selected a different collection of bottles and began preparing the next coating mixture.

Monty got up and scraped the pile of bones from his plate into the kitchen trashcan. Rupert’s blue eyes followed him, his fixed stare never leaving Monty’s greasy fingers.

I peeked under the lid of the skillet. The current batch was about ready to turn. “Next round should be up in a minute or two,” I said as I grabbed a pair of tongs and flipped over the simmering chicken legs. “I hope you’re still hungry.”

Monty glanced down at Rupert, who smacked his lips enthusiastically. “Keep ’em coming,” he replied. Monty wiped his mouth with a napkin and cleared his throat. “So I need the cats to help me find the frogs,” he said casually.

“More metal frogs?” I asked as I rolled a chicken leg in the newest coating mixture. “Don’t you have enough of those?”

“Oh no, real-life frogs.” Monty tapped his forehead. “Like the one that beaned me on the noggin.”

I checked the skillet again. This time, I pulled one of the legs out and dropped it onto his plate.

“You see,” Monty continued as he chomped down on a mouthful of the most recent sample, “I received new information this afternoon about the Sutro money—it’s gold actually—from my Vigilance Committee colleagues.”

“Did you?” I asked, looking up from the stove to the kitchen table.

“
With
apologies for this morning’s initiation exercise,” he added, as if he were still soothing his wounded ego. “I passed the test, by the way,” he said defensively.

“Congratulations,” I replied, trying not to laugh.

“You see, the VC have discovered a new clue to the gold’s location,” Monty said, clearly excited at the development.

I returned my attention to the skillet as Monty wiped off his fingers, reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out a small piece of paper. “They think your Uncle Oscar moved it from its original hiding place.”

I turned away from the stove to face Monty. He held a small piece of paper up in front of his face and read out in a serious tone, “
Follow the frogs
.”

“That’s it? That’s your new clue?” I asked. “What does this have to do with taking my cats to City Hall?”

Monty fed a last sliver of chicken meat to Rupert. “I’m sure that’s the place. There have been numerous frog sightings throughout the building recently. Apparently, one even made its way into the Mayor’s office—caused quite a fuss.”

Monty leaned back in his chair and patted his full stomach. “I have a theory . . .”

“Oh no,” I groaned. That phrase never passed through Monty’s lips without being followed by some sort of preposterous supposition.

Monty proceeded, undeterred. “Oscar hid the gold in City Hall, and the frogs are guarding it—kind of like leprechauns. If we follow the frogs, they’ll lead us right to it.”

I stared up at the ceiling. If nothing else, Monty was consistent.

“It’s perfectly logical when you think about it,” Monty insisted despite my skepticism. “Adolph Sutro was totally destroyed by the big-business interests that ran
City Hall
. The first part of Sutro’s gold was used to support a change in the way the Board of Supervisors were elected—the Supervisors are the driving force in
City Hall
. Another portion of the gold was used to fund the Milk campaign—to help him change the political dynamics in
City Hall
. It only makes sense that Oscar would have hidden the remaining gold somewhere within—
City Hall
.”

He flicked the piece of paper. “
Follow the frogs
,” he repeated. “Couldn’t be simpler. I just need your cats to help me track down the frogs, so that I can
follow
them.”

Wincing dubiously, I plucked the piece of paper from Monty’s fingers. “Here, let me see it.”

The paper was yellowed and curling around its edges. A smear of grease bleared the right-hand corner. In the middle of the paper, the phrase Monty had just read was written in a round, looping scrawl I instantly recognized.

The note had been written, presumably some time ago, by my Uncle Oscar.

I stared into the skillet, watching the coating on the chicken legs slowly turn from creamy white to golden brown, the unfolded piece of paper clasped tightly between my fingers.

Follow the frogs
, I repeated to myself. I thought of the mysterious webbed footprints in my kitchen and the frog the cats had found in the basement. The message could just as easily have been referring to the Green Vase, but the VC apparently thought differently.

I sighed tensely. I couldn’t imagine what would have inspired Oscar to write such strange instructions, but there seemed to be only one way to find out.

“All right,” I said with determination. “But I’m coming with you.”

“Excellent,” Monty replied, surprised at my sudden agreement.

Monty carried his empty plate from the table to the stove and nudged it toward the skillet. I clamped the tongs around another fried leg and shifted it onto his plate.

Monty bit into the crust of the latest sample. “Still not quite right,” he assessed. “Oscar’s was lighter, fluffier, almost unexpectedly floral . . .”

I glanced sharply up at Monty. He and I both landed on the missing ingredient at exactly the same time.