How to Catch a Cat (12 page)

ALBERTA

ONCE AGAIN, ALBERTA
was waiting outside the mayor’s office suite when the niece stepped from the elevator the following morning.

This time, the niece was relieved to see the young woman. She was anxious to hand over the preparations for Monty’s upcoming America’s Cup event, and she’d been afraid the applicant might have changed her mind.

The niece needn’t have worried. Alberta’s enthusiasm hadn’t waned. If anything, it had intensified.

“Good morning, Ms. Conway . . .” was all the niece got out before being verbally run over.

“I brought my sailing gear and equipment. It’s in my car in the parking garage.” Alberta pointed to a loaded duffel bag on the floor beside the office door. “And my training manuals.” She looked up at the niece with an overeager smile. “In case I need them today.”

The niece maneuvered the stroller around the bag and unlocked the door. She exchanged looks with Isabella through the mesh netting.

“That’s great.” The niece shoved the stroller through the entrance. “But hopefully, all of today’s activities will be on land.”

—

TO THE NIECE’S
delight, Alberta dove into the event-planning project. The young intern was a perfect fit for the job. Her designated cubicle in City Hall’s basement office space soon became a command center.

Alberta scoured the basement supply closets until she found a bulletin board. After polishing it up, she covered its flat surface with three-by-five note cards. Each card was filled with dense text and highlighter markings. Pieces of color-coded yarn connected the cards to one another in a complicated network of intersecting lines.

The niece had no idea how to interpret the elaborate spider’s web diagram, nor did she seek out an explanation.

She was just relieved to have delegated the task to someone else.

More important, she was thrilled to direct Monty’s many inquiries on the matter to the new intern.

—

WHILE RUNNING ALBERTA
ragged with his many changes and additions, Monty was pleased with the way the America’s Cup event was shaping up. He could hardly wait for Saturday night’s gala. He had purchased a brand-new tuxedo that he would debut at the soiree along with a special pair of custom-crafted cuff links.

Over a hundred VIP guests were expected to attend the affair, which would be held on the Baron’s yacht.

Monty was well on his way toward ingratiating himself with the local sailing community, step one in his dubious plan to shore up his prospects for the fall election.

The niece smiled as Alberta entered the mayor’s office suite, chatting busily into her headset with a caterer. The intern waved absentmindedly to the niece, but didn’t in any way slow her ongoing conversation as she crossed the room to Monty’s office.

Isabella’s brow furrowed at the woman’s behavior, but the niece didn’t mind.

In her view, Operation Intern had turned out far better than expected.

“I don’t know why I ever resisted hiring an intern,” she said as she returned her attention to the history book spread open on her desk.

Isabella was far less convinced of the initiative’s success.

“Mrao.”

—

ALBERTA EMERGED FROM
Monty’s office still talking into her headset, this time to the company who would be providing the event’s floral arrangements.

The niece looked up, expecting another distracted walk-by.

“I was very specific in the purchase order. The carnations must be white with either red or blue striping . . .”

The intern fluttered a few fingers in the niece’s direction, reserving the bulk of her attention for the caller on the other end of the line.

The woman’s demeanor changed dramatically, however, when the reception door opened and Hoxton Finn poked his head inside. Seeing the niece at her desk, he strode into the room.

He only made it halfway across before a sari whirlwind nearly knocked him over.

“Hoxton Finn,” Alberta gushed, dropping the caller on the other end of the line as she rushed up to shake his hand.

“This is Alberta . . .” the niece started, but the rest of her words were drowned out.

“I’ve read every article you’ve ever written. What an impressive career. Have you ever considered hiring an intern to work with you?”

It took the concerted efforts of Hox and the niece—along with a firm hiss from Isabella—before the intern was ushered out the door.

The reporter looked quizzically at the niece.

“Alberta? Is she from Canada?”

The niece crinkled her nose. She’d just detected a whiff of the lemony-sweet perfume coming down from the ceiling.

Tucking her skirt around her knees, she climbed up onto her desk and stretched her head toward the ceiling tiles. As she sniffed the air, trying to discern the origin of the scent, she mumbled her reply.

“Don’t ask.”

TUXEDO-CLAD FROGS

SATURDAY AFTERNOON BROUGHT
wind and rain to San Francisco’s waterfront. The drenching was predicted to last through late evening—and the mayor’s elaborate cocktail party.

Not even superintern Alberta could organize away the weather.

The niece stood in the Green Vase showroom, staring out at the rain. She and the cats were ready to depart for the Embarcadero pier that was under renovation to host the America’s Cup. The Baron’s megayacht was docked at the platform, where it would host the night’s festivities.

Beneath her raincoat, the niece wore the only garment from her closet that classified as formal attire. The black dress had last seen service a few years earlier at a benefit for a local cat shelter held in the Palace Hotel ballroom. That event had featured a special “cat”-walk for Rupert and Isabella to model cat costumes crafted out of diamond-studded chains.

The niece had been assured no such shenanigans would take place this evening.

She knelt to the stroller and peeked beneath a nylon attachment that stretched over the passenger compartment to prevent rain from soaking the feline cargo.

Instead of diamond outfits, the cats were dressed in stylish but much more practical collars, Isabella’s in velvet pink, Rupert’s in satin black.

A car stopped in the street outside, flashed its headlights, and honked its horn. Pulling her hood over her head, the niece swung open the door to the Green Vase and pushed the stroller through.

She had made a onetime exception to her regular transportation policy and agreed to ride to the cocktail event with Monty. He’d requested a larger limo so there would be plenty of room for the cats and their stroller.

The driver helped the niece and the carriage into the back seating area. Monty leapt into the car from the opposite side, having run out from his art studio across the street.

The niece wiped the rain from her face, thankful for the car’s warm interior. The only downside to the luxury accommodations, she mused, was putting up with the human company.

Monty held out his wrist and pulled back the sleeve of his jacket, showing off his new cuff links: little gold frogs dressed in tuxedos.

“What do you think, eh? Stylish, huh?”

He took the niece’s silent eyebrow pump as approval.

“I know. I think these have just become my favorite pair.”

From the stroller, Isabella voiced her opinion loud and clear.

“Mrao.”

—

IT WAS A
short drive along San Francisco’s soggy waterfront to the event location.

Fifteen minutes later—and not a second too soon for the niece—the limo turned into the cavernous opening for piers Twenty-seven and Twenty-nine. The arched entranceway led into a rickety warehouse that up until recently had been used as valet parking space for a nearby restaurant. The two docks merged together to form a triangular platform that stretched out into the bay.

Renovation work to prepare the pier for the summer’s regatta was well under way. Sealant had been applied to the cracked concrete base, and scaffolding rose to the warehouse ceiling where attempts had been made to shore up the structure’s leaky roof.

The niece peered up through the limo’s rain-spattered moonroof. Given the amount of water still dribbling through the rafters, the latter task was proving to be a challenge.

Reaching the opposite end of the warehouse, the limo exited out onto the open pier where the bulk of the regatta infrastructure would be assembled. The framework for several temporary structures flashed in the limo’s headlights.

There were no existing water or sewage facilities on the platform, so design-arounds had been devised to support the planned food and beverage services. When finished, the area would resemble a high-tech, high-end campsite, complete with a network of several hundred luxury Porta-Potties that would be set up inside the warehouse.

Alberta had obtained a landscape model of the planned pier facilities, so the niece had a sense of what the area would look like once the grandstand and associated buildings were completed.

There was still much to be done before the pier would be ready for the summer’s activities. An event of this magnitude would require a monumental effort from its organizers. The evening’s cocktail party, by comparison, was but a minor gathering.

The niece glanced across the limo at Monty. Even without his hindrance, there was still a risk the regatta might fall apart or implode under the weight of its own ambitions.

Monty showed no sign of concern. He saw only upside.

No matter the odds, failure was not an option.

—

THE LIMO STOPPED
at the far end of the pier. A string of lights surrounded a gangplank that led up into the biggest yacht the niece had ever seen.

The massive structure was a floating mansion, an over-the-top display of wealth. The niece counted at least four separate living levels rising above the waterline. Even through the evening’s dusk and whipping rain, every inch of white on the hull and paneling gleamed.

The cocktail party was being held on the first floor. Glass windows revealed a number of fancily clad guests sipping from champagne flutes and nibbling appetizers from clear plastic plates.

A smaller—more exclusive—group had convened on the boat’s top deck, chief among them, the Baron. The business mogul leaned over the railing, a martini glass in one hand, a cell phone in the other.

Monty was the first to hop out of the limo. He was already halfway up the gangplank by the time the niece lifted out the cat stroller and straightened its nylon rain cover.

She could hear him showing off his new cuff links to the first waiter he encountered on the yacht’s front deck.

“Take a look at these, will you? Frogs—with tuxedos!”

The niece wrapped her raincoat around her dress and proceeded up the ramp at a more measured pace.

A wet wind blew across the pier, sprinkling raindrops sideways into the carriage. Rupert dove beneath the blankets, trying to stay dry, but Isabella remained vigilant. The hairs along the center ridge of her back rose in a slight hackle.

The niece looked at the crowd of people mingling in the boat’s ballroom-sized entertainment area and, farther up, the Baron.

She couldn’t put her finger on it, but something felt odd.

And it had nothing to do with Monty’s wacky cuff links.

APPETIZER DELIGHT

RUPERT ROUSTED HIMSELF
from the blankets as the niece pushed the stroller up the gangplank and into the yacht. Gripping his claws into the sheets, he peered up through the screened netting, but the nylon rain cover over the passenger compartment blocked most of his view.

The carriage wobbled back and forth on the uneven planks as Rupert’s narrow window of sight tilted upward. He caught a brief glimpse of the yacht’s front ballroom area and the private balcony above. The Baron took a sip from his champagne flute as he stared curiously down at the stroller.

Rupert felt the wheels bump beneath him, causing him to jostle Isabella. Luckily, she had braced herself before the carriage reached the end of the gangplank. With an apologetic look at his glaring sister, Rupert scrambled back onto his side of the passenger compartment.

His person wasn’t near as good at guiding the stroller as she thought.

No matter. Rupert would let the matter slide. Nothing could diminish his anticipation for the night’s event. He’d taken an extra nap on the car ride to the pier to ensure he’d be fully rested for the festivities. He’d even agreed to wear this silly bow tie collar.

From his slumbering position in the mayor’s office, he’d overheard Alberta’s phone conversation with the caterer about the elaborate food that would be served.

If ever there was a place where he might seek out a fried chicken donut, this was it.

The stroller’s front bumper slammed into a door facing as the niece tried to maneuver through to the yacht’s ballroom.

Rupert righted himself and rolled his eyes up at the green nylon cover.

Seriously, the woman needs to have her glasses checked.

—

ONCE INSIDE THE
yacht, the niece removed the stroller’s rain canopy and surrendered it and her raincoat to a valet manning the entrance.

Rupert spun a tight circle, taking full advantage of the unobstructed line of sight above the passenger compartment.

He watched as his person slipped the paper number corresponding to her coat’s hanger into one of the stroller’s side pockets and nudged the carriage toward the edge of the crowd.

Pivoting on his round rump, Rupert returned to a forward-facing position. The view was now dramatically more interesting. Pushing his head against the net cover, he could make out the ankles and shins of the nearest guests. Women’s toned legs flirted out from beneath dresses of various lengths, while men stood in dress slacks, for the most part neatly pressed. Rupert identified a few pairs of pants whose owners had skimped on the week’s dry cleaning.

Shifting his focus upward, Rupert saw a number of waists and midsections, many accompanied by a handheld appetizer plate or plastic champagne flute.

Most of the attendees were unknown to him, but he picked out a handful of familiar torsos that he recognized from the past few weeks he’d spent at City Hall.

The president of the board of supervisors had scored an invite, along with several members of his staff. If his nervous hand gestures were any gauge, the seasoned politician was a bit unsure whether he should have attended this soiree. Rupert heard him laugh—far too loudly—at a joke made by one of his colleagues.

The prickly secretary from the elevator walked past the stroller. Rupert shuddered as Wanda Williams glared down at him, giving him a full view of her scowling face. In the carriage beside him, Isabella stiffened with affront.

Seeking to distance herself from Wanda, the niece shoved the stroller toward the opposite side of the ballroom.

Grumbling about the niece’s driving capabilities, Rupert again regained his footing. As he peered up through the netting, he spied the City Hall wedding coordinator, the woman with the bouncy chest and the blond wig that looked like a bird’s nest.

Birds
, he thought, his mind transitioning to food.

Waitstaff scurried about with trays of hors d’oeuvres and champagne glasses. The servers whipped their trays in front of guests, hovered for a few seconds while selections were made, and then zoomed on to the next group of nibblers. It was an elaborately choreographed dance of decadent food, capped off by a constant stream of empty trays being ferried back to the ship’s kitchen.

Rupert’s head swung back and forth, trying to follow the action from his restricted stroller seat.

The niece dodged a tray of mozzarella and tomato crostinis as Alberta rushed past, a blur of a rustling silk sari, clicking high-heeled sandals, and a fluttering clipboard. She waved hurriedly at the niece while speaking into the handheld device for the mobile phone secured around her ear.

“T-minus seven minutes until the second course of appetizers is due out to the ballroom. Kitchen rep, please confirm the plating is on schedule . . .”

The niece muttered something under her breath. Rupert couldn’t make out the words, but he could easily interpret the expression on her face.

Thank goodness for interns
.

Rupert was reserving judgment on the new intern until he learned whether Alberta had included his favorite item on the night’s menu.

He snorkeled in a deep volume of air and began sorting through the various smells. The confined space had captured and concentrated a number of odors.

First, he filtered out the various personal scent enhancers. A shindig of this nature attracted a wide array of perfumes and colognes—including one rather familiar lemony-sweet scent . . .

His orange ears turned sideways in consternation.
What an overpowering, offensive aroma.

Just then, Hoxton Finn stepped up to the stroller. The loud
pop
of his notepad against his left leg rang in Rupert’s sensitive ears.

“Monty really thinks this is going to win him the next election?”

Before the niece could answer, a waiter swept in with a tray of goat cheese–stuffed mushrooms.

“Oh, you’ve got to try these,” Hox said, reaching for the tongs.

Mushrooms, Rupert thought with disdain as he studied the brown lumps from the underside of Hox’s clear plastic plate. The slimy fungi ranked right up there with diet cat food on the list of foods he refused to eat.

He glanced at his sister, who delicately licked her lips. Isabella, on the other hand, loved roasted mushrooms.

Before Rupert could broach the subject of whether mushrooms were appropriate for the feline diet, another pair of legs approached the group standing around the stroller.

The Baron had descended to the yacht’s first floor to greet his guests. Humphrey, the news station’s stylist, was admiring the business mogul’s outfit.

“The cut of that suit fits you perfectly, sir.” Humphrey touched the Baron’s wrist and lifted his arm upward. “I’m wondering—have you tried mohair? The fabric would accent your shoulder blades.” He nodded, affirming his expert opinion. “It’s the wooliness.”

Rupert’s brow furrowed as he tried to imagine the garment Humphrey had described, but his attention was soon drawn to an elderly waiter at the edge of his periphery.

The man walked with a noticeable limp. He steadied himself with a cane whose rubber-tipped end thumped against the ballroom’s wooden floor. From his floor-restricted angle, Rupert couldn’t see up to the man’s face. His viewpoint cut off at the sizeable paunch around his waist.

Rupert homed in on the tray the waiter carried in his free hand. The cat’s stomach rumbled as he breathed in a delightful scent.

Fried chicken!

But wait. There was a slight modification.

Rupert’s eyes crossed as he processed the complex concoction of aromas.

Could it be true?

The niece failed to notice as the waiter knelt toward the stroller and unzipped the net cover. Rupert bounced up and down at Oscar’s conspiring wink—and the food item displayed on his tray.

Oscar slid a plastic plate into the stroller’s passenger compartment. The dish contained tiny pieces of fried chicken—each one encapsulated in a doughy crust.

The waiter disappeared as Rupert dove into the delicacy. Isabella pawed a sample to her side of the stroller and tasted it, munching critically.

Before the cats could finish their treat, Alberta swung back through the ballroom, diligently checking that everything was in order.

The Baron held up a crunchy brown morsel and called out, “Love the fried chicken donuts, dear. Excellent selection.”

Alberta’s eyes widened in panic. She stared in horror at the piece of food in the Baron’s hand. “Fried chicken what? That’s not on the menu!”

Spinning around, she bustled off to the kitchen, intent on rectifying the menu aberration.

Still munching, Rupert shook his head as he watched her depart.

The intern had just received a failing grade from the feline contingent.

•   •   •

WITH THE GUESTS
congregated in the ballroom, the Baron motioned for the mayor to officially start the evening’s proceedings.

Monty raised a champagne flute and clinked his fork (ineffectively) against the plastic stem. He improvised (just as ineffectively) with one of his cuff links.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he called out grandly. “If I could have your attention, please.”

The crowd turned toward the center of the ballroom. Monty scanned their faces and frowned. Leaning toward the niece, he whispered urgently in her ear.

“Where’s Alberta?”

The niece had just taken a bite of stuffed mushroom. Still chewing, she shrugged.

“She’s supposed to bring out the scale model,” Monty hissed. “The one of the event pavilion.”

Swallowing her mouthful, the niece left the stroller in place and scampered through the crowd to the doorway at the far end of the ballroom, where the waitstaff—and Alberta—had been trafficking in and out.

A narrow hallway separated the ballroom exit from the kitchen entrance.

The moment the niece crossed over the threshold, she felt a sickening sensation, an instinctive response to the lemony-sweet scent of perfume—and the blood spatter thrown across the wall.

Hox nearly ran into her from behind as she skidded to a stop.

The pier model lay upended on the floor—next to a clipboard, a wireless headset, and a blood-soaked, sari-wrapped heap.

In the ballroom behind them, someone called for a doctor. Hox stepped forward to press his index finger against the intern’s neck.

Grimly, he shook his head.

A physician came forward from the ballroom, and Hox stepped aside. The man quickly checked the woman’s vitals. Second later, he came to the same conclusion.

Sirens wailed in the distance as the niece stared in disbelief at the gouging stab wounds in the intern’s chest—and the knifed knitting needles discarded next to the body.