How to Catch a Cat (15 page)

WELCOME WARRIORS

WARY OF THE
hawk she’d seen earlier, the niece secured Rupert and Isabella inside a wicker stroller that her uncle Oscar had crafted for cat transport. Typically, she used it to maneuver the cats when they were changing ships or taking a shopping day in port (in addition to the cat compartment, the contraption had plenty of cargo storage).

Rupert spent most of his carriage time curled up asleep in a pile of blankets, but Isabella insisted on being able to see out so she could issue navigational instructions. This was a problem with the carriage’s initial design. The cat compartment was vented for air flow, but had no clear viewing portal.

After the first usage—when the stroller’s interior cavity was almost destroyed by Isabella’s irate protest—Oscar made the cat-suggested modifications.

The stroller now featured a visor-like view hole that encircled the cat compartment’s top rim. The gap provided just enough space for Isabella to see out. Other than the spots blocked by intermittent connecting bands of wicker, she had an almost three-hundred-sixty-degree vantage of the stroller’s surroundings.

And so, when the niece pulled out the carriage from its kitchen storage closet and unlatched the lid, Isabella hopped readily inside.

The niece scooped up Rupert and dropped him in beside his sister. Tuckered out from the morning’s parrot chase, he quickly fell into a deep slumber, even as the niece bumped the wooden wheels up the stairs to the main deck.

Father Monty slapped his hands together, as if he welcomed their addition to his walk.

“I’m so glad you decided to join me.”

The niece smiled her response, but internally, she found the priest’s actions highly suspicious.

From the stroller, Isabella issued a forward command.

“Mrao!”

—

THE UNLIKELY EXPLORERS
set out from the
San Carlos
with Father Monty in the lead. The priest paraded down the gangplank and onto the beach, chattering like a tour guide as the niece and the cat-laden carriage followed several wary steps behind.

Trying to recover his gravitas from the earlier mishaps during the burial ceremony, Monty strode confidently across the beach. His flat-soled shoes left narrow exclamation point–shaped imprints on the sand.

“I believe I hear the song of a whipper-willowed warbling wren,” he announced, cupping a hand to his ear.

It was but the first of many dubious birdcall identifications. The niece suspected he was just making up names, but she let him continue the charade.

She was far more concerned about the non-avian creatures that might be lurking nearby.

So far, theirs were the only markings on the beach. But as the niece maneuvered the stroller around a clump of seaweed, she glanced nervously at the scrubby bushes that crowded their inland flank. Out of sight of the boat and without any defensive weapons, they were ill prepared for an ambush.

The breeze changed direction, cutting across the beach from the island’s interior, pushing away the sounds of the lapping water.

In the subsequent lull, the niece thought she heard a twig snap in the trees to her right.

Her hand gripped the stroller’s wooden handle as she stopped and scanned the dense greenery.

The niece checked the carriage for a cat reading on the noise. If Isabella had sensed any movement in the forest, she didn’t show it. Her blue eyes were trained on Monty’s brown robe. His tinny voice floated back to the stroller, this time commenting on a purple-throated mocking jay.

The niece pushed the stroller forward, but she remained on alert.

She had the distinct impression that they were being watched—and that the unseen observers weren’t yellow-chested woodpeckers.

—

AS THE GROUP
proceeded around the next bend, the niece noticed an object on a bluff about a hundred yards ahead. At first, she thought it was an odd-shaped tree. It wasn’t until they were almost directly underneath the bluff that she realized the landmark was man-made.

A piece of driftwood had been upended and planted into the dirt so that its roots stuck up into the air. The trunk’s upper portion had been decorated with a thick red paste, a few seashells, and several feathers.

Father Monty blew out a derisive
sfft
.

“Looks like some sort of pagan ritual,” he said, peering up at the roots. He pointed at a curved arc painted on one of the roots. “Likely done by the local heathens . . .”

The niece returned her gaze to the woods.

They weren’t the only ones who had been performing a ceremony that morning, she realized uneasily.

And they definitely weren’t alone on Angel Island.

Just then Isabella trilled out a warning.

The niece jumped. There on the beach, she saw the danger that had triggered the cat’s alarm.

Gulping, she pointed at Monty. He looked briefly puzzled—and then turned to find himself face-to-face with the aforementioned “heathen.”

Monty let out a high-pitched screech, which he immediately stifled, in spite of his fear.

The Indian’s muscled body was decked out in leather hides, a feather headdress, and a number of sheathed knives. Dabs of paint decorated his cheekbones and forehead.

The niece drew in her breath, freezing in place, afraid that any sudden movement might be misinterpreted by their new acquaintance—and his similarly clad colleagues who had now encircled their location.

Only Rupert remained oblivious to the danger.

Brow furrowed, the Indian strode around Monty—who had fallen into a catatonic state—and cautiously approached the wicker stroller.

The niece gulped as the man bent to the cat compartment, unlatched the lid, and peered curiously inside.

Isabella sat stiffly in place. Her blue eyes glittered as she stared regally up at the stranger.

Rupert simply rolled over and exposed his furry round stomach for a belly rub.

A WARNING

THE EXPLORATION PARTY
from the
San Carlos
stood on Angel Island’s south shore, surrounded by local inhabitants.

The niece was unsure how best to proceed—or whether they were about to be sacrificed on the driftwood altar Father Monty had derided a few minutes earlier.

The priest’s skin had blanched to a sickly shade of green. His pale lips quivered, perhaps reciting a prayer—or perhaps cursing the curiosity that had spurred the day’s venture—the niece couldn’t tell which.

The tribe conferred in a language she couldn’t understand. The words seemed to replicate a low threatening rumble. She felt her palms sweat as she gripped the stroller’s wooden handle.

Isabella sat protectively next to her brother, tensely watching the Indian who looked down into the cat carriage. She wasn’t growling—yet.

Only Rupert offered a welcoming gesture. True to his nature, he always expected the best from everyone he met. He was forever hopeful that a newcomer might be carrying a container of freshly cooked fried chicken.

And so, when the Indian reached his hand into the cat compartment, Rupert rolled onto his back to expose his fluffy white stomach. The cat wiggled, and his front feet playfully prodded the air.

As the Indian leaned forward, the afternoon sun flashed on a hunting knife hanging from a belt secured around his waist.

Father Monty managed a feeble whisper. “We’re all going to die.”

Then his legs crumpled beneath him. There was a light
thud
as his body hit the sand.

“No!” the niece cried out, lunging forward to protect her cat.

But before she could intervene, the Indian’s face broke into a broad smile.

His weatherworn fingers tickled Rupert’s belly, generating a friendly feline coo.

—

IT TOOK SEVERAL
splashes of cold water to revive Father Monty.

Once the wet chill kicked in, his lips sputtered and the color returned to his cheeks.

Then, as if suddenly remembering the previous danger, he tried to scramble to his feet. The niece clamped her hands down on his shoulders, restraining him until he processed her whispered message that the Indians had decided to treat the group from the
San Carlos
as guests.

The Indians had been wary of Monty’s flapping robe and his strange chattering voice, but the cats had won them over.

The tribe built a campfire on the beach and began to assemble the fixings for a meal of roasted fowl and fish.

It wasn’t exactly fried chicken, Rupert noted with a critical twitch of his whiskers. But when the Indian chief dished out cat-sized portions of both entrees into carved wooden bowls and offered them to the cats, Rupert immediately dove in. Even Isabella, who had eaten a full meal just an hour earlier, gobbled down her serving.

With stomachs sated and Father Monty momentarily quiet, the chief motioned for the niece to join him by the water’s edge. Isabella accompanied her person, her tail stretched up with interest as she walked across the beach.

The chief picked up a pointed stick and began to draw figures in the sand.

The niece soon recognized the
San Carlos
, depicted with its sails billowing in the moonlight as it passed through the mouth of the bay. The Indians had been watching their progress for some time, she realized.

Isabella pawed the air, as if communicating her understanding.

Nodding, the chief shifted to a clean spot of sand and started on a new image. This sketch, too, was of the
San Carlos
, but this time, the ship was shown in a magnified perspective, with its hull filling the entire cleared area.

This version contained far more detail of the boat and its occupants. The niece watched as the chief drew Captain Ayala and Lieutenant Humphretto standing on the ship’s top deck, the latter wearing his favorite horsehair coat. On the center mast, far above the deck, he drew a tiny parrot representing Petey. Then, in the galley, one level below, he positioned her uncle, cooking at his stove.

The chief looked up from the sketch, checking that the niece had followed his meaning.

“Yes,” she said, hoping the tone of her voice conveyed confirmation.

The chief returned to the drawing, this time focusing on the bottom of the ship’s hull. It was a dank rank-smelling area, a place she had visited only once during her few days on board.

Here, the chief drew yet another stick figure, a human with a bent back and wild, scraggly hair.

The niece shook her head, unable to make the correlation.

Seeing her confusion, the chief marked a symbol next to the mysterious ship member.

It was a curved arc, the same as the one Father Monty had pointed out on the altar they’d seen earlier.

The niece squinted at the image and then looked up at the chief. His previously pleasant expression had transitioned to one of fear and foreboding.

She shook her head, perplexed.

“Does he mean the dead crew member? The lowest deck is where they stored his body . . .”

Isabella trilled out a rebuke. The niece glanced down at her cat and then returned to the picture—and the meaning of the chief’s message suddenly hit her.

“Oh.”

Isabella confirmed the translation.

“Mrao.”

The chief nodded again, as if he understood the cat perfectly.

The niece frowned with concern. The Indians were giving them a warning.

Something evil lurked on board the
San Carlos
.

More specifically, she reasoned, some
one
.

Three Months Prior to the America’s Cup Regatta

UNFLAPPABLE

MAYOR MONTGOMERY CARMICHAEL
breezed up the central marble staircase inside San Francisco’s City Hall. The soles of his dress shoes slapped against the polished stone floor as he strode around the second-floor hallway overlooking the rotunda. Whistling to himself, he danced up to the mayor’s office suite and swung open the reception’s main doors.

“Good morning, all!”

The niece mumbled a distracted reply. The lemon-scented perfume had once again permeated her desk. Isabella sat on her filing cabinet perch, offering warbling comments of assistance while the niece searched for the source of the smell.

Neither paid much attention as Monty paraded through to his open office door. His regular refrain echoed back to the reception.

“It’s a fabulous day to be mayor!”

“If you say so,” the niece muttered, crawling beneath her desk to inspect the underside paneling.

It had been a busy couple of months for the accidental administrative assistant. After Alberta’s murder on the Baron’s yacht, she had been loath to hire a replacement intern for fear of triggering another Ninja attack.

Even if she’d sought a new candidate, the pool of applicants had immediately dried up. The specter of two murdered interns in a row was too big of a coincidence to be ignored. The city’s politically minded career builders had fallen back on innate self-preservation.

No matter how prestigious the position, no internship was worth being killed—especially when the slot was in Mayor Carmichael’s office.

Unfortunately, this meant that the niece was left doing the bulk of the organizational work for Monty’s ongoing America’s Cup activities.

As she settled back into her chair and glanced at the pile of the day’s paperwork, she thought wistfully of the deceased Alberta. No one had mourned the zealous young woman’s passing more than the niece.

The next big event was coming up at the end of the week. As if tempting fate, this, too, would be held on the Baron’s yacht.

For the last several days, the niece had been busy tracking down RSVPs from local political leaders, coordinating with the media, and reviewing the final catering details. She felt as if her head were permanently attached to her telephone headset. If she never made another phone call, it would be too soon.

To top it all off, each morning when she returned to the office, she was met by the horrid perfume smell—the Knitting Needle Ninja, mocking her by odor.

As the niece dug determinedly through a side drawer she had searched several times before, Rupert trotted out of the igloo-shaped litter box and fell in line behind the interim mayor, slipping through to the next office before the heavy wooden door closed behind him.

His person didn’t notice his departure.

Isabella decided to look the other way.

•   •   •

“WHAT DO YOU
think of my digs, eh, Rupert?” Monty asked, pleased to have someone with whom to share his exalted mood.

The pair walked the circumference of the square room, with Monty pointing out several of the paintings that he had brought in from his art studio—and Rupert wondering if Monty by chance had a secret stash of those fried chicken donuts the downstairs security guard was always talking about.

Unfortunately, they reached the mayor’s desk at the far side of the office without any sign of poultry-laden pastries.

The large bureau that had occupied the space for several mayoral administrations had been impounded by the police as evidence in their stalled Ninja investigation. The bloody knitting needles used in the Ninja’s assault on the intern last fall had been wrapped in a plastic bag and taped beneath the previous desk’s center console.

Monty had replaced the confiscated desk with a far more delicate piece of furniture. The elegant design featured spindly carved legs and a minimalist center shelf. There was no room for anyone to hide a packet of bloody knitting needles in this desk—he’d made sure of that.

Rupert nosed at the nearest wooden leg with disinterest.

The desk’s small size also meant there was little chance it held any hidden fried chicken donuts.

—

AFTER A DISAPPOINTING
perusal of the desk, Rupert turned his attention to the decorative chairs by the floor-to-ceiling windows that fronted the balcony. Hopping onto one of the plush velvet seat cushions, the cat gazed out at the Civic Center plaza, an open green space that fronted City Hall. The public library’s main branch, a couple of museums, and several other city and state government buildings also flanked the plaza.

“It’s a nice view, don’t you think?” Monty sidled up beside his furry friend and reached for the handle to one of the top windowpanes. “If you like, I can open this up for some fresh air.”

Rupert’s wobbly blue eyes crossed with intrigue as the pane swung open. He lifted himself up on his haunches, curiously sniffing the spring breeze.

Just then, a fist-sized bullet of green feathers zoomed through the opening and into the office.

“Wha-ha-ha!” Monty hollered, ducking as a redheaded parrot swooped toward his face.

The bird was the least of the mayor’s problems. Rupert’s feline instincts took over, and he leapt into the air, his front paws swatting at the fast-moving object—without regard for their eventual landing point.

“Ahh!” Monty screamed as Rupert’s claws accidentally dug into his shoulder blades.

The parrot circled the room, keeping well out of reach. Rupert romped from one chair to the next, finally landing on the desktop, his tail swishing with intrigue.

The parrot’s red head cocked to one side as he eyed the cat, sizing up his opposition. He was a cagy bird and not easily intimidated.

Hearing the commotion, the niece threw open the office door. The parrot zoomed through the opening, flying over her head and into the reception area.

Rupert bounded after the bird, running between his person’s legs.

“What’s going on in here?” the niece demanded, peering under the desk where Monty had crawled in an attempt to hide from the chase.

“Bird,” he replied in a traumatized whisper.

Turning, the niece looked through the open doorway. She spotted the green intruder perched at the top of a coatrack.

The parrot appeared far less confident in his new surroundings. He had escaped the mayor’s main office, but picked up an extra feline.

Isabella stood on top of the filing cabinet, her blue eyes focused on the prey, her back legs tensed for a takedown leap.

The parrot sensed that his odds had now diminished. The once-confident smirk had been replaced by an expression of genuine concern.

Before Isabella could launch her attack, the reception door opened, and a young man stepped inside.

He opened his mouth to introduce himself, but was cut off by the niece’s hollered command.

“Close the door!”

It was a testament to the newcomer’s sharp wits and quick reaction time that he managed to maneuver around the door and close it behind him without mishap.

The parrot slipped through unscathed, leaving two disappointed cats skidding to a stop at the man’s feet.

Unaffected by the feline and avian charge, the unflappable fellow turned to the niece and smiled.

“I’m here for the intern position.”