How to Catch a Cat (23 page)

DEAD YET?

VAN SOON DISAPPEARED
downstairs to his basement cubicle—at the urging of the niece, Isabella, and even Rupert.

Another cloud of Mabel’s perfume would have been preferable to the stale sweaty smell emanating from the unshowered intern.

With Monty still on the outs with the America’s Cup organizers, there was little actual work for Van to do. The niece suspected he would spend most of his time in the basement pontificating to the unlucky occupants of the other cubicles about the wonders of the great outdoors.

Better them than me
, she thought wearily.

Relieved as she was that he hadn’t been hunted down and speared by the Knitting Needle Ninja, and disturbed as she was by his own mother’s lack of compassion, there was only so much Van she could take in a single session.

After all, she still had Monty to contend with.

She looked at the door to the mayor’s inner office, which had been firmly shut since his arrival that morning.

The start of the regatta was just two days away. America’s Cup advertising had been plastered all over the city. It had taken over bus stops and BART stations. Full-page ads filled the local newspaper. The event’s promotion was impossible to escape.

For several months, the marquee billboard in Union Square had been occupied by a larger-than-life version of the (now slightly water-stained) poster hanging in the reception area. Monty glared at it each time he walked past, but so far, he had declined to turn it back toward the wall.

The niece suspected he was still holding out hope that the exorcism video would sway the Baron.

She shook her head at the closed door.

She didn’t have the heart to tell him there was no chance of that happening.

It was a fine line between self-belief and delusion.

—

WITH VAN SAFELY
located and Monty sulking in his office, the niece slipped downstairs to the rotunda to pick up lunch from the soup vendor.

She got the last servings of the day’s special, a delicious-smelling chicken noodle concoction, and carried it back upstairs to share with the hungry eaters in the mayor’s office suite.

Rupert bounced around at her feet, beside himself with anticipation as she sorted through the paper containers. Isabella inched to the edge of the filing cabinet, almost falling off in her eagerness to supervise. The cat soon joined her brother on the floor, where the pair waited for their midday snack.

As the niece poured a serving of broth into each cat’s bowl, she heard Monty rustling inside his office. She was ready when he burst into the reception, hungrily sniffing the air. With a smile, she handed him a spoon and a paper container full of soup.

Monty leaned against the corner of her desk and lifted the lid.

“This makes everything better,” he said between slurps.

Nodding, the niece sat in her chair and dug into her cup.

For several minutes, the room was quiet, save for reverent sipping sounds.

Until the reception door swung open and Wanda Williams swept in.

—

AT FIRST, THE
niece thought Wanda’s sister had alerted her to Van’s late arrival and the aunt was there to check on her nephew’s well-being.

She was sorely mistaken.

Wanda glanced around the room. Not seeing Van among the human and feline mix, she approached the desk, pushed Monty out of the way, and scowled at the niece.

“Is he dead yet?”

Monty nearly choked on a spoonful of soup. “Who?”

Wanda sniped out her response. “Van.”

Monty nearly dropped his soup in alarm. Then he paused and, holding his spoon midair, reflected on the implications. “Does that mean the exorcism didn’t work . . .”

The niece cut in. “Van’s fine. He just slept in. Or out, rather. Anyway, he’s downstairs in the basement.”

Disappointment flooded Wanda’s face. “When I heard he didn’t show up for work this morning, I thought maybe . . .”

“No.” The niece set down her soup. “He was just late.”

Sighing in frustration, Wanda pushed away from the desk. She walked toward the door, as if to leave, and then turned back.

“How long does it usually take?” she asked impatiently.

“I’m sorry.” The niece smiled tensely. “What do you mean?”

Wanda drummed her fingers against the door frame. “How long does it take this Ninja woman to do her business? Surely, you expect her to make a move on him before too much longer?”

The room fell silent. Rupert shoved his head under his cat bed. Even Monty had nothing to contribute.

Finally, Isabella issued a polite but curt hiss.

The niece rose from her chair. “I think you should leave.”

She crossed the room as Wanda stomped out. Closing the door behind Van’s aunt, the niece found herself immensely disliking the woman.

Almost as much as she disliked the Ninja.

Monty sucked down another spoonful of soup and loudly smacked his lips.

“That is one evil secretary,” he said with a shudder.

For once, Isabella chimed in with agreement.

“Mrao.”

But then the cat’s furry face paused for reflection. After a moment of deep thought, Isabella issued an amendment to her previous comment. This statement was far more nuanced in tone.

“Mrao.”

The niece looked at Monty as she silently considered Isabella’s remark.

While she had never actually wished Monty harm, there had been many times over the years when her pesky neighbor had severely tried her patience.

She wasn’t a murderous person, but she couldn’t say with absolute certainty that—during one of those particularly trying circumstances—if she’d seen him stepping off a curb in front of a runaway bus, she might not have muted her shout of warning.

She didn’t condone the behavior of Wanda Williams, but then, she had to admit, she wouldn’t necessarily object if Mabel switched the target of her attacks from mayoral interns to the mayor himself . . .

Isabella blinked as if reading her person’s thoughts.

Wickedness came in many shades. Motivations couldn’t be easily slotted into simple categories.

One person’s evil was another’s opportunity or convenience.

“What’s that?” Monty asked. He glanced up at Isabella, trying to interpret her second
Mrao
.

The cat shifted her gaze and looked innocently up at the ceiling.

The niece shuffled some papers on her desk.

“Um, yep. Horrible woman.”

THE TIPPING POINT

THE NEXT MORNING,
Mabel stood in her Geary Street studio apartment, gazing at her reflection in a full-length mirror nailed to the outer surface of a closet door.

San Francisco’s Theater District included a number of older multistory apartment buildings, many of which rented rooms by the week. Mabel’s cash deposit for six months’ accommodation had been accepted without question. The building manager didn’t raise an eyebrow at the alias she provided for the rental agreement. As far as he was concerned, Marilyn Monroe’s cash was as good as any.

Mabel compared her reflected image to that in a small picture pinned to the side of the mirror, searching for any differences between her appearance and that of the woman she was trying to emulate.

She had almost finished assembling her outfit.

The model was far curvier and a bit more top-heavy than Mabel’s natural build. Adjusting the inflated chest strapped to her torso, she straightened the top sweater layer and fastened its center row of buttons.

There
, she thought, pleased with the result.
A near-perfect match.

She’d already completed her face makeup. It was time for the wig.

This was the most difficult aspect of the costume. It seemed she could never get the wig in the right orientation. Carefully, she lifted the hairpiece from its mannequin post, set it on her head, and pinned it in place.

Stepping back, she turned a pivot, painstakingly checking every detail in the mirror.

Not bad
, she thought, twitching her mouth critically.

The Theater District apartment had been an excellent location from which to launch her daily surveillance on the mayor’s office suite. That dim-witted woman and her mangy cats had no idea that the Knitting Needle Ninja paraded through City Hall each day.

Not even Oscar had detected her disguise.

As Mabel leaned into the mirror, conducting one last check, she couldn’t help but note the similarities between this and her previous life.

Like before, her daily existence had fallen into a regimented routine, a constant repetition of memorized steps designed to allow her to hide in plain sight.

Pausing, she thought back to how it all began.

—

BOREDOM, THAT WAS
the trigger.

By her late thirties, Mabel had developed an overwhelming dissatisfaction with life’s dull predictability. Each day had become a replay of the one that came before. She was desperate to inject some variety into her calendar’s blank white squares, some means of discerning one twenty-four-hour cycle from another.

She searched the newspaper for activity ideas. An advert for a neighborhood knitting class caught her eye, and one day after work, she introduced herself to the group.

By the second week, she was hooked. The initial foray quickly grew into an obsession.

Far from breaking up her life’s previous pattern, the new hobby only drew her deeper into compulsion, closer to the brink.

Fascinated, she found herself staring for hours at the rows of knotted yarn, the intricate bumps and gullies lined up in rigid formation. She slipped deeper and deeper into the patterns until, as if triggered by an overdose of structure, she suddenly veered to the opposite direction, once more feverishly craving dissonance.

It was while researching esoteric crochet stitches that she discovered a reference to an antique weapon of self-defense. The device had been popular during the Gold Rush with the few women who dared to brave San Francisco’s Barbary Coast. To the unsuspecting observer, the ladies appeared to be carrying innocuous knitting needles. But when faced with intimidation or unwanted male attention, the needle’s tip was quickly removed to reveal a sharp deterring blade.

Mabel was beside herself with intrigue.

At the outset, she had no intention of doing any harm. She simply longed for the uniqueness of the item.

This was a tool she must possess.

—

IT WAS NO
small feat to locate a set of antique knifed knitting needles. They weren’t commercially available in any of the typical knitting outlets where she shopped.

The rarity only made them that much more desirable.

Mabel expanded her search, querying several Bay Area antique shops, to no avail. Finally, someone suggested she try the Green Vase in Jackson Square. If anyone would have such an item, it was the elderly proprietor, a grouchy guy named Oscar.

The next day, she arrived at the Jackson Street address, a decrepit three-story building with tarnished brass columns and a crumbling brick façade. It was an anomaly on the otherwise highbrow street. The storefront seemed intentionally designed to scare away shoppers, not to welcome them in.

Mabel peered inside the cracked front window. The dimly lit interior was filled with a jumbled assortment of boxes and crates. The place appeared to be abandoned. She couldn’t see that anyone was manning the store.

Tentatively, she tested the door.

To her surprise, the rusted iron frame swung open.

She stepped inside and looked around. The showroom looked even worse up close. Surely, this Oscar fellow was long gone.

But as Mabel turned to leave, she heard a sound at the rear of the building.

A portly man in a blue collared shirt and navy slacks shuffled toward the storefront. He grunted out a greeting as he approached.

Mabel stared at his short, rounded shoulders and the grease stains and dustings of flour on his shirt. She almost turned in hasty retreat. Summoning her courage, she stuttered out her request.

“Hello. You must be Oscar. I’m . . . I’m looking for an antique.”

The store owner’s bristly eyebrows furrowed as she described the knifed knitting needles she’d read about in the old knitting manual.

“Hmm.” Oscar scratched the stubble on his chin. Then he wandered off into the showroom, casually digging through various piles of junk.

Mabel waited patiently. After a while, she thought perhaps the store owner had forgotten she was still there. But at last, Oscar pulled out a slim wooden case from a crate and brought it up to the cashier counter.

Opening the case, he removed several curved needles and arrayed them on the counter.

“These actually go back to before the Gold Rush,” he explained. “They came up from Mexico in the late 1700s on a ship called the
San Carlos
.”

Mabel was entranced.

“Careful,” he said as she picked a needle up and removed its tip. “The blade is sharp.”

She rolled the curved rod in her hand, instantly enamored.

“You wouldn’t want to knit with these,” he added as she practiced a stitching maneuver. “I’d be afraid the cap would slip off and you’d accidentally lose a finger.”

“Oh, I assure you,” she replied, her eyes gleaming. “I’m quite skilled.”

—

MABEL BOUGHT THE
entire stock of antique needles.

If not for their acquisition, the rest of her murderous mayhem—the deaths of all those unlucky interns—might never have happened.

She took the needles home and began to practice. It took some time for her to adjust to each rod’s specific curvature. As the yarn slid through her fingers and around the capped needles, she began to wonder what it would feel like to master the object’s other skill set.

Once she started thinking about killing with the needles, she couldn’t stop. She knitted through skeins of yarn, meticulously planning her first attack, all the while uncertain if she could go through with the deed.

It was a dangerous, inherently unstable situation. For several months, she teetered back and forth.

But with the slaying of the first intern—followed by the easy disposal of his corpse and the total lack of consequence for her grisly action—she set off down the irreversible path to becoming one of San Francisco’s most notorious serial killers.