How to Catch a Cat (24 page)

San Francisco Bay, August 1775

O’ CANADA

THE RECENTLY RECONSTITUTED
crew of the
San Carlos
scurried about the boat, checking the rigging lines and mending rips in the masts.

Captain Ayala paced the ship’s top deck, monitoring the flurry of activity. He wanted to set sail as soon as possible—before anything else happened that might derail their departure. If all went according to plan, they would lift anchor that night and take advantage of the tide to give them an extra push through the Golden Gate and out into the Pacific.

Ayala’s tense face cracked a smile as Petey swooped across the deck with his new feline friend romping playfully behind. Rupert took a flying leap through the air, clearing enough space for the parrot to dive beneath the cat’s furry white belly.

Maybe the cross-species camaraderie was a sign his luck had changed and that the ship would make it back to San Blas without further incident.

The captain’s expression grew somber as he remembered that he didn’t believe in portents or, for that matter, chance. No matter how unlikely the pairing of the parrot and the cat, it was nothing more than an odd occurrence, completely unconnected to the likelihood of any future success the ship might enjoy on its passage home.

Ayala stroked his chin. Perhaps he should make an exception . . . just this once.

With a shrug, he hollered for Humphretto.

“Where are my special socks?”

•   •   •

DOWNSTAIRS IN THE
galley, Oscar and his niece prepared the kitchen for transit. Anything left unsecured risked falling to the floor during the return trip south to Mexico. Pots, pans, and cooking utensils—every loose piece had to be tied down or tucked into a locked cabinet or drawer.

During the last few days’ anchorage, a number of items had been pulled out of their regular stowage spots—and not returned. As happened every time the ship transitioned from a stable mooring to the open sea, something always escaped the notice of Oscar, the niece, and, yes, even Isabella.

When the ship hit the first rocking swell, a loud clattering would be heard in the second-level kitchen—typically followed by Oscar’s testy grumble.

The niece and her two cats had learned to stay clear of the galley during the first half hour after the ship’s departure.

Oscar stood in the middle of the kitchen, holding an iron skillet and muttering. He couldn’t remember where they’d stuck it during the outbound trip.

But his grumpiness was more than the usual presail consternation.

He’d discovered another portion of food missing that morning.

After the feast the crew had enjoyed upon their late-night return to the ship, there was no chance any of them had grown hungry before dawn. Most had still been too stuffed to eat at breakfast.

The stowaway was still on the loose. Despite his best efforts, he’d been unable to find her hiding place.

He feared the Knitting Needle Ninja would take another victim before they reached San Blas.

•   •   •

THE BARON STROLLED
efficiently down the second-level hallway, heading for the stairwell leading up to the main deck.

As he passed the kitchen’s open doorway, he caught a glimpse of the chef, standing in the narrow workspace, holding a skillet. The old man gripped the iron handle as if he were about to whap the attached metal surface over someone’s head.

It had been a stressful journey, the Baron thought as he continued down the corridor. Whatever the issue, he hoped it wouldn’t affect the chef’s cooking. The food had been one of the highlights of the trip—that and, of course, the discovery of the San Francisco Bay.

Despite all the hassles—not to mention the ship’s near-abandonment—the voyage had been well worth the Baron’s time. He had gathered invaluable recon that would give him an advantage over his business competitors. As soon as he touched ground at San Blas, he would arrange to send a team north to start a permanent settlement.

As the Baron neared the stairwell leading to the top deck, he could hear the by-now-familiar sounds of creaking ropes and the snapping of canvas sails.

He’d never had much interest in sailing, but he’d taken a liking to it during this adventure. He might have to hire a mariner to give him some lessons when he returned home.

Just then, the Baron heard Father Carmichael’s voice emerging from the chapel at the other end of the hall. He quickened his pace, leaping toward the stairs. He abhorred the priest almost as much as the phantom figure who had murdered the two crew members.

Next time he traveled this route, he would take a different ship.

•   •   •

CAPTAIN AYALA COLLAPSED
into his top-deck chair and propped up his left foot, leaving Humphretto to supervise the crew.

The harried lieutenant took his duties seriously—even if the crew didn’t fully cooperate in the handover. Simply put, Humphretto lacked the captain’s gravitas. It was a struggle for him to convince the men to obey his commands.

This did not in any way dissuade the little man from trying. He trotted up and down the deck, shouting instructions left and right.

Then he stopped, put his hand on his hip, and shook his head.

Cupping his hands around his mouth, he called up toward the crow’s nest. He knew his shout would have no effect on the intended recipient, a tall absentminded deckhand who was climbing toward the roost.

“Watch yourself, Vancouver! You’re about to fall!”

Modern-Day San Francisco

SIDELINED

THE NIECE LOOKED
up from her desk as Monty and Van rolled a television set through the reception area’s front door.

She was deep into the reference book on the discovery of the San Francisco Bay that her uncle had sent her several months back. Despite the remoteness of the time frame discussed and the difficulty of construing the text’s early nineteenth-century English, she’d grown intrigued with the project. She’d even started to decipher some of her uncle’s handwriting in the margins. She just needed a few more hours of peace and quiet to study the manuscript . . .

“What are you doing?” she asked, frowning at the disturbance. “Why are you bringing that television in here?”

Monty plugged the power cord into the wall. “We’re going to watch the race,” he announced, as if there were nothing unusual about this activity. The niece leaned over the desk, trying to see his face, but it was hidden behind the roll-around cart carrying the set.

“I thought you were boycotting the regatta?”

Monty stepped from behind the cart and looked sheepishly at the niece. “I can’t help myself. I have to watch.”

“We’re using your computer for the Internet feed,” Van added, holding up a cable.

“You can do that?” The niece scooted her chair back as the intern crawled beneath her desk to access the main console.

His muffled reply drifted up from the floor. “Do it all the time at my parents’ house.”

Monty pulled an extra chair into the reception area from his office. He positioned it close to the set and plopped down on its seat cushion.

“Who’s got popcorn?”

The niece glanced up at the clock. It was almost lunchtime.

“How about soup?” she asked, heading for the door.

Rupert smacked his lips.

“Even better,” Monty replied.

From underneath the desk, Van called out, “Make mine minestrone!”

•   •   •

WHILE THE NIECE
was rounding up the soup, Van and Monty continued to work on the television hookup.

It turned out the setup wasn’t exactly like the one Van pirated at his parents’ house. The first several attempts failed to send the live video stream to the television.

From his prone position beneath the desk, Van called out instructions to Monty.

“Stick the thingamajig in the receiver hole.”

“The who in the what?” Monty replied. He leaned over the back of the television. “Oh, you mean the whatsit in the spigot screw.”

“Yeah, yeah. That’s what I said.”

At the resulting static, Van suggested a different strategy.

“Hmm. Try switching it to the hootenanny plug.”

From her observation post on the filing cabinet, Isabella’s pixie face crinkled in confusion.

There was a pause as Monty attempted to complete the revised connection.

“It won’t go in there. Wrong shape.”

“How about the donut hole?”

Rupert, on the other hand, had no trouble interpreting the jargon. He especially enjoyed the donut reference, which immediately inspired images of his new favorite delicacy, fried chicken donuts.

The static was suddenly replaced by the whir of helicopter blades. The screen flickered to a sweeping shot of the bay and the adjacent city.

“Ah. Now we’re cooking with gas.”

Van crawled out from under the desk, no small feat given his extreme height. He looked up at the filing cabinet, ever hopeful that he might gain favor with the dominant feline.

“Excellent, dude.”

Isabella stared back at him with disapproval.

Van tried another tact. “Er, um, dudette.”

The cat was unimpressed.

“Ma’am.”

Isabella finally relented.

“Mrao.”

—

BOTH THE HUMANS
and cats in the reception area were soon fixated on the America’s Cup television coverage. It was a perspective of their city unlike any they had ever seen.

The cameras panned across the San Francisco shoreline, skimming over familiar hillsides and landmarks—as well as a few hundred curious citizens. Along the Marina Green, the Embarcadero, and inside the designated pavilion, pedestrians peered out at the bay, trying to catch a glimpse of the action.

Helicopters hovered over the water, the whirring flap of their propellers a dull background roar. Cameramen dangled from the aircraft’s side doors, tethered to the framing by a series of straps and belts. After aiming their lenses at the shoreline, they focused their efforts on the boats below.

It was a daunting scene to capture on film, but the result was a live feed that enthralled viewers on television screens across the country—and inside the mayor’s office suite.

Isabella scooted forward on her filing cabinet perch. Monty and Van shifted to the edges of their chairs. Even Rupert gazed in wonder at the images on the screen.

The sailboats approached the starting line, each angling for position. Both teams wanted to hit the designated spot at top speed, but neither could cross the mark before the official start time. The sailors scrambled from one side of the boat to the other, cranking the masts up and down, all the while dashing under swinging booms.

It was a clean start, announced breathlessly by the television commentator. The boats charged across the bay toward the Golden Gate Bridge, channeling the wind to hit speeds of up to fifty miles per hour—until they reached the first buoy.

The audiences on-screen and in the reception area gasped as both boats flipped around the turn at the far corner of the racecourse, teetering on their tiny hulls. Rudders lifted out of the water, scraping the surface like fingertips gripping a window ledge.

The camera zoomed in on the nearest boat as it performed the precarious maneuver, framing a tight shot of a muscled sailor in his chain mail wet suit.

“I wore one of those outfits,” Monty said wistfully, forgetting that his short sailing expedition had ended in a disastrous dunking.

Van cringed at the close-up picture. “Dude, it looks uncomfortable.”

“Oh, it wasn’t so bad,” Monty assured him. Then he added a wink. “And it makes you look like a warrior.”

From the filing cabinet, Isabella issued a correction.

“Mrao.”

—

THE REGATTA FOOTAGE
only increased Monty’s frustration. As the race continued, he jumped up from his chair and began to pace around the room.

Each time Monty passed in front of the television screen, Van, Rupert, and Isabella all weaved from side to side to see around him.

The interim mayor failed to notice the inconvenience he was causing the others. He threw his hands in the air, wildly gesticulating.

“We’ve got to figure out a way to get me back in this thing.”