How to Catch a Cat (28 page)

REVEALED

MAYOR MONTGOMERY CARMICHAEL
beamed with pleasure as the Baron called out his name and began a glowing introduction.

After acknowledging Monty’s tireless efforts to promote the race and touting the mayor’s fine leadership and invaluable contributions, the Baron added impishly, “The team is counting on your presence here today to give them the extra luck they need to bring home another victory!”

Monty waved to the cheering crowd as he approached the podium in the middle of the stage, squeaking with every step.

The mayor wore the rubber wet suit Batman costume—as he had for the last eight races. Lifting the mask off his face, he began a lengthy oration. This would be his last session in the America’s Cup spotlight, and he was going to make the most of every second.

With the audience quickly losing interest, the Baron cut in, but it took the concerted efforts of the entrepreneur and three ushers to push Monty back toward his designated place at the rear of the stage.

Resuming control of the microphone, the Baron prepared to make his final remarks. His face took on a thoughtful expression. If his team lost the last race, the next installment of the regatta would take place in New Zealand. This might be his last chance to address the racing crowd, the last chance to reflect on San Francisco’s unique history with the sailing world.

And so he began relating the story of the
San Carlos
, the first sailing vessel to pass through the Golden Gate.

The audience fell to a hush, listening to the story, and the cameramen filming the event began to pan the crowd.

•   •   •

OSCAR LEANED ON
his cane as he watched the Jumbotron feed of the ceremony taking place about a hundred yards away.

He grumbled with relief as Mayor Carmichael was shuffled to the rear of the stage. With the Baron launching into his remarks about the history of the
San Carlos
, the camera’s focus drifted into the audience.

Oscar picked out the niece and, sitting in the woman’s arms, Isabella. A gust of wind tossed the niece’s hair as the frame passed over the orange and white cat.

He sucked in his breath, startled by the feline’s expression.

Isabella had detected an ominous presence in the crowd.

It could only be the Ninja.

—

OSCAR LEANED TOWARD
the Jumbotron screen as the camera skimmed over the spectators. He studied each face that popped into the frame, dismissing several racing fans from New Zealand and the Marilyn Monroe wedding planner from City Hall.

The video switched back to the stage, where Monty was trying to push his way back to the podium. Apparently, the mayor had remembered an important item that was left out of his previous remarks. After a quick shot of the subsequent scrum of the Baron’s security team tackling the mayor, the cameraman swung his lens back to the crowd.

Oscar muttered under his breath.

“No, not Hoxton Finn. No, not the first mate.” He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. “I mean, Humphrey.”

The screen captured an image of the president of the board of supervisors, standing with his entourage.

Keep moving
, Oscar urged the cameraman.

Then he saw her, and a chill ran down his spine.

Mabel.

Something in the way the sunlight hit her face revealed the impersonation. She’d been there all along, right in front of him. How could he have missed it?

Oscar feared for the fate of the real Wanda Williams. Surely, the woman had met a grim end—as another of the Ninja’s victims.

Leaning heavily on the cane, Oscar spun away from the Jumbotron. His eyes searched the crowd, looking not for Wanda Williams, but the woman who had taken her place.

He had to catch her now. If the Ninja slipped out of the event pavilion, there was no telling what disguise she might take up next.

This was his last chance to right the wrong, or to at least mitigate his poor judgment in selling Mabel the antique knitting needles—and to retrieve the deadly weapons before they caused any more harm.

BEHEADED

VAN WANDERED THROUGH
the crowd surrounding the stage, searching for his aunt Wanda—or rather, searching for the woman he thought was his aunt Wanda.

He was starting to sweat inside the Marilyn Monroe costume, and his feet were absolutely killing him.

Just then a loud
squawk
echoed across the shoreline. A feathered green arrow swooped down from Telegraph Hill and dove toward the pavilion.

•   •   •

INSIDE THE CAT
stroller, Rupert lay curled up, snuggled in his blankets. He smacked his lips as visions of fried chicken donuts danced in his head.

But at the squawking sound, a fleeting image interrupted the dream. Rupert saw himself cuddled up with a redheaded green parrot. From beneath the blankets, the cat called out a sleepy welcome to his feathered friend.

“Wrao-woo!”

The niece glanced down at the stroller.

“What’s gotten into you?”

•   •   •

VAN FILTERED THROUGH
the crowd, still looking for his aunt Wanda.

He noted the startled expressions of several surrounding spectators, but it took him a moment to realize that their stares were for something more than the Marilyn costume. It was a bystander comment, accompanied by a pointed finger, that did the trick.

“There’s a parrot on your head!”

Van raised his hands, trying to knock the bird off, but the wig was rather tall and the bird easily evaded his reach.

More onlookers gathered as he spun in a circle, swatting the air.

Suddenly, Van had a far greater problem. The parrot dug his clawed feet into the wig. Flapping his wings, he tried to lift the bouffant hair from the intern’s head. The bobby pins securing the wig in place began to fall to the ground.

Pling
.
Pling
.
Pling
.

One man stood with his jaw dropped open, gaping at the scene. Another bystander hopped up and down, attempting to scare off the determined parrot.

Petey paid them no heed. His red head bobbed as he flapped his wings. His shoulders pulled upward, straining against the last constraining pin.

Pling
.

The wig launched into space, soaring like a blond balloon up into the sky.

Van screeched in alarm, covered his head with his hands, and sprinted out of the stage area and down the pavilion’s long walkway.

—

THE NIECE SQUINTED
at Van’s fleeing figure, wondering what her intern was doing in such a ridiculous costume.

Isabella was far more concerned that the Knitting Needle Ninja had just disappeared from the crowd.

The cat’s voice warbled tensely.

“Mrao.”

THE NINJA TAKES ANOTHER?

WANDA WILLIAMS—OR
rather, the woman who had been impersonating her for the past six months—shifted through the crowd, moving with precision and ease toward the hangar displaying the sailboat prototypes at the far end of the event pavilion.

Thanks to Van’s phone call, she’d spotted the old man standing in front of the Jumbotron.

This moment had been a long time coming. Ever since she’d learned of Oscar and his dratted painting, the one that had outed her as a serial killer, she’d been looking for the right opportunity to lure him into a trap.

When she saw the stunned expression on his face, that look of awed realization, she knew her cover had once more been blown—and that this was the time to strike.

At the hangar entrance, she glanced over her shoulder, pausing to confirm that Oscar had taken the bait. Seeing his lumbering figure cross the pavilion, she slipped inside the hangar, conducted a cursory review of the interior, and chose her hiding spot.

Her hand wrapped around the knitting needle she’d brought with her just for the occasion.

All she had left to do was wait.

—

CROUCHED IN THE
shadows at the corner of the hangar, Mabel reflected with pride on her latest secretarial incarnation. She’d known Wanda Williams for years during their joint tenure at City Hall, so she was familiar with the woman’s facial expressions, her speech patterns, her ticks.

The toughest part had been modifying her appearance. She’d posted a photo of Wanda on her full-length mirror at the Theater District apartment, taking care each day to match her costume and makeup against the (deceased) original.

Wanda’s nephew had been an added bonus to the charade. Van had been a useful—and completely unwitting—accomplice.

It had been an entertaining ruse, hiring the hapless fellow to parade around as Marilyn Monroe. A part-time job, she’d called it. He’d needed the money, and he had plenty of experience with costumes.

What a strange man
, she thought, shaking her head.

Things got even better after she inserted him as the mayoral intern, supplementing her existing surveillance on the mayor’s office suite. Van had dutifully overlooked the spy-cam equipment and scent disperser that were hidden in the ceiling vents, assuring the niece he saw nothing out of the ordinary when she asked him to climb up and inspect the area around the sprinklers.

The rubber tip of Oscar’s cane thumped against the concrete, and Mabel focused her attention on the hangar entrance.

She was closing in on her final kill—one that would top all others.

This murder was not for interest or curiosity.

This was for revenge.

—

MABEL WATCHED OSCAR
limp into the hangar, tracking him as he glanced over the sailboat models on display.

She read his expression—wary but on the verge of concluding that the hangar was empty. Oscar hobbled to the nearest watercraft and peered down one of the side hulls.

Mabel approached, by now well practiced in the art of stealth, and silently drew her weapon.

But before she could reach around his midsection with her curved needle and generate that oh-so-satisfying spurt of blood, he crumpled to the floor.

A stabbing pain filled his chest—but it wasn’t her doing.

He had collapsed on his own accord.

Oscar was having a heart attack.

Mabel slid the cover back onto the needle, sheathing the blade. There was no point now in creating a mess. She’d waited too long to exact her revenge.

Her whole being sagged with disappointment. A present she’d been waiting to open had suddenly been jerked away.

—

MABEL TRUDGED OUT
the hangar’s exit and then hovered, indecisive. She knew she should leave and let nature run its course, but she couldn’t quite shake the sense of emptiness, her sudden lack of purpose.

The audio of the Baron’s speech echoed dimly in the background.

“San Francisco is a young city.”

Turning toward the crowd that surrounded the stage, she spied a substitute for her obsession, a potential victim almost as good as the old man himself.

His niece.

Mabel had the strange feeling that she’d tried to kill the woman before.

She pulled out her cell phone and dialed the mobile number for the mayor’s administrative assistant.

“This is Wanda Williams,” she whispered tensely. “Your uncle—the soup vendor? I think he’s having a heart attack.”

DÉJÀ VU

THE NIECE DIDN’T
stop to wonder how Wanda Williams knew the soup vendor from City Hall was her uncle.

She didn’t pause to ask herself why the adversarial secretary had called the niece instead of 911.

All she could think was that her Uncle Oscar was in trouble and that, given his frail health, this might be the end—not a fake death or a subterfuge to escape the attention of the authorities, but a real and final termination of his life.

The niece rushed across the pavilion and into the hangar, pushing the stroller at breakneck speed, bumping its wheels over the rough seams in the concrete.

Isabella poked her head and shoulders out of the passenger compartment, while Rupert hunkered down just below the sightline for safety. There hadn’t been time to rezip the cover.

When the niece saw the crumpled heap on the floor, she knew she was too late.

Panting, she knelt beside her uncle’s body and rolled him onto his back. A gray lifeless color had taken over his face. His blue eyes were fixed with death’s final gaze. Rupert nudged Oscar’s arm, but there was no response, no pulse.

Isabella murmured her sincere condolences.

“Mer-mrao.”

The niece held her uncle’s hand, crying at the cold texture of his skin.

He had warned her that this day would come.

No one lives forever, my dear.

She had always hoped that maybe, for Oscar, there might be an exception.

—

AS THE TRIO
mourned their beloved friend, they were joined by a fourth being, this one not the least bit sympathetic to their loss.

Tearstained, the niece looked up to see Wanda Williams silently walking across the hangar.

But was it Wanda? There was something different in her demeanor.

Isabella let out a vicious hiss. Arching her back, she stepped protectively in front of her person.

The niece glanced down at her uncle’s lifeless face. His death might have been from natural causes, but his presence in this empty hangar was the calculated result of an evil, demented force.

Leering at the niece, the secretary held up a curved knitting needle and pulled the cap off its knifed end.

This wasn’t Wanda Williams, the niece realized with horror.

It was Mabel.

“Issy, we’ve got to get out of here,” the niece said, scooping up Rupert.

But Mabel had already cut off the exit. The niece was pinned against the side of the boat.

Cackling with glee, Mabel jabbed the air between them.

Then, in the doorway, the niece spotted a familiar wet suited figure with a long Batman-style cape.

An odd feeling of déjà vu swept over the niece as she called out, “Monty! Help!”