How to Catch a Cat (7 page)

STOWAWAY

AS SOON AS
the
San Carlos
dropped anchor off Angel Island and the ship was at last truly stabilized, Oscar swung into high gear finishing up the night’s dinner.

While the christening ceremony commenced on deck, the kitchen below was transformed into a blur of sizzling pans, boiling pots, and flour-coated cutting boards.

The menu included lumpy mashed potatoes loaded with butter and cream, fresh green beans picked up during the stop at Monterey, and thick gravy simmered to golden brown perfection. The headliner, of course, was Oscar’s signature dish: crispy fried chicken, Captain Ayala’s favorite meal and a much-anticipated treat for the crew.

The niece maneuvered deftly around her uncle, stacking plates and silverware and carrying them up to the long table on the top deck, where the dinner would be served.

The pair had worked together through several of Oscar’s naval cooking assignments. Even in the kitchen’s narrow galley, they generally avoided running into each other. Isabella sat on a stool, supervising the action, chirping out a warning if it looked like the two were about to collide.

Rupert sat on the floor beneath the stool, huffing and puffing as his pink nose sucked in the scents of the sizzling fried chicken. He could hardly wait for dinner to begin and—most important—for the cats to be served. Given the nearness of the meal, he didn’t dare risk hopping on the counter (for fear he might get into trouble and be banished from the feast), but he wasn’t letting the chicken serving bowl out of his sight.

As the niece sped out of the galley with yet another load of dishes, Oscar stepped back from the stove. Surveying the spread, he ran through his mental meal checklist.

“I think we’ve got everything covered . . .” he said, glancing down at Isabella. She tilted her head, as if conducting her own review, and then confirmed his assumption.

“Mrao.”

“Well, that settles it, then.”

Oscar picked up the tongs and lifted the last piece of chicken out of the skillet. As he placed the crispy leg into the bowl, he felt the slightest twinge of unease.

He was alone in the kitchen with the two cats—or so he thought.

Turning toward the hallway, he spied a shadow in the space just beyond the door.

There was a strange scent in the air. It took him a moment to separate the foreign smell from that of the cooking food.

It was a sweet, lemony perfume.

He held the tongs out like a weapon, a defensive posture that had nothing to do with the ship being docked near an unknown land.

Isabella’s growling hiss confirmed his suspicions. Rupert’s sniffing terminated in a startled
snork
, and he flattened his body against the floor.

Somewhere along the way, they had picked up a stowaway.

Or perhaps, Oscar thought with a start, she had been with them since San Blas.

THE CONFESSION

ACROSS THE HALLWAY
from the ship’s kitchen, Father Monty sat behind the confessional curtain, waiting for a last-minute appointment that had been penciled into his schedule book during the perilous passage into the bay.

The priest had been incapacitated throughout much of the ordeal, lying on a cot on the side of the room with a blanket pulled over his head, wishing he’d never left the firm comfort of land.

Given his distraught condition, he hadn’t noticed the person who had inscribed the entry in the logbook. Of course, the process was intended to be anonymous, but Father Monty frequently found himself challenged to uphold that ethical standard.

He peered down at the writing, scrutinizing the script. Whoever his stealthy confessor was, he or she had impeccable handwriting. The appointment had been scrawled in near-perfect penmanship, despite the ship’s violent rolling.

Who could it be?
he wondered with increasing interest. Oscar’s niece was the only female on board. Had she finally decided to divulge her secrets? He tapped the toe of his shoe, anticipating the information that might be revealed. He could hardly contain his excitement.

Per protocol, Monty’s view of the door was blocked by the confession booth’s dark curtain, but every few seconds, he edged his chair a little closer to the fabric’s edge.

Once his guest arrived, he might have to take a peek around to the opposite side—and then make his own quick confession before dinner.

—

DESPITE MONTY’S VIGILANT
surveillance, the confessor slipped in without his notice. He was admiring the craftsmanship on his frog-shaped cuff links when the chair on the other side of the curtain scraped against the floor.

He jumped, startled by the sound, and nearly fell off his seat. Scrambling to regain his balance, he managed to sputter out a jumbled version of the standard mantra.

The mishmashed liturgy appeared not to matter to the person behind the curtain.

“Father, forgive me, for I have sinned.”

The voice was scratchy and high-pitched but with a strained tone, as if the speaker was making an effort at disguise.

It could be anyone
, Monty thought, more intrigued than ever.

And then a distinctive scent floated through the chapel room, overriding the aroma of the fried chicken being cooked across the hall.

Monty took a sniff—and he sensed that his confessor was not the niece.

They’d only met a few days earlier, but she was not the type of woman to wear perfume, definitely not one with this lemony-sweet scent.

Just then, the ship’s dinner bell rang.

The bell was a deafening device that Oscar operated from the far end of the kitchen, its ringer designed to efficiently send its alert throughout the entire vessel.

When the noise stopped, Monty waited for his guest to continue, but the curtain beside him remained silent.

After a few minutes, Monty eased up in his chair and cautiously poked his nose over the top of the fabric.

The chair on the other side was empty.

DINNER INTERRUPTED

WITH THE CELEBRATORY
dinner ready, the passengers and crew of the
San Carlos
assembled around a long wooden table on the ship’s top deck.

Most of the ship’s meals were casual affairs, but the discovery of a previously unknown portal to a protected bay of vast commercial potential warranted a more elaborate feast.

Of course, Captain Ayala needed little excuse to call for a full course of Oscar’s fried chicken. He would have requested it even if they hadn’t found the bay.

Water lapped against the hull, and a breeze rustled the sails. A row of candles illuminated the place settings.

Captain Ayala presided at the head of the table. Humphretto took his appointed chair at the opposite end. The rest of the seats filled in with hungry passengers and crew members.

The gathered eaters let out appreciative sighs as Oscar and his niece carried up the last trays of food. The chef allowed himself a rare beam of pride as he placed the fried chicken in front of the captain’s plate.

Petey the parrot was the only one who disapproved of the meal’s main ingredient. With a loud squawk, he fluttered off Ayala’s shoulder and swooped up to the top of the main mast.

—

WHEN THE LAST
steaming dish had been delivered, the niece slid into her chair. She glanced beneath the table, checking for her feline companions.

Rupert and Isabella sat on the floor at her feet, eagerly waiting for their person to hand down special saucers filled with their cat-sized portions of the meal. Squirming, Rupert smacked his lips.

Father Monty stood from his seat at the table’s middle and prepared to bless the meal. As he raised his hands, the sleeves of his robe slipped down. The candlelight flickered on the gold hilts of the jumping frog cuff links pinned into the shirt he wore underneath as he began a ritual incantation—and then stopped.

He pointed at an empty seat on the table’s opposite side.

“Are we missing someone?”

Humphretto held up his index finger, counting the gathered heads.

“One of the crew,” he said, frowning as he tried to remember the name. “Alberto, I think.”

Ayala shrugged. “Let’s eat.”

Monty gestured for patience. “I’ll check down below to see if he’s coming.”

—

THE NIECE WATCHED
the priest disappear down the stairs, her brow furrowed with concern. Her uncle’s meal was going to get cold if they waited much longer.

Three quick footsteps echoed up from the lower level—followed by a gasp of disbelief.

The subsequent high-pitched scream was unlike any the niece had ever heard uttered from the throat of a man.

Afraid the captain’s parrot had met an untimely end, she peeked under the table and confirmed that both cats were still at her feet and visibly hungry. Glancing up, she spied the green-feathered bird perched on the mast above the deck.

Thank goodness, it’s not the parrot, she couldn’t help thinking.

It was a death of both more and less significance.

The scrub hand missing for dinner had met a gruesome and untimely end.

•   •   •

DEATH WAS NOT
uncommon aboard the vessels of the Spanish fleet. All manner of sickness besieged the brave mariners. Mysterious illnesses were often contracted in the faraway lands to which they visited. Pirate attacks felled other unfortunate souls with either cannon fire or bayonets. Occasional mutinies resulted in ship-wide carnage.

But none of the passengers and crew of the
San Carlos
had ever experienced a death quite like this.

A secretive stabbing was somewhat unique.

The murder weapon used in the crime drew even more interest.

There in the pool of blood surrounding the victim lay a curved knitting needle whose tip end had been fitted with a sharp attacking blade.

Six Months Prior to the America’s Cup Regatta

THE INTERIM MAYOR

IT WAS THE
beginning of March, just six weeks into interim mayor Montgomery Carmichael’s shortened term at San Francisco’s City Hall.

He had been appointed to fill a vacancy created when the elected mayor was promoted to the office of the state’s lieutenant governor.

The mayoral selection process had been controversial—if not downright puzzling. Mr. Carmichael’s name had been proposed, seemingly out of nowhere, several hours into a lengthy board of supervisors meeting dedicated to filling the opening. Despite the complete lack of consensus on all of the candidates that had previously been considered, Monty’s nomination had sailed through with unanimous approval.

The city was still adjusting to the idea of Mayor Monty.

He was an odd choice for the caretaker position. With no previous governing experience and very little practical business knowledge to fall back on, he was ill prepared for the task of running such a large metropolis.

Beyond that, everyone thought him a bit weird.

But then, San Franciscans had grown accustomed to eccentricity from their mayors. The last man to hold the position had famously admitted to a lifelong frog phobia (following an inexplicable amphibian invasion of City Hall). Part of his psychological recovery had involved hiring a personal life coach, a slot that had been filled by the then-unknown Jackson Square art dealer Montgomery Carmichael.

It was one of the most bizarre stepping-stones into elected office that anyone could remember, even in the unorthodox history of Northern California.

Mere moments after the board of supervisors confirmed his appointment, Monty had been filmed in a wet suit and flippers, being chased out of San Francisco’s Mountain Lake by an albino alligator who had escaped from the Academy of Sciences.

With that introduction, no one knew what to expect from Monty’s brief tenure.

Even though the last two months had passed without incident, few expected the status quo to last.

But whatever shenanigans ensued, most viewed Mayor Carmichael as nothing more than a paperweight meant to hold down the position until the next round of formal voting could be held in the fall.

The Bay Area’s political pundits gave him no chance of winning that election.

Of course, this was no deterrent to Monty.

•   •   •

MAYOR MONTY APPROACHED
each spring day with the same zeal that he had applied from the start of his mayoral term. He was a blind optimist, one of those unique individuals who managed to view every stumble and fall as a success.

There was no fence he couldn’t hurdle, no mountain he couldn’t summit. Obstacles were simply ignored or imagined away.

In Monty’s mind, he was the most popular mayor in San Francisco’s recent history and the unquestioned front-runner in the upcoming election.

He stood in front of a mirror inside the second-floor apartment above his Jackson Square art studio and gazed at his reflection with smiling approval. He held up a wrist, admiring the frog-shaped cuff link attached to his dress shirt. Then he hooked a finger around the collar of his suit jacket and casually threw it over his shoulder.

“Who’s that handsome guy?” he asked, striking a last pose.

With a tight pivot, he bounded down the stairs. The flat soles of his dress shoes slapped against the steps as he answered the question.

“Me!”

—

DESPITE HIS OVERWHELMING
confidence, Monty wasn’t taking November’s upcoming election lightly. He had eight months left in office, and he planned to devote every waking moment to his campaign.

Monty had devised a number of slogans and strategies that he was fine-tuning for imminent release, but his primary election scheme was to gain public support and approval by affiliating himself with San Francisco’s upcoming sailboat regatta. It sounded like a harebrained idea, but, to be fair, in the city’s colorful history, mayors had been swept into office using far more absurd propaganda.

Later that summer, the America’s Cup would be staged in the San Francisco Bay for the first time in the championship’s history. Monty intended to plant himself front and center in every photo, video, and other publicity-related opportunity that arose.

Preparations for the event were well under way, thanks to the efforts of the last mayor, who had drummed up financial support for the necessary infrastructure along the city’s shoreline and strong-armed supervisors to ensure the venue received the requisite permits to allow construction of the related pavilions.

In other words, the political heavy lifting had already been done. All that was left was for the interim mayor to take credit for the success.

The Monty train—or boat, as the case may be—was paddling full steam ahead.

It was his race to lose.

No one could convince him otherwise.

He wasn’t the least bit worried that a serial killer might be circling his office, her needles at the ready for another kill.