The priest reached back into the drawer, pulled out a brown, furry object, and waved it tauntingly at Monty. “Did you come back for this? You dropped it Saturday night on your way out the door—running from the police!”
Monty flattened himself against the exit to the outside. His right hand flailed behind his back, looking for the door handle. “Father, you’ve got me confused with someone else,” he squeaked.
Father Alfonso’s face crunched up into a sneer. “No, it’s definitely you. What kind of a degenerate gets their kicks trying to dig up a hundred and fifty year old grave? I thought I’d seen everything, ministering in this town . . .”
Monty’s hand found the handle, and the door swung open. He launched himself through it and leapt down the steps to the pavement.
Father Alfonso looked disgusted as he dropped the fake mustache on the counter, picked up the bullhorn, and walked out the back door to the cemetery to round up the school children. I slipped through the chapel doors and picked up the fake mustache on my way out of the visitor’s center.
On the steps outside, I watched the back of Monty’s fleeing figure as he sprinted down the street, his suit coat flapping out behind him.
Sighing, I pulled the tarnished gold teeth from my pocket and studied them in the brighter outdoor light.
Clenched between the upper and lower jaws was the dried petal of a tulip.
Chapter 33
I CAUGHT UP with Monty about ten minutes later in the subterranean waiting platform of the BART station. Grudgingly, I sat down on a circular stone bench next to him.
He stared at the grimy wall of the empty train tunnel, his thin face frozen, his pale green eyes immobile.
“So,” I said conversationally, “you’d already made one attempt at Leidesdorff’s grave.”
Monty sighed heavily as he turned to look at me, his face imploring. “I got the headstone up, but I couldn’t get into the box underneath. Not without the key.” His eyes gleamed. “What do you think Oscar meant by the gold teeth?”
I tilted back my head and stared at the arched concrete ceiling. Nothing from Monty, I thought, would surprise me at this point. “You didn’t think the priest would recognize you?” I asked wearily.
Monty leaned towards me, pumping his eyebrows. “I was testing a theory, of sorts.”
I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth.
“Look, it all goes back to Leidesdorff,” Monty said as he stood up and began pacing around the circular bench. “After he faked his death, he remained here in San Francisco, in plain sight—but in disguise. Leidesdorff must have shaved off those lamb chop sideburns. People had never seen what his face looked like underneath. I studied his picture on that plaque in the financial district. He would have looked completely different clean shaven.”
“Father Alfonso recognized you—without your mustache,” I said critically.
“Ah,” Monty acknowledged, still circling the bench. “Unfortunately, Father Alfonso caught a glimpse of me unmasked. It was in the dark, and there was a lot of running, so I thought it was possible he didn’t get a clear look at my face.” Monty waved his hands dismissively. “That’s not the point. The theory still stands.”
I sighed, irritated, as Monty bent down towards me and whispered loudly, “What if Oscar did it in reverse?” He nodded his head up and down emphatically. “What if Oscar added facial hair? What if he’s walking around Jackson Square, right in front of us?”
“I would recognize my uncle,” I replied testily. “Even if he were wearing lamb chop sideburns.”
Monty smiled slyly. “Not lamb chops.” He took the fake mustache out of my fingers and plastered it over his top lip. Vamping it up and down, he said, “What if he’s wearing a mustache?” He winked mischievously. “And a hat.”
THE LIGHTS WERE on in the antiques store next to the Green Vase when we rounded the corner into Jackson Square. Frank Napis, it seemed, had returned.
Monty bounded ahead to the steps of Frank’s store. “Look at this, Frank’s back!” he called out. “I’ll introduce you.” He glanced back at me, his eyes twinkling. “Unless you’ve already met.”
I stumbled to a stop on the sidewalk. The accumulated weight of Monty’s endless theories bore down on my shoulders, crunching me beneath.
My mind flew back to the cemetery and the deep gaping hole that had swallowed Oscar’s casket. I sank with him into the dirt, until the mounds on either side blocked out the sun. Shovelfuls of earth pushed down on my chest as one by one the layers fell in around me. My fingernails clawed at the blackness, scratching, grasping for air—until someone grabbed my hand and pulled me up.
“Come on,” Monty said, dragging me towards the store.
I bit my lip as I followed Monty up the steps and through the shining glass entrance.
The entire front of Napis’s boutique was constructed out of seamless, floor-to-ceiling glass panels that were so sparkling clear, it felt like you could walk straight through them. But as the door swung shut behind me, closing off the crisp spring air of the sidewalk, the impermeable integrity of the glass became immediately apparent. The swarmy atmosphere of the store was heavy with the slithering scents of sandalwood and hibiscus. Incense sticks burned on a pedestal next to the door, enhancing the smoky, stifling aura of the room.
I stepped tentatively forward onto a red and gold braided rug as the lonely whine of a sitar floated eerily through the open rafters.
Monty disappeared into the store, ducking behind a freestanding wall and into a maze of partitions that branched throughout the showroom. I stayed put, nervously staring at the floor, my head swimming from the heavily scented room.
“Frank,” Monty called out from somewhere behind the wall. “There you are. Come on out. There’s someone here I want you to meet.”
There was a startling familiarity to the grunt that sounded in response.
My stomach swirled with tension as the sounds of Monty’s slick-soled shoes were followed by a heavy shuffling. Reluctantly, I looked up from the floor, waiting for Frank Napis to emerge from the back of the store.
A decorative chunk of plaster hung on the wall in front of me. Track lighting shone down on a ceramic relief full of frenetic, multi-armed deities. A riot of wildly gesturing limbs poked out of the surface, as if they might grab onto my collar and drag me into the chaos of their twisting melee.
Monty cleared his throat, and I slowly turned around, my eyes sucking in the sight of the man standing next to him. Nothing in what I saw quelled the questions circling my stomach.
The physical features of the man could best be described as nondescript. His eyes, nose, and mouth were all unremarkably bland. His face was like the surface of sand on a beach—worn down by years of erosion into a soft mold that reflected not its own content but only that of the most recent wave.
Fluttering on this bleak landscape was an enormous carrot-colored creature, stretching at least four inches across. Each strand of hair had been precisely waxed, combed, and wound into place. The mustache seemed to exist independent of the face it was attached to. It quivered as its owner walked over to greet me, as if it might take flight at any moment.
The voice of Frank Napis cut through the silence. It was stilted, halting, and yet—I felt certain I had heard it somewhere before. “You must be my new neighbor.”
I reached out to shake his offered hand, studying his eccentric attire. He wore a linen safari suit with sturdy, knee-high boots—the sort, I imagined, a British colonial might have worn while hunting wild game in Africa. A thick leather bullwhip hung at his belted waist, and a blue silk scarf tufted out of the neck opening of his shirt. Around his head, the mysterious folds of a turban swirled towards the ceiling, dramatically increasing the man’s height.
It wasn’t Oscar, I kept repeating to myself, trying to drown out the questioning voice wiggling through my inner ear. It couldn’t be.
“So, Frank,” Monty bellowed awkwardly, pounding the man on the back. “How was your trip
?”
“Ah, Montgomery,” the man said, rolling the word so that he came to a full stop between ‘mont’ and ‘gomery’. I stared at the mustache, waiting for each syllable to be released. “It was beautiful in Bombay.”
“Isn’t it the monsoon season?” Monty asked pleasantly.
“No,” the man replied, drawing out the two letters. His diction sharpened with the repeat. “No, no.” I could barely see the lips underneath the broad mustache. He pursed them together in a narrow pucker and then continued. “It was just hitting the southern tip of the coast as I left.” He paused, stroking the mustache as if calming an excitable pet. “Of course, a little bit of water never hurt anyone.”
Frank Napis and his mustache turned to address me. “You’re Oscar’s niece, aren’t you?” The mustache beamed, the waxen strands crinkling under the centripetal force of his smile.
“Yes,” I said, shifting uncomfortably in the stifling atmosphere of the showroom, unable to focus on anything other than the man with the imposing mustache.
“Everyone in Jackson Square has been eagerly anticipating your taking over the Green Vase.” He made as if to wink at me, but it came off more like a nervous twitch. “Perhaps no one more than me.”
Frank Napis drummed his fingertips across his substantial stomach. The front buttons of his linen suit strained against the pressure of its interior contents. The mammoth mustache apparently provided little impediment to the influx of food.
“I was so relieved when I got home last night and saw that you’d already begun work on the renovations,” he continued.
“Yes, it’s coming right along,” I replied nervously.
I searched desperately for a definitive characteristic that I could point to—one on which I could firmly plant a conclusion that this wasn’t some alter-embodiment of my deceased uncle. But the figure of Frank Napis was a dissatisfying muddle.
I turned away from the strange man and stared down at a dark wooden table displaying an army of elephants, lions, and peacocks. The humanized animals brandished knives and swords as they charged across their battlefield on gold-painted chariots. A highly polished, fat-bellied Buddha posed serenely in the midst of the chaotic scene, his wide, beaming smile sealing up the answer to the question I wouldn’t let myself ask.
Monty’s short attention span had run its course, and he’d begun perambulating around the showroom. His head weaved in and out of view as he threaded his way through the partitions.
“So, Frank,” Monty’s voice called out from a hidden position on the far side of the shop. “Have you heard about the event coming up at the Palace Hotel on Friday? Dilla’s holding a charity auction.”
“Yes,” Frank replied evenly, his eyes wandering across the room, following the clicking sounds of Monty’s shoes. “I’m familiar with the pieces she’s putting up.”
Monty’s head swung around a nearby corner. He’d apparently latched onto some sort of ceremonial headdress. An odd collection of dyed feathers and dead animal skin hung over his ears, swaying as he spoke. “Oh? The cat jewelry?”
“Yes, of course. The Leidesdorff jewelry,” Frank said calmly.
“The cat costumes?” I asked, my forehead crinkling as I tried to understand.
“Yes, they belonged to William Leidesdorff’s maid,” Frank replied, his mustache twitching.
The blue eyes brewed devilishly beneath the turban. “It seems she was very fond of her kitty cats. She used to dress them up in costumes.”
Chapter 34
“LEIDESDORFF HAD CATS?” Monty exclaimed.
Frank Napis cleared his throat. “I believe they belonged to his maid,” he said patiently. “The cats apparently sailed with them here from New Orleans.”
The mustache flicked under the influence of a jarring facial tic. “They were an unusual looking pair—white with orange highlights. Some sort of Siamese/Tabby mix.”
I felt my face freeze over as Frank Napis stood there, rubbing his protruding belly, studying me curiously. Monty hung off the nearest partition, his jaw dropped to the floor.
The scene was interrupted by the rumbling sound of Ivan’s truck pulling up in front of the Green Vase.
“That’ll be Ivan,” I said, struggling to find my voice. “He’s the contractor.” I cleared my throat. “I should go check in with him.” I began sliding towards the front door, dragging a still apoplectic Monty along with me.
Frank relieved Monty of the headdress as he followed us towards the exit. “It was a great pleasure to meet you,” he said, his expression providing no insight into his emotions. “Thank you for stopping by.”
A breath of fresh air hit my face as I pushed Monty through the front door. I was about to follow him to the sidewalk when Frank’s voice called out, “Oh, did you have a chance to look into the gutter issue?”
I turned back to the showroom, my overloaded sinuses taking another blast of sandalwood. “No need to worry,” I said assuringly. “Ivan will be putting new ones up later this week.”
Frank Napis stared at me strangely, his mustache curling like a cashew as his blue eyes bored into me. “You might want to check behind us in the alley, dear, before he gets started. The building in the lot that backs up to ours is under renovation. There’s a chance they might have dug something up to cause the leak.”
I TUMBLED DOWN the steps to the sidewalk. A last puff of the heavy sandalwood aroma surged out as the door swung shut behind me.
Monty stood on the sidewalk, dazedly muttering over and over again, “Leidesdorff had cats.”
Ivan waved a greeting, then lowered the tailgate to his truck and began pulling tools out of the back. I turned the tulip key in the lock on the front door and walked inside.
Monty followed me in, circling through the store like a buzzard. “Maybe it’s the Leidesdorff cats in the painting.”
Rupert hopped down the stairs, summoned by the sound of Monty’s voice. Crumbs of cat food hung under his chin as he poked his head around the corner. Monty picked up the gold-headed cane and pointed it dramatically at Rupert.
“You!” Monty exclaimed. “You’ve got some explaining to do there, Mister.” Monty bent down towards Rupert, who sat on the floor smiling up at him. “What are you doing in Dilla’s picture—hiding in the tulips?”
Monty spun around and parried the cane in my direction. “Hey, where did you get Rupert and Isabella, anyway?” he demanded.
I leaned against the cashier counter, remembering back a year ago.
It was a dark, rainy Saturday. I’d arrived at Oscar’s for one of our regularly scheduled dinners.
Shivering, I rang the bell at the front door. Oscar called grumpily down from the window above. “You’ve got a key don’t you? You know my knees can’t take those stairs!”
Grinning, I let myself in. I crossed the crowded, dusty storeroom and hiked up to the kitchen. Oscar was bent over his stove, concentrating on a pot of frying chicken. Without looking up, he raised a grease-splattered hand in the air to acknowledge my arrival.
I pulled out a seat at the kitchen table. As I leaned across to pour myself a glass of water, I noticed a small cardboard box in the corner of the room. The flaps to the lid had been cut off; something appeared to be moving inside.
Eyeing Oscar’s still turned back, I eased up in my chair so that I could look inside the box. Two small, white cats blinked up at me.
“What have you got here, Oscar?” I asked, bemused.
Oscar grunted from his skillet. “Found them in the alley this afternoon. They must have been abandoned. Figure I’ll drop ’em off at the pound on Monday.”
I circled the table and knelt down at the box. The cats matched each other in coloring—white coats with peachy-orange highlights—but they were opposites in physique.
The female of the pair was slender and sleek with long, gangly legs. Her sharp, blue eyes looked up at me expectantly as she stood up on her hind legs, reaching for the top edge of the box. She pushed her head against my hand when I reached
in to pet her.
The second one, a male, sat back on his wide, fluffy rump and gazed up at me curiously. I reached over to scratch his head, but he flopped over onto his back, exposing his plump, round belly.
“They’re awfully cute, Oscar,” I called out, still rubbing the offered belly. “Don’t you need a couple of cats around the store?”
I could hardly hear his mussitating grumble over the sizzling skillet. “Scraggly, flea bitten creatures . . . look like overgrown rats . . .”
“They’re awfully clean for having been in the alley,” I said, holding the female in my arms.
She purred appreciatively as Oscar muttered, “I never would have thought it’d be that hard to wash a cat.”
Monty tapped me on the shoulder with the gold-headed cane. “Where do you go when you enter these trances?” he asked.
“I got the cats from Oscar,” I said, the implication dawning on me for the first time.
Chapter 35
THE JARRING BLEEP-BLEEP of my alarm clock woke me early the next morning. I leapt out of the bed and into the wee hours of Wednesday. Rupert cracked open a condemning eye before dropping his head back down into the heap of blankets.
Isabella followed as I shrugged on a sweatshirt and slipped down to the kitchen. Her sharp eyes interrogated me as I grabbed the wide beam flashlight and descended the next flight to the showroom.
“Wrao,” she admonished.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be careful,” I replied.
I creaked open the iron-framed door and peeked out into a dark, pre-dawn Jackson Square. The windows on the opposite side of the street were dark—ensuring, I hoped, that Monty wouldn’t be following me this time.
I rounded the corner past Frank Napis’s glass-fronted store and stepped into the narrow alley that angled behind it. My bleary eyes blinked in the darkness as I flicked on the flashlight and started down the narrow passage, flanked on either side by steep, brick walls.
How to Wash a Cat Page 21