“Oops,” he whispered guiltily.
Pulse racing, he ducked behind the closest available cover: a wide partition wall at the junction of two narrow hallways. A pair of oval-shaped reliefs hung on the nonstructural wall, the large ceramic discs depicting the heads and shoulders of the aquarium’s original benefactors, Bavarian brothers Ignatz and Sigmund Steinhart.
Sam hunched behind one side of the display while Dr. Kline circled the other. Holding his breath, he watched the blond halo of her reflection in an enormous glass tank on an angled wall a few feet away.
When at last she trotted off down another corridor, he was once more on the move.
• • •
A FEW MINUTES later, Sam entered a glass-roofed tunnel that provided a view through the bottom of the aquarium’s largest water exhibit. Craning his neck, he glanced up at the passing undersides of several large tarpon.
“Whoa,” he murmured as the layers of streaming fish parted to give him a glimpse of the tropical rain forest that spanned several stories above the tank.
But a flash of white at the far end of the tunnel soon captured his attention. He rushed through the remaining glass-roofed passage and hurried over to the basement level of Clive’s Swamp Exhibit.
• • •
THE LOWER VIEWING station provided a window into the submerged portion of the alligator’s tank. From this position, Sam could see the moss-covered pilings that Clive used to heave his long body up onto his heated rock. The nearest supporting post was missing a large, triangular-shaped chunk from its side, as if Clive or one of his alligator predecessors had taken a huge bite from the wood.
Sam watched as one of the turtles sank to the exhibit’s sandy bottom. The creature’s bony head, nearly indistinguishable from its boulderlike shell, turned toward the crowds looking into the tank. The turtle’s face was expressionless, the eyes those of a living fossil.
As the turtle came to rest on the tank’s floor, a plump catfish curled past the foot of the pier and sneaked into the shadows beneath. Its long, tubular whiskers trailed across the sandy bottom, causing small puffs of debris to float up in its wake.
Slowly taking in every detail, Sam raised his eyes toward the upper portion of the glass window. The alligator had apparently decided to take a short break from his rock. His albino body now floated just below the water’s surface, all but the tip of his nose submerged. His front and rear legs hung limply, passively, while his thick tail drooped downward.
“Just hang tight, Clive,” Sam said as his eyes focused on a service door on the lower side of the tank. “We’ve got a plan.”
• • •
AS SAM CONTINUED to study the service door’s details, Dr. Kline’s exasperated voice sharply pierced his eardrums.
“Sam! Where have you been?”
Wincing, he turned to find the blond-headed woman standing, hands on her hips, directly behind him.
“Oh, there you are, Dr. Kline,” he replied with a sheepish grin. He shrugged apologetically. “I got a little lost.”
Throwing her hands up, she sighed and pointed toward the glass-ceilinged tunnel. “It’s right this way.”
She gave him a stern sideways glance.
“This time, I’ll follow you.”
• • •
KEEPING A FIRM grip on his sleeve, Dr. Kline guided the Frog Whisperer, who was acting far more eccentric than usual, away from the basement-level view of the Swamp Exhibit. A few minutes later, she ushered him toward a prominently marked glass terrarium mounted into a wall next to a hands-on experimental station for young children.
“Here we are,” she said with exhausted relief. “As you can see, the little guys just don’t look right . . .”
Sam leaned in toward the glass, his green eyes squinting.
“Do you have the keys?” he asked, holding out his hand. “To the rear of the tank,” he added in response to her questioning expression.
She eyed the children congregated around the display. “Are you sure that’s necessary?”
Sam straightened to his full commanding height. “Absolutely,” he pronounced, deepening his voice with as much authority as he could muster.
“We’ll have to go in by the shark exhibit,” she said pensively, pulling out a large set of keys.
Glancing back several times to check on Sam, Dr. Kline led the way down a short hallway to a black-painted wall. Triggering a penlight attached to the key chain, she waved the beam across the dark surface until she illuminated a small handle. A second later, she had unlocked a black door, beyond which lay a narrow opening that ran behind the rear of the exhibits.
Motioning for Sam to follow, she proceeded into the walkway. A line of removable placards hung from the back side of each exhibit, identifying the species occupying the adjacent tanks. Halfway down the line, she inserted a second key into a slot in the wall and removed the rear paneling from the large glass terrarium.
Dr. Kline stepped aside as Sam stared at a trio of tiny frogs sitting beneath the fronds of an artificial fern. He rubbed the red scruff on his chin, sucked in his breath, and then rotated his head toward her.
“We’ll need a little privacy,” he said, knitting his brow. “Doctor-patient confidentiality. I’m sure you understand.”
Her face flushed with confusion. “Well, ah . . . I don’t . . .”
Somberly, Sam arched his red eyebrows.
“Yes, of course,” she replied dubiously, tentatively stepping away from the terrarium. “I’ll be at the other end of the hall.”
Sam waited until she had disappeared down the walkway before bending back into the exhibit.
A group of children crowded past on the opposite side, their eyes widening at the sight of the man behind the glass. He gave them a short wave, and then motioned as if to encourage them to move along.
“Do you ever get the sense you’re being watched?” he asked as the frogs waddled toward him.
The nearest one blinked its eyes, conveying its agreement.
Sam’s mouth flattened into an understanding grimace. Then he flipped through the key chain Dr. Kline had left hanging from the terrarium’s rear facing, found the set that would unlock the Academy’s main doors, and unhooked them.
Sliding the pilfered keys into his vest pocket, he whispered conspiratorially into the tank.
“You guys are doing a great job. Keep it up.”
Chapter 12
MORE THAN CHICKEN
IN THE APARTMENT above the Green Vase antiques shop, Isabella watched as her person’s face slowly disappeared behind the newspaper. She listened for the sharp snap of the woman’s hands tugging the sides of the printed sheet to smooth out the portion containing the main article, signaling that a lengthy reading spell was about to commence.
The slender cat yawned, as if bored by the proceedings, but in actuality, she was performing a close surveillance.
Isabella waited until she was sure her person was fully engrossed in Hoxton Fin’s latest City Hall report. Then she silently hopped off the couch’s armrest and stealthily crept out of the room.
It was time for Isabella to give her person a nudge toward the clue to her next treasure hunt. Oscar’s niece had missed something important when she came in from her run.
• • •
A MOMENT LATER, Isabella crossed the threshold into the kitchen.
Her toenails clicked softly against the tile floor as she circled a worn wooden table and sniffed at the now-empty food bowls positioned beneath. She could still pick out a faint whiff of fried chicken from the earlier afternoon snack.
Whiskers twitching, Isabella gazed up at the kitchen walls. The sheets of tulip-covered wallpaper that Oscar had tacked to the framing were now gone. New plasterboard had been installed and the surface covered with light purple paint.
Dark green hand towels hung from a rack near the sink; several green figurines cast in the shape of frogs adorned the open shelves secured to the walls.
The purple and green color
scheme was a tribute to the green vase that rested on the downstairs cashier counter and the fresh-cut purple tulips that Oscar’s niece purchased every week from a flower shop in the nearby financial district.
The tulips, Isabella reflected, had a singular meaning in and of themselves—both to her person and to the mysterious Uncle Oscar. Their use in combination with a rare paralysis-inducing spider venom had played a central role in Oscar’s transition from the Green Vase antiques shop to his new enterprise at the North Beach chicken restaurant.
• • •
APPROACHING THE CABINETRY below the sink, Isabella trained her focus on the counter above. She took her time studying the distance, carefully sizing it up as her pipelike tail rose into a contemplative curve.
She needed to make sure she executed the jump perfectly. The slightest skidding scrape of claws across the countertop would give her away.
After a thorough analysis of the counter height and a last check through the doorway to confirm her person was still fixated on the newspaper article, she was ready to proceed.
• • •
GATHERING HER FEET beneath her body, Isabella leapt gracefully onto the counter. Now properly elevated, she tilted her head in a pleased manner, appreciative of the height’s change in perspective. She didn’t mind a ground-level view—a cat could pick up several important details from that angle—but she generally preferred the advantage of a little altitude.
In her not-so-modest opinion, a cat’s proper role was at the highest point in the room, where she could look down on her minions. But because her person did not share these beliefs, most of Isabella’s counter surfing took place late at night, when the potential objector was tucked in bed, fast asleep.
This was a tribute to Isabella’s heartfelt devotion to Oscar’s niece. Even though her human was a lesser being, Isabella didn’t like to upset her. A daytime visit, such as this one, was a rarity. It required a great deal more finesse and the right distraction.
Isabella paused and listened to the reassuring crinkle of newsprint emanating from the living room. A confident expression crossed her pixielike face.
She had plenty of time to complete her task.
• • •
GINGERLY STEPPING OVER a rack filled with drying dishes, Isabella skimmed nimbly across the kitchen countertop. With skill honed from a year’s worth of experimentation, she quietly maneuvered around a small toaster oven and a stand-alone rack of coffee cups.
A few steps took Isabella to the stovetop, whose burners she took extra care to avoid. She had learned the hard way that the raised metal ridges sometimes contained residual heat from their last use.
Her last hurdle was a wooden cutting board. Its uneven surface would rattle against the counter if she stepped on top of it, so after a short pause, she hopped neatly over. Having cleared the last impediment, she had finally reached the far side of the room.
Isabella turned to glance back at her starting point.
She supposed she could have leapt onto the counter at this location instead, but what would have been the challenge in that?
• • •
HAVING SUCCESSFULLY NAVIGATED across the kitchen counter, Isabella was ready to get down to business.
Her blue eyes honed in on her target—the trash bin. The lid of the tall cylindrical-shaped container rose just flush to the counter where she now stood.
Crouching down, Isabella leaned toward the canister’s metal lid and prepared to perform yet another of her well-practiced moves. After wedging the flat portion of her nose against the edge of the lid, she quickly jerked her head upward, flipping it open.
Balancing precariously, she anchored her paws on the top edge of the oval rim and slowly eased her weight from the counter to the canister. Her toenails gripped the slippery plastic-covered rim as she positioned herself over the bin’s opening and bent her head to retrieve the last item deposited inside.
With her teeth, she nipped the folded top of a green paper bag. Still straddling the trash can, she tossed it onto the counter.
The maneuver was awkward, but effective.
Isabella quickly followed the bag back to the counter and set about the task of accessing its contents. Swatting at the folded-over opening, she managed to separate the two sheets of paper and slip her paw into the sack.
The process generated far more rustling than Isabella would have liked, but she continued to dig through the discarded chicken wrappings until she found the item for which she’d been searching: a green flyer with the restaurant’s logo, followed by a brief historical excerpt about a man named James Lick.
Chapter 13
THE LONG SHOT
A FRIED-CHICKEN-SMELLING BURP bubbled up from the right side of the couch as Oscar’s niece reached the end of Hoxton Fin’s latest report on the increasing number of aspiring mayors crowding the corridors at City Hall.
According to Hox, the list of potential candidates included the current members of the board of supervisors, several local civic leaders, and even the city’s Previous Mayor.
Hox’s article had focused on the short list, the serious contenders. Of course, this being San Francisco, a large number of oddball applicants were also petitioning the board for consideration.
The expanded roster included the “Chicken Man,” a person of unknown gender who had been appearing at the Current Mayor’s public events for the last seven years, each time wearing a feathery chicken costume and clucking vociferously. Also seeking the nomination was a rather large, extremely hairy gentleman from the Castro, who boasted his credentials as a practicing nudist.
And then there was Monty.
• • •
DROPPING THE PAPER to her lap, the woman glanced through the living-room window to the art studio across the street. She could just make out the profile of the man sitting inside at his desk, wiping his hands with a wet paper towel after finishing his takeout meal from Lick’s Homestyle Chicken.
In the months since it had become clear that the Current Mayor would be headed to Sacramento, Monty had talked of little other than the pending vacancy at City Hall. The mayor’s job was his lifelong dream, as he’d tell anyone who would care to listen. The antics of the local newspaper’s editorial board had only inflated those hopes.
• • •
IT HAD BEEN a slow summer, newswise. Other than the pending shake-up at City Hall, there had been few stories of interest on which to report.
That was the only explanation Oscar’s niece could come up with for why a San Francisco television station had aired a lengthy interview with the outgoing Mayor’s Life Coach. During the hour-long conversation, Monty had described in great detail his various life-coaching techniques, including the specific steps he had designed to alleviate the Mayor’s debilitating fear of frogs.
The interview had generated a great deal of public interest, little of it positive.
For the local newspaper, the topic had been too tempting to resist. In the weeks since the spot aired, the editorial page had run numerous tongue-in-cheek advice columns purportedly written by Life Coach Carmichael.
Each article had been more over the top than the one that came before. Topics ranged from key elements in frog-aversion therapy to guidance on how San Franciscans could nurture their inner frog. One of the most popular pieces in the series had pretended to explore the depths of the Mayor’s frog-addled psyche, speculating on the childhood cause of his phobia.
With the outcome of the selection process for the Current Mayor’s replacement growing more unpredictable by the day, the newspaper had naturally lampooned a Monty-themed solution. Their mock endorsement had run in the most recent Sunday edition, generating chuckles across the political spectrum.
• • •
MONTY, UNFORTUNATELY, HAD failed to appreciate the joke. He’d seen the commentary as an indication of his growing prestige. Clippings of each of the columns graced a corkboard mounted on a wall in his studio. He quoted his favorite lines at every opportunity.
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Oscar’s niece shook her head as Monty stood up from his chair and began walking back and forth across the studio, his hands gesticulating as if he were practicing a speech.
Sighing, she folded the paper and set it on the side table next to the couch, tucking it beside a brass lamp covered by a ceramic globe.
With so many qualified candidates competing for the post, there was no way the board of supervisors would select a fruit loop like Monty.
Then again, she reasoned with a cynical grin, this is San Francisco. Stranger things have happened.
Chapter 14
A CULINARY CHALLENGE
STILL ENERGIZED FROM his earlier eavesdropping operation, Spider Jones steered his bike onto Powell, quickly picking up speed as he approached San Francisco’s Union Square.
Even in the falling dusk, the city retained the day’s Indian summer heat. Above the front entrance to the venerable St. Francis hotel, a row of scarlet-colored flags hung limply from their poles, the brisk breeze that normally popped their sheets missing in the damp heat.
Generating his own wind, Spider zoomed past the hotel, swerving at the last minute to avoid a red-jacketed bellhop who had stepped off the curb to hail a cab. The bellhop’s piercing whistle sent out a sharp rebuke, but the warning failed to slow the young man’s pace.
A cable car clanged down the hill as Spider weaved his bike around a group of female shoppers headed for a shoe sale at the massive multi-story department store that dominated the bottom half of the square. Boutiques, billboards, and a jeweler’s topped by an Atlas figure cradling a clock filled in the rest of the perimeter.
Buoyed by reckless confidence, Spider pedaled across the square’s concrete-covered clearing. At the opposite corner, he bumped his tires down a short flight of steps, squeezed through the last blinking seconds of a crosswalk, and continued into the financial district.
The warm evening air rushed over his sweating cheeks as he raced along the emptying streets. His wheels spun past a blur of office buildings, the metal flashings on his bike flickering in the short clips of light between shadows.
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