How To Tail a Cat

by Rebecca M. Hale

  • • •

  STILL CHUCKLING AT the hotheaded reporter, the Previous Mayor finished his salad.

  The waitress took his plate and brought him a glass of wine while he waited for his main course.

  After taking a sip, he pulled out a sleek black mobile device from his jacket pocket and texted an update to his colleagues at the North Beach Homestyle Chicken restaurant.

  Chapter 19

  THE BAVARIAN BROTHERS

  ISABELLA SAT ON the edge of the bathroom sink in the apartment above the Green Vase antiques shop, guarding the shower while her person finally cleaned up from her run.

  Steam rose from the other side of the curtain and began to fog the mirror. As her person’s wet shadow started lathering shampoo into her hair, Isabella quickly calculated the remaining shower time. Then, she gently hopped down from her perch and treaded softly into the bedroom.

  Shower surveillance was one of Isabella’s many duties—one she took quite seriously—but tonight, she had other priorities.

  She set off into the apartment, looking for Rupert.

  It was time to put that brother of hers to some use.

  • • •

  ISABELLA WAS WAITING on the edge of the bed when her person emerged from the bathroom, one towel wrapped around her head, a second around her body.

  The cat could tell the shower had helped loosen the woman’s thinking. Her lips murmured “Steinhart” as she slid on her bifocal glasses and picked up the green restaurant flyer from her dresser.

  Isabella silently observed while her person reread the added paragraph regarding the Steinhart brothers and their contribution to the Academy of Science’s flagship aquarium.

  “Steinhart,” the woman repeated, still gripping the towel as she skimmed the fingers of her free hand across the spines of a nearby bookcase.

  Here in this shelving unit, the niece had gathered the bulk of Oscar’s reference books on California history. In the entire three stories of the redbrick building that housed the Green Vase, this spot contained the highest concentration of biographical information on the Bay Area’s early movers and shakers: from the explorers who had inhabited San Francisco’s precursor, Yerba Buena, through the masses who had flooded Northern California with the onset of the Gold Rush. Other volumes focused on the city’s later development, covering the bankers and financiers who had helped to construct its initial infrastructure—and those who had rebuilt it from scratch after the 1906 earthquake.

  The woman considered this bookshelf to be the most comprehensive source of historical data from her uncle’s vast collections. If there was anything to be known about the Steinharts—particularly a hidden Steinhart treasure—this was the place to start.

  • • •

  AFTER A MOMENT’S perusal, the niece selected a book and pulled it from the shelf. Taking a seat on the bed next to Isabella, she flipped through the index to the Ss.

  There was no listing for Steinhart.

  “Hmm,” she mused, dropping the book on the bed as she returned to the bookcase for another try.

  This time, she picked out a larger, denser text on Northern California’s early history.

  “Surely, this will have something,” she said confidently.

  But, after a few minutes’ search, she discarded that one as well.

  She scanned the rows of books, refusing to accept defeat. The Steinharts were prominently named benefactors of one of the city’s most popular public venues. The influential brothers had to be mentioned in one of Oscar’s references.

  As the niece stared down at the bookshelf, a cat-sized ripple appeared in the spines along the bottom row.

  Thump.

  Rupert’s fluffy white body darted out from the space at the back of the shelf, knocking several books onto the floor at the woman’s feet.

  With a sigh, she bent to pick them up. As she began to slide the books back into place, she noticed a clump of white cat hair lying in the exposed portion of the shelf.

  “Oh, Rupert,” she muttered. “I’m always cleaning up after your . . .”

  And then she stopped, puzzled. In the cavity behind the row of books, she spied a slim paperback with a blue cover depicting an underwater scene. Reaching into the slot, she pulled out The History of the Steinhart Aquarium.

  From her perch on the edge of the bed, Isabella issued a satisfied chirp.

  • • •

  AN HOUR LATER, Oscar’s niece was both reclothed and fully up-to-date on what little there was to be known about the biographical profiles of the Steinhart brothers. The aquarium book had provided more information than all the other research materials combined, but the details were still sketchy.

  Bavarian-born Sigmund and Ignatz immigrated to America in the 1850s. Seizing on the Gold Rush’s moneymaking opportunities, the brothers built a thriving mercantile business that soon expanded into a mining and finance empire.

  Ignatz, the younger Steinhart, married and, by all accounts, was a devoted husband to his lovely wife, showering her with expensive presents and trips to exotic locations.

  Sigmund, in contrast, lived the life of a swinging bachelor. A man with substantial means, he was on the guest list to the finest gatherings the growing city had to offer. He was a gregarious fellow and joined several of San Francisco’s exclusive social societies, the most notable being the all-male Bohemian Club.

  • • •

  ESTABLISHED IN 1872, the Bohemian Club started out as a meager gathering of artists, writers, and journalists. Over the years, however, it grew into an ultra-exclusive fraternity of the rich and powerful.

  Although the actual membership rolls remained shrouded in secrecy, rumor had it that participants included California luminaries such as publisher William Randolph Hearst, sugar baron Claus Spreckels, architects James Flood and Bernard Maybeck, vintner Robert Mondavi, and actor, movie director, and former mayor of Carmel, Clint Eastwood. Several U.S. presidents were also believed to have joined the ranks.

  But back in the late 1800s, when Sigmund Steinhart attended his first meeting, the club was still an association of the original Bohemians. Likely, Sigmund would have made the acquaintance of one of the group’s founding members, San Francisco writer Mark Twain.

  • • •

  AS OSCAR’S NIECE digested this last piece of information, she shifted the book away from her bifocal glasses and collapsed backward onto the bed, her head whirling with possibilities.

  In her mind’s eye, she imagined the private property where the club had held its secretive meetings. The Bohemian Grove, as it was aptly named, was located in the forested coastlands near the Russian River on the western edge of Sonoma County.

  It was probably at one of these retreats, she reasoned, deep within the Sonoma woods, that Sigmund came up with the idea of funding an aquarium for the growing city of San Francisco.

  Instantly, she pictured the elder Steinhart brother, contemplating his future endowment as he sat on a log next to his fellow Bohemian, a character from San Francisco’s past on whom her uncle had focused a great deal of his research: Mark Twain.

  The woman lay there on the bed, pondering. Was this a clue to the Steinharts—or something more?

  Information about the Bohemian Club would have been difficult to obtain, even for someone with her uncle’s unique resources.

  Had Oscar been a member of the secret club?

  Force of habit had driven her to use the past tense. She revised her last thought.

  Was Oscar a member?

  Chapter 20

  THE FRIED-CHICKEN ENTREPRENEUR

  ABOUT A HUNDRED yards off the heavily trafficked tourist trail of Columbus Avenue, a safe distance from the catcalls of the maître’d’s prowling the sidewalks outside the busy lineup of Italian restaurants, San Francisco’s North Beach neighborhood slipped into a more relaxed scene. The steeply sloping streets that wrapped around the south side of Telegraph Hill discouraged casual wanderers.

  It was mostly locals who congregat
ed outside a vintage coffee shop at the corner of Vallejo and Grant. The Italian tricolor hung proudly from the front awning. Opera floated out of an antiquated sound system to the sidewalk, where many of the shop’s patrons sat at rickety tables, enjoying the warm night.

  Ragged scarves and multi-colored wool socks had been discarded, revealing bare white feet, unmanicured toenails, and wind-smoothed faces. A game of canasta started up as drinks transitioned from coffee to Chianti.

  The café’s front door had been propped open, exposing an interior that was clean but not antiseptically so; care had been taken not to wipe the aura off the place.

  At one of the front tables, next to a knee-to-ceiling window, a serious-looking man in his mid-thirties sat nervously typing at his laptop. The would-be writer sucked in on his hollow cheeks, trying to capture the spirit of the famous local authors whose pictures were featured in a mural on the opposite interior wall. Many of the commemorated storytellers had honed their craft while sitting in this very café; some had likely scribbled at this same wobbly table.

  After each word, the man looked up at the painting and took a deep breath. Every keystroke represented an epic commitment to a phrase.

  The pressure of the previous authors soon took its toll. Sucking down the last dregs of his coffee, the man left his computer for a quick smoke on the curb outside.

  • • •

  AT THE CORNER, the aspiring novelist held a shaky lighter beneath his self-rolled cigarette as a man with a rolling paunch, a few day’s gray stubble, and wild flyaway eyebrows strolled slowly past.

  The elderly fellow had recently immigrated to North Beach’s Italian neighborhood—although his trip had involved only a few blocks, not an entire ocean.

  He wore a navy blue shirt and pants, both of which were dotted with grease stains and a light dusting of flour. In his arms, he carried a large paper bag he’d picked up at an exotic pet store up the hill.

  Hobbling down the uneven sidewalk toward Columbus, the man nodded a gruff recognition to the members of the canasta set, but he didn’t stop, at least not on that evening, to join the game.

  • • •

  A FEW MINUTES later, the old man reached the darkened storefront of James Lick’s Homestyle Chicken.

  He muttered a curse at the pigeons patrolling the entrance—threatening to add a new appetizer to the next day’s menu—but his face softened as he reached into his pocket for a small plastic bag.

  Flapping wings and satisfied cooing filled the air as the man pulled out a handful of breadcrumbs from the bag and scattered them across the sidewalk.

  Still grumbling about pigeon recipes, he pushed open the restaurant’s front door and stepped inside.

  • • •

  THE SPARSELY FURNISHED eating area contained several tables suited for family-style dining. Mismatched chairs lined the tables, and a few extra seats had been pushed up against the walls, which were otherwise mostly bare.

  The only decoration of note was a portrait of an elderly gentleman with a long, straight nose and otherwise flat face. A thick, messy beard grew down from the man’s jawline, giving the appearance of a ruffled collar. The rest of his torso was clad in a threadbare collared shirt and jacket. The fabric’s worn, scruffy condition was evident even in the black-and-white depiction.

  The portrait clearly conveyed the sense of an earlier era. A brass plate mounted on the wall beneath confirmed the image to be the restaurant’s namesake, the miserly millionaire James Lick.

  • • •

  THE MODERN-DAY LICK—WHOSE financial status remained as much a mystery as his real identity—shuffled across the dining room to the kitchen.

  He slid the large paper bag from the pet store across the counter to his business partner, who was manning a sink of dirty dishes, the last cleanup task remaining from that evening’s dinner service.

  Harold Wombler looked up from the sink and wiped his wrinkled wet hands on a dishtowel. No words were needed; neither man was the type for unnecessary verbal communication.

  Harold dug around inside the paper bag, nodded a grunting acknowledgment, and, carrying it with him, headed for the restaurant’s front door. The items in the sink could wait until he returned.

  • • •

  AFTER HAROLD LEFT, Lick ambled to the rear of the kitchen and out the building’s back exit. In the alley behind the restaurant, not far from a large Dumpster, he stopped in front of a shed whose door was secured with a heavy iron lock.

  After a cautious glance over his shoulder, he pulled the plastic sack of breadcrumbs from his pants pocket, dug around inside it, and fished out a metal key, one end of which was formed in the shape of a three-petaled tulip.

  With a heavy puff, he blew a light coating of crumbs from the tooled iron surface; then he fed the key into the lock and pulled open the shed’s door.

  A neon tube suspended from the ceiling flickered on, illuminating rows of dusty shelving. Boxes and crates of all sizes, shapes, and conditions of wear had been stuffed into the cramped space.

  Lick rummaged through several half-open containers, occasionally taking an item out and holding it up to the dim light. After a few minutes of casual sorting, he turned his attention to the outfit he’d worn at the Academy of Sciences earlier that afternoon. Carefully, he repacked the pile of ragged beggar’s clothes in its box.

  As he prepared to leave the shed, Lick glanced up at a clothing rod mounted along the back wall. The bar held the hangers for a number of costumes, each one covered in a clear plastic bag.

  A rumpled linen suit hung from the near end of the rack. Leather lace-up boots rested on the floor beneath.

  In a small kit attached to this outfit lay a bristly white mustache—one meant to emulate a writer who had spent several years in San Francisco—the modern-day Lick’s favorite character from the time period: Mark Twain.

  Chapter 21

  THE GATOR-NAPPING

  A WHITE CARGO van pulled away from the rear loading dock outside the California Academy of Sciences, leaving behind a Swamp Exhibit with several confused turtles and a heated rock that was missing its regular reptilian occupant.

  After a few winding curves, the vehicle picked up Highway One and headed north into the sleeping city.

  It would be several hours before the Academy’s alligator staff discovered that their prized specimen had disappeared.

  • • •

  CLIVE BLINKED HIS large gray eyes, trying to adjust his albino-diminished vision to the dim lighting in the van’s rear cargo area.

  Even if he’d had crystal clear eyesight, there wouldn’t have been much for him to see. He was surrounded on three sides by the van’s metal walls. A stiff cloth-covered barrier separated the cargo hold from the front seating area.

  Clive stared forlornly at the dark ceiling. He had only himself to blame for this predicament, he thought miserably.

  He had followed the trail of tasty fish pellets right up the ramp into the back of the van. No sooner had he gulped down the last pellet than the rear door had swung shut behind him. The subsequent grinding cinch of metal had indicated the securing of a lock.

  It was at that moment he realized his stomach might have led him into trouble.

  • • •

  CLIVE SHIFTED HIS weight, testing the slick surface beneath his feet. His front claws—all five plus four of them—gripped the metal brackets bolted onto the floor as the van careened around a sharp corner.

  Who were these scheming bandits? he thought with worry. And where were they taking him?

  He couldn’t make out much beyond the nefarious pair’s shadowed heads.

  The driver was a small bald man. Clive squinted in frustration at the tiny frame hunched over the van’s steering wheel, but the man’s silhouette was unknown to him.

  The gator did recognize the fellow in the right front passenger seat. He was the one who had called out to him from the seahorse balcony. The voice had been strangely familiar, but Clive couldn’t quite place the man
’s rugged physique. He sensed, however, that he had seen this scoundrel before.

  Every day, thousands of humans peered over the Swamp Exhibit’s balcony. It was impossible for Clive to keep track of all those onlookers. Even if he had recognized the criminal, he reasoned, that knowledge was of little use to him now.

  His panic growing by the second, Clive’s head swam with grim possibilities.

  Were these men poachers? Thieves? Was he about to be featured in a new line of designer handbags?

  Or worse, he thought with a shudder, cowboy boots?

  The last time Clive left the confines of the Swamp Exhibit, he’d wound up on an operating room table with a front digit sawed off. At the end of this journey, he feared, he might be missing more than just a toe.

  Only hours earlier, he remembered ruefully, he had been touting his life story’s remarkable success, his great fortune among the ranks of albino alligators.

  His luck had apparently just run out.

  • • •

  A FEW MINUTES later, the van slowed and, after a short pause, made a wide turn. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as the vehicle pulled to a stop in a secluded wooded area.

  Clive watched as his captor in the front passenger seat turned to look over the front partition. A light mounted onto the van’s roof clicked on, illuminating the man’s face.

  A burly bloke with scruffy red hair and a chin full of rough stubble smiled down at him.

  “How’re you doing back there, Clive?” the man asked kindly. “Are you ready for your vacation?”

  Clive seized on the word. Vacation? Was that crude slang for euthanasia—or did he dare hope that he might survive this abduction after all?

  The van doors swung open, letting in the warm nighttime air. Crickets hummed in the bushes, a calm, soothing sound.

  Clive hesitated at the doorway and looked down the ramp that the men had propped up against the van’s bumper.