That’s my only complaint about this place, he grumbled, eying a pair of plump ducks paddling a short distance away. Too many feathers in the food.
His snout sank into the water as he reluctantly assumed a stealth approach on the birds. He was about to move in for the kill when he sensed a disturbance at the edge of the lake.
What’s this? Clive mused, immediately intrigued.
• • •
THE NIECE SCANNED her flashlight’s beam over the water’s surface, but the light did little to cut through the dense, soupy fog. She stood beside the lake’s southernmost bench, holding onto the leashes for her cats, both of whom sat on its seat.
Turning, she glanced nervously at a short rise behind the bench, where a homeless man slept in the grass, but after a puzzling stare at his snoring heap she quickly returned her attention to her wet suit–clad neighbor.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” she asked as Monty slipped his snorkel gear over his head. “I don’t think you have the right information about Clive . . .”
“You’ll see,” Monty cut in, his boast a little too confident. “He’ll be just like a puppy dog.”
“Monty,” the woman tried again as he splashed into the reeds. “You don’t understand . . .”
“Cllliii-iive,” he called out stubbornly. “Over here, ally-gator, ally-gator.”
The niece sighed with frustration. Shrugging, she looked down at Isabella.
“I give up.”
The cat’s face crimped dubiously, but, after a moment’s reflection, she pawed the air instructively.
“Mrao.”
“I suppose you’re right,” the woman conceded with a sigh. “The gator might choke on his snorkel.”
She hesitated a second longer before calling out again.
“Monty, wait!”
But her voice was drowned out by a pair of squawking ducks. Monty’s head dipped below the water as a loud grating sound ricocheted across the lake.
Chomp.
The niece covered her mouth with her hand.
“Oh dear.”
Chapter 71
A LIFE CUT SHORT
THE MAN GASPED with painful surprise as the first tearing slice ripped through his body, across his chest, and down his left arm. The second puncture seared his left lung. His breath whistled out of the wound.
It all happened so quickly. His attacker had appeared from out of nowhere. He spun around, trying to defend himself, but his assailant’s face was a blur.
“Why?” his voice wheezed in shock and disbelief.
The third blow brought him to his knees.
Blood gushed onto the floor. A gurgling flow filled his mouth, gagging him, choking him.
Disoriented and quickly losing consciousness, he tumbled to the hard marble floor at the foot of the Harvey Milk bust.
Spider reached out with his right arm, struggling to crawl toward the stairs, but the trauma inflicted to his body was too severe. His eyes fluttered; the brown skin on his young face began to pale and stiffen.
His blue baseball cap lay upended, teetering on its rounded crown next to his outstretched hand, where his fingers still grasped the crumpled piece of paper.
• • •
AFTER WATCHING THE young man’s last writhing breath, a mysterious figure stealthily bent to the marble floor and, with a gloved hand, removed the note that had summoned the young staffer to his death.
Chapter 72
AN EMPTY BELLY
MONTGOMERY CARMICHAEL ABANDONED his flippers as he streaked out of the lake. His bare feet scrambled through the reeds near the shoreline and up the muddy embankment. His skinny legs had never pumped so fast; rarely had his slim body exerted such physical effort.
The newly appointed Mayor of San Francisco never once looked back at the pale white glow of the albino alligator forlornly watching his fleeing dinner.
• • •
CLIVE FLOATED DISAPPOINTEDLY in the water, cursing his poor eyesight. He had been so close to capturing the feather-free creature, but it had slipped away from him at the last minute. The meal might have been a bit bony, he reflected, trying to comfort himself as he rotated his long body back toward the center of the lake.
Ducks it is, he thought with a gloomy shiver. His short, stubby legs paddled through the water. He was really starting to miss his heated rock.
• • •
JUST AS CLIVE was about to droop off into duck-induced depression, a hobo-dressed figure carrying a large sack appeared at the edge of the lake. With a sharp summoning whistle, the man reached into his bag and pulled out a small brown puck-shaped object.
Clive blinked. He dared not believe what he was seeing.
The puck sailed through the air, skipping across the surface of the water like a rock, until it stopped and began to sink about a foot from Clive’s pointed snout. The alligator moved instinctively toward the pellet.
Chomp.
Chapter 73
THE PIED PIPER
HOXTON FIN TROMPED into the Palace Hotel, strode wearily down its lavishly decorated main corridor, and pulled open the heavy wooden doors for the Pied Piper Bar. Sliding into a stool facing the several-foot-long Maxfield Parrish painting that gave the bar its name, he slumped over the mahogany counter and ordered a cocktail. The sharp, brooding angles of his face deepened as he stared at the wall, lost in thought.
The bartender placed a liquor-filled glass in front of the sulking reporter. Hox waved his hand over the glass, blocking the barman from adding a toothpicked cherry or the offered slice of orange.
• • •
AS HOX GLARED down the bartender, an elderly woman in a feather-plumed hat slid into the seat beside him. Hox turned to stare at his drinking companion. He’d seen the woman several times at City Hall—she was always there, with her ridiculous hats, lurking around the edges, but he’d never been able to figure out in what capacity. Regardless, his curiosity on matters bizarre was at a low ebb.
“Not now, Dilla,” Hox grumbled into his drink.
“I’ve been following your latest reports on the telly,” she replied, not in any way taken aback by his gruff demeanor. “Your investigative journalism on the alligator . . .”
Hox took a swig of his drink. “Should have been paying more attention to the board of supervisors.”
“Now, now, dear,” she said, a twinkle in her eye. “You were on the right track.”
Slowly, Hox set his glass on the bar. He swiveled in his stool, eyeing her suspiciously.
Dilla leaned toward him and whispered conspiratorially, “Clive’s ready to come home. Someone just needs to find him.”
She winked up at the Pied Piper painting.
“Are you ready to lead the pack to his location?”
Chapter 74
HOW TO TAIL A CAT
“THIS IS HOXTON Fin reporting from Mountain Lake, where Clive, the missing alligator from the California Academy of Sciences, was found earlier this evening. Half an hour ago, Academy scientists used compacted fish pellets to lure Clive out of the water and into a truck, which has transported him back to the Swamp Exhibit. Police are still on the hunt for the red-haired man seen accompanying Clive around San Francisco the last couple of days.”
Hox turned to allow the cameraman to pan his lens over the still-chaotic scene. News teams surrounded by bright floodlights lit up the lake. A number of police cars along with a handful of fire trucks were crammed into the small gravel parking lot near the playground. Curious residents from a nearby neighborhood walked about the area, pointing at the water.
Grimacing, Hox returned his gaze to the camera.
“In a perplexing addendum to this story, just prior to Clive’s rescue, Montgomery Carmichael, the city’s new Interim Mayor, was seen fleeing the area in a full-body wet suit. I believe we have some shaky cell-phone video on this that was sent in to the station. Interim Mayor Carmichael will no doubt have some explaining to do at his first press conference, scheduled for tomorrow morning.
”
Hox paused, his rugged face paling as he transitioned to a second breaking story.
“In other news, a young man was found murdered tonight at City Hall. Just eighteen, the victim was a junior staffer for the Outgoing Mayor. His body was discovered by a member of the janitorial staff at the top of the central marble staircase near the Harvey Milk commemorative bust. We will, of course, keep you up-to-date as more details become available.”
• • •
JAMES LICK SAT behind the wheel of the large white cargo van, listening to the news update from the vehicle’s radio. As Hoxton Fin finished his report, Lick reached a worn, stubby hand for the dial and turned off the radio. Then he returned his grip to the steering wheel and steadied the van as its tires bumped across one of the lower outbound lanes of the Bay Bridge.
Sam Eckles rode in the front passenger seat, holding two ventilated glass carriers in his lap, each one amphibian occupied. On their way out of the city, Sam had introduced the three new frogs to the two older frogs. The two camps stared curiously at each other through the glass walls, googly eyes to googly eyes.
A third carrier rested on the floor of the van near Sam’s feet. This cage held a tiny hairless mouse, who had curled up in a soft handkerchief-sized blanket and dozed off to sleep.
“Take a good look, fellas,” Sam whispered to the frogs, holding the carriers up to the window as the van approached the bridge’s Treasure Island exit and midpoint tunnel. “We won’t be back for a good long while.”
The driver flexed his stiff arthritic hands as his rounded shoulders hunched forward in the seat. The sooner they got off the interstate, the better. They would be taking the back roads that night through the Sonoma hills to a reclusive compound near the Bohemian Grove.
Lick glanced in his rearview mirror. The headlamps from a passing semi threw light onto the floor of the back cargo area. Next to a discarded fish pellet lay a crumpled canvas heap. Lick’s eyes squinted as the glare lessened, and the image became clearer.
With a sad sigh, he returned his eyes to the road. He couldn’t bear to look at the blood-spattered backpack.
Their latest caper had gone horribly awry.
• • •
THE NIECE SAT on the cratered-out couch in the living room in the apartment above the Green Vase antiques shop, staring at the lamp on the nearby end table.
On the floor next to the coffee table lay a souvenir she’d found on her doorstep when she and the cats returned from Mountain Lake earlier that evening. The mechanical alligator tail was a far less convincing imitation when unattached to the rest of the robot’s body.
Even Rupert was no longer afraid of the appendage. He crouched next to the end piece, his own tail swirling in the air as he tentatively swatted a paw at the leathery exterior.
“I don’t know, Issy,” the woman said, turning her gaze from the lamp to the cat perched on the couch’s opposite armrest. “I just can’t shake the sense that I missed something here.”
Isabella let out a sleepy yawn, as if to convey that she’d given up trying to lead her person through Uncle Oscar’s obscure clues.
“Unless . . .” the niece said, standing from her seat. Thoughtfully tapping her finger against her chin, she walked into the kitchen.
Crossing the tile floor, the woman reached for the handle to the refrigerator’s freezer compartment. She pulled open the door and removed the large plastic bag containing the butcher paper–wrapped package labeled “boneless breast meat”—the bundle that Monty had carried through the basement tunnel to Union Square—the one that Harold Wombler had insisted on giving her during her last visit to the still-operational fried-chicken restaurant.
Brow furrowed, the niece set the package on the kitchen table. Carefully, she began peeling back the stiff outer layer of the frozen plastic bag. When she’d uncovered a sizable portion of butcher paper, she fetched a knife from a nearby drawer and used it to slice away the paper. After a few minutes’ work, she lifted the sheet.
She shook her head at the clear block of ice revealed beneath.
Frozen in the block’s center was a large gold object, cast in the shape of a standing seahorse. A date stamped into the design indicated the year the Steinhart Aquarium first opened for business: 1923.
• • •
AS THE NIECE stared down at the table, she heard a banging bump in the living room. Wiping her hands on a hastily grabbed paper towel, she hurried out of the kitchen.
Rushing to the living room door, she quickly found the source of the noise.
Rupert’s furry orange and white body staggered back and forth next to the coffee table, his head encased in the fake alligator tail.
Isabella sat on the armrest, serenely observing his predicament. She looked up at her person as the woman stifled a laugh.
Isabella blinked her blue eyes and assumed a smug expression that clearly transmitted her thoughts.
“I figured out how to tail a cat.”
• • •
For more books by this author, click here
Titles by Rebecca M. Hale
Cats and Curios Mysteries
HOW TO WASH A CAT
NINE LIVES LAST FOREVER
HOW TO MOON A CAT
HOW TO TAIL A CAT
Mysteries in the Islands
ADRIFT ON ST. JOHN
How To Tail a Cat Page 24