How to Catch a Cat

by Rebecca M. Hale

  He’d just completed his morning routine in the red igloo litter box, including the ever-important spastic litter box dance.

  Stopping in front of the niece, he threw his body into a head-to-toe vibration, shaking loose the last pieces of litter still clinging to his fuzzy coat.

  “Wrao-wao,” he called out when he was finished, announcing his arrival.

  Isabella peeked out of the stroller to give her brother a disparaging look. Rupert happily allowed himself to be scooped up by the niece and set inside the passenger compartment. Undeterred by Isabella’s frosty demeanor, he leaned over and gave his sister an adoring lick across the face.

  Smiling at Rupert’s antics, the niece zipped up the carriage netting and spun the stroller toward the door.

  Pausing by the entrance, she stuffed her raincoat into the stroller’s side pocket, a precaution against San Francisco’s unpredictable spring weather.

  As the niece nudged the stroller through the iron-framed doorway, the town car assigned to drive Monty to City Hall stopped in front of his art studio.

  He had offered several times to give the niece and her cats a ride to the office, but she had steadfastly refused. She shuddered to think of the gossip that would ensue if she arrived at City Hall in the same vehicle as her boss. She received enough attention for bringing the cats into work with her, but that had been one of the many conditions she’d negotiated for her short-term employment.

  As she set off down the street, Isabella’s guiding chirp floated up from the stroller. They had walked the route numerous times, but the cat never failed to issue her navigational commands. It was her duty to make sure the stroller didn’t veer off course.

  Rupert, meanwhile, snuggled into the carriage blankets, ready for his morning stroller snooze.

  The town car pulled up beside the niece at the first corner. The rear passenger window rolled down, and Monty stuck out his head.

  “Sure you don’t want a lift?” he asked brightly.

  Before the niece could answer, Isabella called out a negative reply.

  Even the cat was concerned about the damage that might be done to her reputation if she was seen riding in a car with Mayor Monty.

  “Mrao.”

  Chapter 19

  FRIED CHICKEN DONUTS

  AFTER A TWO-MILE walk, Isabella announced their arrival at City Hall.

  “Wrao.”

  “Yes, I know,” the niece replied as she lifted the stroller up the building’s front steps. “We’re here.”

  Isabella pushed her head against the netting that covered the passenger compartment, trying to see out over the front of the carriage. A constant string of feline chatter warbled up from the stroller. So far, the niece had yet to tip over the contraption while the cats were inside it, but Isabella wasn’t taking any chances.

  A security guard pulled open the door and held it for the niece while she steered the carriage through. The green nylon cat stroller—and its feline occupants—were by now well known to the security staff.

  “Good morning, Rupert and Isabella,” the guard said as he swallowed a bite from his morning donut. He wiped powdered sugar from his lips and nodded to his colleague standing behind the security scanner inside.

  “Hardest-working cats I know.”

  The niece smiled her greeting and guided the stroller up to the security counter. The second guard waved the stroller through with only a quick glance at the interior.

  As the niece reached the opposite side of the scanner’s walk-through portal, the first guard bent toward the zipped netting and held out a small chunk of donut.

  “Hey, there, Rupert. You want to give this a try?”

  Hearing the cat’s lips smack with anticipation, the niece quickly intervened.

  “Sorry,” she said, rolling the stroller sideways to block the transfer. “That’s not on his diet.”

  The guard peered through the mesh cover and gave Rupert a conspiring wink.

  “That’s right, I forgot. I’ll have to get a fried chicken donut for you, won’t I, little buddy?”

  “How did you know about . . .” the niece began, but then stopped.

  With a sigh, she moved the stroller toward the main foyer.

  “Monty.”

  —

  MUTTERING ABOUT HER gossipy neighbor and the donut-pushing guard, the niece braked in front of the building’s first-floor elevator bank and pushed the call button for an upward-traveling cart.

  With a ding, the closest set of heavy metal doors slid open. The niece rolled the cats over the threshold and turned to wait for the unit to close.

  Before the panels could shut, a second woman strode briskly inside.

  “Morning, Wanda,” the niece said, suppressing a groan.

  Every morning, it seemed, she shared the elevator with the administrative assistant for the president of the board of supervisors.

  Wanda Williams greeted her with a cold accusing stare, and the niece wondered, not for the first time, why she’d ever agreed to this stint at City Hall. The place was a thicket of unexploded land mines, and the niece felt as if she stepped on one each time she entered the building.

  Wanda’s bruised ego was an easy fault wire to trip.

  She had applied for the position of Monty’s admin after he was appointed to the interim mayor’s slot, and she was still bitter that the niece had been awarded the job.

  Wanda had thick black hair, which she wore in a short bouffant style that lifted several inches off her forehead. Silver streaks streamed out from each temple, the gray highlighted by the pearl drop earrings hanging from her earlobes.

  The woman clearly disapproved of everything the niece did, starting, of course, with the fact that she brought her cats into work each day. But there was little Wanda could do about that since Mayor Carmichael had officially sanctioned the felines’ presence.

  She glared down at the stroller and sniffed derisively at the occupants.

  Curled up in the blankets dreaming about the mythical concoction of fried chicken donuts, Rupert was unaware of the snub. Isabella, however, sat stiffly in her seat, the hair on the back of her neck spiked with distrust.

  Their eyes met, Isabella’s and those of the woman with the wounded pride.

  Wanda was the first to look away.

  The elevator dinged again, signifying they’d reached the second floor.

  The niece smiled to herself. She would happily yield her position as soon as she was relieved of Knitting Needle Ninja duty.

  Until then, Wanda was destined to lose her daily staring contests with Isabella.

  Chapter 20

  THE SOUP CART VENDOR

  THE NIECE ROLLED the cat stroller into the second-floor mayor’s office suite, unaware that another member of the Ninja surveillance team had just arrived through City Hall’s subterranean service entrance.

  A vendor cart laden with several gallon-sized metal vats squeaked along a dark basement hallway. Barely visible behind the heavy load, an elderly cook slowly pushed the cart down the corridor.

  The cart carried eight different soups, each one prepared from scratch the previous evening. This being San Francisco, there needed to be at least three vegetarian options. Each serving came with a piece of fresh bread that was sliced to order on a wooden cutting board mounted to the cart’s front end.

  Once the chef reached City Hall’s main floor, he would plug the cart’s electrical cord into a designated wall socket. Heating elements attached to the vats would then simmer the contents under low heat for the next several hours. By late morning, a tempting smell would filter up through the rotunda to the second-floor offices.

  The Soup Vendor, as he was known throughout the Civic Center Plaza, had only serviced City Hall for a couple of months, but his hearty meals had quickly become a staple for the building’s office workers and the multitudes of tourists who stopped in to marvel at the ornate interior.

  No one knew much about the grumpy old man behind the soup cart. He wore a cap pul
led down over his eyes, and he rarely spoke to his hungry patrons. Each vat was clearly labeled; the price for a generous serving of soup was displayed on the cart’s front panels. There was little need for extraneous communication, and the vendor typically didn’t respond to casual chitchat.

  For Uncle Oscar, the soup cart was the perfect cover for keeping a close watch over his niece—and the rest of City Hall.

  He was convinced that this is where the Ninja would resurface.

  It was only a matter of time.

  He only hoped that he lived long enough to capture the killer.

  —

  OSCAR HAD LIVED a long eventful life, full of fond memories of meals shared with his eclectic group of friends, his niece, and her two cats. The years he’d spent puttering around in his beloved antique shop had been some of his happiest. Overall, he was pleased with the way his life had turned out, tickled by its many twists and turns, satisfied with the end result.

  But he knew he had reached his last days.

  The cumulative effect of several illnesses had deteriorated his health, and his ailing heart struggled to perform its pumping duties. He’d only recently regained the strength to walk after the latest bout of illness in January. The soup cart was often a prop to aid in his balance. He kept a wooden cane tucked into the metal side railing to use when he needed to step away from the cart’s support.

  Oscar had lived a shadowy existence for years. The time would soon come for him to fade into a permanent retirement. He was almost ready.

  He had one last mission to complete. Then he would let his weary body rest.

  —

  WITH A GRUNT, Oscar heaved the soup cart out of a service elevator and onto City Hall’s main level. Breathing heavily, he guided it across the marble floor to the edge of the rotunda. The soup vendor’s reserved electrical plug was located on a side wall, next to a street lamp–style light fixture.

  Gripping the cart with one hand, an ache in his back with the other, he stared up at the dome. The soaring structure was shaped like the interior of an eggshell, studded with circular tiers of decorative detailing that culminated in a faux ceiling. A tiny round orifice in the roof led to a gilded cupola at the very top of the building.

  After craning to squint up at the rotunda ceiling, Oscar’s gaze slowly drifted downward. His eyes paused on the windows that framed the upper walls beneath the dome. A section of stained glass had been mounted in the center of each wide pane. The decorative glass featured the outline of a dual-masted packet ship, the first European vessel to enter the San Francisco Bay.

  He lingered only a moment on the image of the San Carlos before his line of sight dropped from the window to the second-floor platform at the upper end of the building’s central marble staircase.

  The pained expression on Oscar’s face had nothing to do with his aching back. It was caused by the memory of the gory scene he had stumbled across a few months earlier.

  As he focused on the spot where the Ninja’s last intern victim had been murdered, he recalled the moment he recognized the signature wound marks on the body—and realized that Mabel had become a serial killer.

  —

  THE SOUP CONTAINERS began to warm, and the various mixtures of vegetables, broth, and meat started to release their flavors.

  Oscar checked the cart’s heat settings. Lifting the metal lids, he gave the contents of each vat a thorough stirring. Then he stepped back and wiped his hands on the apron he had tied over his navy blue collared shirt and matching pants.

  The cart and its cookers were safe to leave for a few minutes. He would make a quick pass through the building, his regular morning search for any sign of Mabel.

  The cane’s rubber tip squeaked against the marble floor as he lumbered toward the central staircase. The climb required strenuous effort, but the view from the elevated center provided a unique perspective and, in his opinion, was well worth the work.

  Halfway up the steps, he noticed a man walking briskly toward the mayor’s office suite on the rotunda’s upper south side. The distinctive left-limp gait of reporter Hoxton Finn was easy to pick out. The hobble was the result of an injury Hox had incurred several years earlier during a visit to the Los Angeles Zoo. He and his estranged spouse had received a behind-the-scenes tour of a Komodo dragon exhibit. The session was abruptly terminated when the ungracious lizard nipped off the end of Hox’s left toe. The marriage followed a similar course, culminating in divorce shortly thereafter.

  Hox didn’t let the amputated toe slow him down. If anything, the impairment only made him walk faster, as a means of compensation. The residual pain he dulled by smacking his notebook against his left leg, a popping sound that could routinely be heard throughout City Hall’s marble-filled interior.

  The reporter’s relentless energy was more than a reflection of his professional work ethic. He had made the Ninja case his personal cause, devoting numerous columns to the ongoing investigation, the lingering questions, and the societal threat.

  Hox, too, was on the hunt for the psychopathic secretary.

  Oscar rubbed the scruff on his chin as Hox passed the elevator bank and turned for the reception entrance to the mayor’s suite. With so many watchful eyes focused on City Hall, surely Mabel would be identified the moment she ventured inside.

  But then, he reflected with a disconcerted grunt, it had been far too easy for him to slip into the building using his soup vendor disguise.

  There was nothing left to do but wait for the next clue.

  He feared it would be a bloody one.

  • • •

  AS OSCAR STOOD at the midpoint of the central staircase, pondering the possible ways Mabel might infiltrate City Hall, he was unaware of how accurate he’d been in his intuitions.

  The Ninja had indeed returned to the building where she’d started her killing spree.

  And she had made the connection between the surly soup vendor and the former antique dealer who had publicly connected her to the knifed knitting needles.

  She hoped to find a few more interns on which to practice, but Oscar was now her main target.

  Chapter 21

  THE DESK

  THE NIECE PARKED the cat-filled stroller inside the reception area for the mayor’s office suite, pulled shut the main door, and began to unpack for the day’s work session.

  The first order of business was to immediately unzip the stroller to release the cats—or, at least, the female half of the pair.

  Isabella was very particular about the proper order of the morning activities. Once they’d reached their destination, the cat’s patience with being cooped up inside the stroller came to an end. Any delay in her being freed from the passenger compartment was met with a low growl that could quickly escalate to an offended hiss.

  “Here you go, Issy.”

  The niece flipped open the cover and stepped out of the way.

  A white blur leapt through the opening and landed delicately on the red carpet. Nose sniffing, ears and tail erect, Isabella set off on her daily tour of the office suite. She completed a brief inspection of the front reception and then slipped through the open door to Monty’s inner quarters.

  The niece followed Isabella into the room, which was missing its mayor.

  Monty had arrived earlier, having covered the distance from Jackson Square much quicker in the town car. The niece saw his raincoat hanging on a rack in the corner.

  “He’s probably bopping around the building,” the niece mused. She turned to follow Isabella back to the reception area. “And talking to security guards about fried chicken donuts.”

  The phrase elicited a sleepy grunt from the stroller. Rupert still snoozed in the carriage blankets, but certain words could penetrate his sleep.

  Isabella assumed a watchful stance on a filing cabinet beside the niece’s desk. Looking down from her perch, she issued a confirming opinion as to Monty’s likely whereabouts.

  “Mrao.”

  —

  THE NIECE
KICKED off her tennis shoes and socks, slipped off the running tights from beneath her skirt, and slid on a pair of flats she kept stored in a desk drawer. She pulled out her ponytail, smoothed her hair with her fingers, and retied it in a neater knot.

  There, she thought with a shrug, I guess I look somewhat presentable. That was the extent of her effort to clean herself up for the office—or anywhere else, for that matter. She took a natural, low-maintenance approach to her physical appearance. She’d never developed the hair and makeup skills that seemed to come so easily to other women.

  What you see is what you get, she added ruefully.

  Returning to the stroller, she bent to scoop up Rupert. One furry eyelid cracked open as the niece carried the snoring lump to a wire cage set up in a corner of the room. The inside was outfitted with a cat bed and a travel-sized igloo-shaped litter box.

  Most of the time, the cage was propped open so that Rupert and Isabella could lounge as they liked in the reception area or Monty’s office. Monty didn’t receive many visitors, and the suite’s main door generally remained shut. Plus, having spent several years hanging out in the Jackson Square antique shop, the cats were accustomed to occasional foot traffic.

  Leaning into the cage, the niece rolled Rupert onto the cat bed. He stretched his body into a long arc and yawned contentedly.

  She shook her head at the cat’s dreamy lip smack.

  “I don’t have the heart to tell him there’s no such thing as fried chicken donuts.”

  From the stroller’s various side pockets, the niece removed a small bag of cat food, a few cat toys, and the day’s reading material: a dog-eared text on the Europeans’ first foray into the San Francisco Bay that her uncle had mailed to her.

  So far, her work duties had been pretty minimal. She fielded the occasional phone call, organized Monty’s few appointments, and reviewed his official mail.

  The last category provided a regular source of humor. Monty was the type of public figure to attract bizarre constituent correspondence.

  The letters included all manner of off-the-wall suggestions for improving the city, various critiques on Monty’s well-known cuff link collection, and, perhaps most disturbing, a number of elaborately drafted marriage proposals.