How to Catch a Cat

by Rebecca M. Hale

  THE NINJA TAKES ANOTHER

  BAY AREA ASSASSIN SKEWERS CITY HALL INTERN

  NAUGHTY KNITTER NOTCHES ONE MORE VICTIM

  Conventional wisdom now assumed that the Ninja had taken up a disguise—leading to a second series of bold-type banners.

  NINJA GIVES SLEUTHS THE SLIP

  HOW WELL DO YOU KNOW YOUR NEIGHBOR?

  NURSING HOME KNITTING CIRCLE NEEDLED BY COPS

  Hox grunted as he flipped through the pages. Each round of publicity, he sensed, only increased the likelihood of another kill.

  He had a bad feeling about the police department’s covert intern operation. He leaned back in the conference room’s creaking chair, surveyed the cluttered table, and wondered how long it would be until the next slaying.

  “You’d better watch your back, Toronto.”

  Angel Island, near the Anchored San Carlos

  August 1775

  Chapter 40

  POSSESSED

  “THAT’S PREPOSTEROUS!”

  Father Monty shook his head, refusing to accept the niece’s interpretation of the images the Indian chief had drawn in the sand. He absolutely rejected the notion that something evil had invaded their ship.

  They were on their way back to the San Carlos, having bade good-bye to their new friends at the campfire. Father Monty led the way down the return path. The niece followed several feet behind, pushing the cat-filled stroller.

  “Absolutely ridiculous!”

  Father Monty’s ranting could be heard all along the beach.

  “I’m a priest,” he said, stopping to turn and wag his finger at the niece. “Trust me, I would know if the ship was possessed.”

  He resumed his pace, no less agitated. “I have specific training in this area.” He threw his hands in the air. “No respect, I tell you.”

  The niece glanced down at the stroller and exchanged looks with Isabella.

  A discreet warble of skepticism floated up from the carriage.

  “Mrao.”

  —

  BY THE TIME Father Monty reached the gangplank that had been left propped down to the beach, he’d nearly lost his voice.

  While the niece still viewed the priest with suspicion and distrust, those feelings were now evenly matched—if not surpassed—with that of annoyance.

  Thankfully, the buzz on board the San Carlos drowned out Monty’s last hoarse complaints.

  Humphretto and his team had just returned from their exploration of the bay’s south shoreline, and the lieutenant was eager to share what they’d found.

  As the niece hefted the cat carriage up the slanted walkway, Humphretto began his enthusiastic report.

  “Unbelievable find, Captain. You could not imagine a better port. Yes, yes, okay, it’s a bit marshy there along the shore, but we can work with that.”

  A few muttered grumbles rumbled up from the men who had paddled the canoes.

  “Okay, yes, there were some issues with the current,” he said defensively. “But nothing like what we experienced coming in from the Pacific.”

  Ayala listened to the discourse, vaguely amused and secretly jealous of the excursion. It had been difficult for him to remain on the ship while watching Humphretto and the other crew members through his scope. Frustrated, the captain pressed down on his injured foot, an action that sent a shot of pain up through his leg, a reminder of why he had been forced to stay behind.

  The captain hadn’t spent the whole afternoon with his foot propped up. Restless, he’d taken advantage of the lull to conduct another search of the ship.

  The few crew members still on board had been busy swabbing the deck, cleaning the rigging, and checking the intricate network of ropes for nicks or frays. Down below in his galley, Oscar had hummed while chopping up ingredients for the night’s meal. But beyond these areas of activity, the captain had been able to inspect the San Carlos unimpeded.

  He’d scoured every available inch, hoping to find some previously overlooked clue to the deckhand’s murder—or to the phantom stowaway widely believed to have killed him.

  Everything had been disturbingly normal.

  He’d found nothing but his own increased unease.

  —

  STILL PONDERING THE mystery, Ayala turned to greet Father Carmichael, who had just stepped off the gangplank and onto the deck.

  “How was your walk?”

  “Indians,” Monty croaked hoarsely.

  Ayala thumped his left thigh with his spyglass. His face registered concern.

  “Were they friendly?”

  Monty threw his hands in the air. “Witchcraft-practicing heathens . . . uncivilized barbarians . . .” Then he stomped down the stairs toward his quarters.

  Puzzled, the captain shifted his attention to the niece. With his free hand, he grabbed the front rim of the wicker stroller and helped her lift it over the top of the gangplank.

  “Well?”

  The niece shrugged. “They fed us a nice lunch.”

  Ayala sensed there was something more. “And?”

  From the cat compartment, Isabella called out her response.

  “Mrao.”

  The niece translated the remark for the captain.

  “The Indians think the San Carlos is cursed.”

  Chapter 41

  THE MORNING ROUTINE

  OSCAR ROSE THE next morning at his regular predawn hour. Rolling out of his bunk, he dressed and yawned his way to the kitchen.

  Coffee was the first order of business.

  He crouched in front of the stove, wrenched open the blackened metal door to access the lower grate, and stirred the coals. With an expertise honed over many years of repetition, he puffed on the glowing embers and fed in tiny pieces of kindling until a flame flickered and began to grow.

  With the stove warming, he prepared for his least-favorite task of the morning: pulling his arthritic body into a standing position after starting the fire.

  He wasn’t one to delay a necessary but painful endeavor. Both hands gripped the nearest countertop as Oscar heaved his body upward. A loud creak signified the popping of joints. Panting, he gripped the small of his back and waited for the ache to subside.

  The niece would gladly have started the fire for him each morning, but he didn’t like to wake her. And besides, he wouldn’t be able to carry on his cooking duties much longer. Best to keep up his mobility for as long as he could. At some point, the niece would have to take over. He wanted to delay that inevitability for as long as possible.

  Pulling open a cabinet door, he reached inside for the container of coffee grounds. He held the open tin under his nose and let the rich smell engulf his senses.

  “Ahh.” His scruffy eyebrows pumped as he soaked in the aroma.

  Feeling much more awake, Oscar dumped a spoonful of coffee into a metal percolator, topped the container off with water, and set it on the stove to heat.

  —

  A ROOSTER’S MUFFLED crow summoned Oscar to the opposite side of the ship.

  He reached for a basket and hobbled out of the kitchen to the main corridor. With a grimace at the snores emanating from behind the chapel door, he proceeded down the hallway, stopping at the end farthest away from the steps leading to the main deck.

  Here, the chicken chatter was much louder. Behind a grated metal door, Oscar entered the ship’s small chicken coop.

  A well-known figure among the coop’s feathered residents, the chef was greeted with disgruntled clucks and defensive hunkering.

  Thus began the morning’s regular testy exchange.

  Oscar approached the first nest and tentatively slid his hand out.

  “Now, then, Bessie. I’m only taking what I need . . .”

  Bessie was unmoved by this assurance. Her beak jumped out and pecked Oscar’s skin.

  “Ow!” He rubbed the sore spot on his finger. “I’ll remember that, little lady. There’ll be another feast before we pull up anchor and head out of here.” He gave the chicken a meaningful stare.
/>   “A good excuse for me to use my big skillets.”

  —

  MUTTERING ABOUT FRIED chicken revenge, Oscar returned to the kitchen with a basketful of eggs.

  Pouring himself a cup of fresh coffee, he cleaned his hands and started on the biscuits. He poured flour and water into a large bowl, still grumbling to himself as he eyed the amounts.

  With a wooden spoon, he folded over the mixture and then tested the consistency with the tip of a finger.

  The eyebrows pumped again as he adjusted the balance by adding a tad more flour.

  A dash of salt, a dollop of lard, a spoonful of baking soda, and a few other secret seasonings topped off the ingredients. Once the components were evenly distributed, he turned the bowl sideways and rolled the resulting sticky lump out onto his flour-dusted counter. Minutes later, a greased pan full of circular-cut mounds was ready to slide into the oven.

  Turning to the next portion of the meal, Oscar sliced up several dozen links of sausage and began heating them in a pan.

  While he waited for the meat to cook, he glanced through the galley to the quarters he shared with his niece. The young woman was still asleep in her bunk, her arms wrapped around Rupert, whose furry head shared her pillow.

  Isabella emerged from the covers and hopped onto the floor. She stretched her legs in a deep lunge and sauntered into the kitchen.

  She and Oscar shared a good-morning gaze—before they both froze with alarm. Back arching, Isabella let out a hissing growl.

  A foreign odor had entered the kitchen, overriding the combined smells of the coffee, the baking biscuits, and the sausage.

  It was the lemony-sweet scent of a woman’s perfume.

  Chapter 42

  TORONTINO

  OSCAR FINISHED PREPARING breakfast, trying to forget about the perfume. The scent had vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. The kitchen had quickly returned to its robust breakfast aroma.

  Neither he nor Isabella shared the most recent perfume intrusion with the niece as she and Rupert woke and drowsily joined them.

  The cooking team was soon caught up in the busiest segment of the morning’s meal preparation. An industrial-sized pot of coffee bubbled on the stove. The biscuits reached a flaky golden shade and were rescued from the oven just before burning. Sausage links were rolled into a serving dish; their skillet was then used to cook a heap of scrambled eggs.

  But the task of simultaneously bringing multiple dishes to completion wasn’t enough to fully distract Oscar—or Isabella—from thoughts of the portentous perfume.

  —

  TOO SLEEPY TO pick up on her uncle’s anxiety (and not keen enough to notice Isabella’s masked unease), the niece began carrying trays of food up to the ship’s top deck.

  Hungry sailors lined the dining table, thirstily passing around the vat of coffee. A full day’s exploring was on the agenda and the men were eager to fill up before heading out on the canoes.

  The platters of sausage and biscuits were met with cheers. The arrival of the scrambled eggs received another round of applause.

  The niece grinned at the antics. “I’ll pass your approval on to the chef.”

  From his seat at the head of the table, Captain Ayala leaned back and stroked his chin, relieved at the improved morale. The ship was back on track. His foot felt immensely better after being elevated all night while he slept. He might even join the day’s outing.

  Between mouthfuls, one of the crew members called out. “Hey, where’s Torontino? Somebody should pull him out of bed.”

  Humphretto swallowed a bite and politely wiped his mouth with a napkin.

  “Torontino. What a pleasant chap. I sat him down for a haircut last night. Shaved off that mullet and left him with a trim buzz cut. You’ll hardly recognize him. I think it suits his face. So much easier to maintain while on ship.”

  The niece arrived with the last menu item, a saucer of gravy. No sooner had she delivered the dish to the table than a horrified shriek rose up from below.

  Concerned, she raced back to the steps, worried that something had happened to her uncle.

  She clasped a hand to her chest, thankful to see him standing—unharmed—at the opening to the lower corridor.

  Oscar grimly shook his head.

  The shriek had emanated from Father Monty. The priest had gone back to the chapel to fetch his cuff links, which he’d forgotten to put on before breakfast.

  He’d found a body on the floor by the confessional.

  Another crew member had met a grisly end. A man whose head had been freshly shaved in a stylish crew cut lay facedown in a pool of blood.

  A collective gasp rose from the deck as the news circled the table.

  It’s Torontino.

  Ayala jumped from his chair and raced down the stairs. His left foot was once more throbbing with pain by the time he pounded into the chapel.

  On the ground a few feet from the body, he spied a pair of bloody knitting needles. The curved points had been fitted with a sharp blade. They were exact replicas of the first murder weapon.

  Father Monty stared down at the body. He was fixed to the spot, his expression unreadable. He hadn’t moved since making the gory discovery.

  Suddenly, he slapped his hands together.

  “Right then.” He looked up at the captain and added briskly, “I’d better get started with that exorcism.”

  Modern-Day San Francisco

  One Month Prior to the America’s Cup Regatta

  Chapter 43

  INTERNSHIP INTERMINABLE

  OFFICER TORONTO WAS soon immersed in his intern duties at City Hall.

  The niece had immediately put him to work. The better to make his undercover intern role convincing, she’d assured him.

  Toronto quickly found himself up to his ears in paperwork, phone calls, e-mails, and errands, all in support of Mayor Carmichael’s never-ending activities with the America’s Cup organizers.

  After a few weeks of intern duty with no sign of the Ninja—other than the occasional blitz of lemony-sweet perfume—he’d begun to have second thoughts about his assignment.

  The concept of sailing as a competitive sport was completely foreign to him. His feet had never left the solid comfort of land—truth be told, he didn’t even like boats. But having grown up in San Francisco and worked its steep streets for years as a beat cop, he’d grown used to the bay’s constant presence, a corner of blue peeking around the next corner, the wide expanse that popped into view at the top of a hill.

  Trapped inside the claustrophobic confines of the intern cubicles in City Hall’s dreary basement, he felt restless and utterly inept.

  Toronto flipped open a file folder and began wading through the specifications for yet another sailing-related promotional event. With a restless sigh, he ran his hands over his crew cut’s fuzzy bristle.

  Waiting for a seasoned serial killer to make her next move was not near as glamorous as he’d thought it would be.

  He was an overworked paper pusher, a secretarial sitting duck who could be picked off at any moment by a knitting needle–crazed nanny.

  This assignment was starting to wear on his nerves.

  And he really missed his long hair.

  • • •

  ONE MONTH BEFORE the start of San Francisco’s America’s Cup, two months into Officer Toronto’s interminable internship, Mayor Carmichael threw open the door to his office, startling both the niece and the undercover intern, who were discussing the latest promotional project.

  Isabella calmly shifted her gaze to the doorway. The filing cabinet perch, she’d found, transmitted excellent acoustics. Even through the thick wooden door, she’d heard Monty’s footsteps crossing the inner office.

  As for Rupert, he merely yawned from his sprawled position on the pillowed cat bed. Few events warranted disruption of his midmorning nap, especially when he’d been dreaming about fried chicken donuts. He smacked his lips together and rolled over, covering his face with his paws.

/>   Monty snapped the collar of a black overcoat he’d pulled on over his suit.

  “I’ve just had a call from the Baron,” he announced dramatically.

  The niece and Toronto exchanged weary looks, afraid of what might be coming next.

  The America’s Cup had been Monty’s primary focus since he took office in January, but in recent weeks, the upcoming sailboat race had garnered his full attention. He had no interest in anything else—including any issue remotely related to his actual mayoral duties.

  In any other instance, such negligent behavior by a sitting mayor would have been met with censure and rebuke. But given Monty’s eccentric reputation, the rest of City Hall had decided that a distracted mayor was preferable to one with potentially misguided activism. The board of supervisors had carried on with the city’s business, leaving Monty to his regatta fixation.

  “Come along, team,” he said with a flourish that included Rupert and Isabella. “We’ve been invited to the pier for a tour of the pavilion.”

  The niece held up the file she and Toronto had been discussing.

  “We’ve got too much work to do. Can’t you go without us?”

  Monty rushed forward and snatched the file from her hands. “They’ve just finished the pier renovations—you’ll want to see that—and . . .” He drew the last word out into a dramatic pause.

  “I’m going for a ride on the official team racing boat!”

  The niece shrugged. “That should be entertaining.” She began loading the cats into their stroller.

  “Count me in!” Eager for the chance to escape City Hall, Officer Toronto scooped up a clipboard with his latest notes, gave the ringing telephone a surly look, and helped the niece through the main door with the cat carriage.

  Quiet fell upon the mayor’s office suite.

  Then a surge of lemony perfume swilled down from the ceiling and onto the niece’s desk.