How to Catch a Cat

by Rebecca M. Hale

  Having devised an overall plan of attack, they then headed out into the streets of San Francisco to search for the necessary supplies.

  They returned to City Hall later that afternoon with several large shopping bags.

  Isabella and Rupert inspected each item as it was removed from its sack.

  “What’s with the hat?” the niece asked, pointing at the purple pointed item Monty had just placed on his head.

  “Ooh, I’ve got one, too,” Van said, lifting up a rainbow-colored tie-dye version and setting it on his noggin.

  She grimaced at the intern’s headgear. “Have you also been ordained?”

  “I appointed him my associate bishop,” Monty replied. He gave the niece an impish grin. “I would have offered you the title, but you declined to join our purchasing expedition.”

  The niece rolled her eyes. “Thank goodness for small blessings.”

  —

  WITH THE PROPS unpacked and laid out across the floor, Monty and Van began to assemble an array of incense-burning devices they’d picked up in Chinatown.

  Soon several candles, votives, and ceramic containers of sandalwood and sage were organized in a circle in the middle of the floor. Van offered his cigarette lighter to ignite a foot-long wooden match, which Monty then used to spread the flame among the incense units.

  The niece crinkled her nose as a musky aroma spread through the room. “Maybe all this will get rid of the perfume.”

  “Hold up!” Monty exclaimed. He ran into his office and brought back a digital video camera. “Here.” He thrust it at the niece. “Make yourself useful.”

  “You want me to film this?”

  Monty blew out an exasperated sfft. “Of course. That’s the whole point. How am I going to convince the Baron I performed an exorcism if I don’t have video evidence?”

  Reluctantly, the niece took the camera and flipped on the recording switch. She aimed the lens at Monty as he finished lighting the various incense containers.

  “Oh!” He skipped over to the wall and turned the America’s Cup poster around so that its front once more faced into the room. “Make sure you get this in the video, too.”

  The stage now set, it was time for the ceremony to begin.

  Van sat on the floor, cross-legged, his arms folded in front of his chest, nodding and humming supportively.

  Monty stepped into the center of the ring of smoking canisters, straightened his purple hat, and held up a plastic crucifix purchased earlier from a tourist shop.

  “I, Reverend Interim Mayor Montgomery Carmichael, of the Church of Vincent Santa Maria . . .” He paused to take a breath—and choked on the incense smoke.

  Still coughing, he continued. “I, Reverend Carmichael, command the evil spirit of the Knitting Needle Ninja to leave this building and to permanently disassociate herself from San Francisco’s mayoral office.”

  Van stopped humming. He cleared his throat in a prompting manner.

  With a nod to his assistant, Monty added, “And I forbid you to do any harm to anyone employed as a mayoral intern.”

  The niece turned her head away from the camera’s viewfinder. She and Isabella exchanged dubious glances.

  Rupert, however, looked on in fascination. He remained hopeful that one of the shopping bags might contain yet another package—perhaps a box of fried chicken donuts.

  A sudden screech caused everyone to jump.

  It wasn’t the reply of the Ninja’s demonic spirit. The clouds of incense smoke had triggered the fire alarm.

  Seconds later, the sprinkler system lowered from the ceiling, and metal spigots began shooting water onto the floor.

  Humans and cats ran for cover. The ring of burning materials sputtered and hissed.

  The niece hovered with Isabella under the desk. Rupert zoomed inside his domed litter box.

  Monty and Van hopscotched around the room, dodging water spigots while holding on to their respective pointed hats.

  The reception door opened and Hoxton Finn stuck his head inside.

  The reporter took one look at the scene and threw up his hands.

  “I don’t want to know,” he muttered, before retreating back outside and shutting the door.

  —

  AFTER THE SPRINKLERS finally shut off, the niece and Van began mopping up puddles of water from the reception room’s carpet. As the smell of wet incense began to dissipate, she stared up at the holes in the ceiling where the spigots had descended, pondering.

  Isabella waved a paw in the air, concurring with her person’s hunch.

  The perfume smell had just returned.

  “Van,” the niece said. “You’re tall enough to reach up to those sprinkler heads, aren’t you?”

  On Board the San Carlos

  San Francisco Bay, August 1775

  Chapter 54

  A MAN OF THE WOODS

  CAPTAIN AYALA SAT at his desk in his ship quarters, adding notes to his sheath of papers, both to the official registry and to his personal reflections.

  This evening, the latter log had received the bulk of his attention.

  The desk lantern sent out a warm glow, casting a small circle of light in an otherwise dark room. It was a quarter past midnight and most of the passengers and crew on the San Carlos were asleep—that is, those who remained on board.

  At last count, nearly half of the sailors had abandoned ship, relinquishing their posts rather than risk falling victim to the evil spirit who had already murdered two of their number. No longer an unsubstantiated rumor, the men were now convinced that the ship was haunted and that none of them would make it back to Mexico alive.

  Despite exhaustive searching, Ayala had failed to find any evidence linking one of the crew members to the killings. Nor had he seen any indication of the elusive stowaway widely believed to be responsible for the murders.

  The ship was in a state of all-out panic. Without a dramatic change in circumstances, he faced the near-certain prospect that the San Carlos would be left stranded here in this remarkable bay—which, if they all perished, might remain undiscovered for another decade or more.

  The captain set down his quill. He pressed his fingertips against his temples, trying to quell the headache that had intensified during his lengthy writing session.

  Sighing wearily, Ayala shifted his gaze to the green parrot curled up in the discarded shirt that had become his nighttime nest. Snuggling in the warmth generated by the nearby lantern, the bird wheezed out a contented coo.

  The captain wished he could emulate the parrot’s peaceful sleep. With a groan, he returned to his log:

  “Crew morale affected by . . .”

  He held the quill in the air for several seconds, searching for the right words. Finally, he dipped the tip in the inkwell and added: “motivational challenges.”

  As early as the eighteenth century, but human language had already been corrupted by corporate-speak.

  —

  AYALA LOOKED UP at a knock on his door.

  “Humphretto?”

  The door cracked open and the ship’s chef leaned inside.

  “Captain, if I may?” The chef nodded toward the captain’s desk. “I saw the glow of your light from the hallway.”

  “Oscar. Please, come in.” Ayala yawned his exhaustion. “I don’t think there’s any chance of sleep for me tonight.”

  “I have an idea that might help with your . . . uh . . . situation,” Oscar said, stepping into the room.

  Ayala grunted his response. “Not another exorcism.”

  “No.” Oscar smiled. “I have a much more nuanced approach in mind.”

  The captain turned his chair away from the desk. He looked up at Oscar expectantly.

  “Well, don’t just stand there. Spit it out, man.”

  Oscar pointed to the captain’s paperwork. “It might be better if you don’t know the specifics, given your reporting obligations.”

  Ayala nodded his understanding. “Just give me the general gist.”

&
nbsp; “I’ll need a canoe and a man to help me paddle it,” Oscar replied with a wink. “Humphretto if you can spare him. We’ll leave at dawn.”

  Standing, the captain shook his head. “Oscar, we cannot survive if the ship’s chef abandons us. That would be the last straw. The men have to eat.”

  “Trust me, Captain. I’ll be back by sundown.”

  Ayala was unconvinced. He paced a nervous circle around the room.

  “I’ll leave my niece here,” Oscar said. “I’m sure you know I would never abandon her.”

  Ayala tapped his quill against his left thigh. “Where are you going?”

  “The north shore.” Oscar began retreating to the exit. He paused at the threshold and looked back. “I saw a plume of smoke in the hills the other night. I think a friend of mine is camped there.”

  The captain sensed he wouldn’t get any more details, but he pressed with a last question as Oscar stepped out of the room. “Is your friend an Indian?”

  “He’s not an Indian, but he is friends with them,” Oscar replied. “He’s a man of the woods. A rustic.”

  Oscar chuckled to himself as he disappeared down the hallway.

  “The Indians are far more civilized than Samuel Eckles.”

  Chapter 55

  THE TRUCE

  WHILE CAPTAIN AYALA and Oscar were discussing the ship’s dire situation, a furry white creature with orange-tipped ears and tail slipped unnoticed through the half-open door.

  Rupert padded silently across the captain’s stateroom—a short, fluffy shadow.

  The cat kept out of the lamplight, carefully timing his movements to avoid detection. He waited until Ayala stood from his chair and began pacing the room. Then he slinked toward the captain’s empty seat.

  Throughout all this subterfuge, Rupert kept his focus trained on the snoring lump of green feathers curled up by the lantern on the top of the desk. His feather-duster tail swished back and forth as he hunched on the ground below, waiting for the right moment to pounce.

  Ayala stopped pacing, stared curiously at Oscar, and asked, “Is your friend an Indian?”

  Rupert bounded up into the seat. A second leap took him to the desktop. He crept silently across the paper-covered surface, parking himself within inches of the dozing parrot.

  Perhaps sensing the encroaching danger, Petey woke with a start. He’d been caught napping—literally. It looked to be a fatal error, a deadly checkmate. The bird froze in place, his yellow eyes widening with terror. The cat could finish him off with a single swipe of his claws.

  But then a surprising and unlikely thing occurred. Instead of moving in for the kill, Rupert sidled up to the parrot and licked the feathers on the back of his neck.

  Petey remained still, unsure of how to process this strange gesture from the cat he had spent the last week tormenting. Was the feline just getting in a premeal taste or was he making a peace offering?

  Rupert’s next action provided an unequivocal answer. He sprawled his hefty body across the desk and cuddled up next to the bird.

  • • •

  AS OSCAR DEPARTED down the corridor, Ayala turned back toward his desk—and gaped in alarm at the pile of feathers and fur by the lantern.

  “No . . .” he whispered, his anger rising. On top of everything else, must he also lose his beloved parrot to a flea-bitten feline?

  He stomped toward the desk, prepared to grab the cat by the scruff of his neck and toss him out the nearest window into the bay.

  Halfway across, however, he noticed a movement.

  The bird was very much alive. Rupert had wrapped a front paw around his new friend. The parrot nuzzled his head into the cat’s fluffy white chest.

  “Well,” Ayala said, peering down at the snoozing pair. “Hmm.”

  He crossed to a cupboard and pulled out a soft blanket. Tiptoeing back to the desk, he tucked it around the unlikely duo and quietly snuffed out the lamp.

  Chapter 56

  THE PORTAL

  A FEW HOURS before dawn, Oscar rose from his bed and lit a lantern.

  The San Carlos was on the verge of calamitous ruin. It was time for him to take action or they would never get back to their home port.

  The ship wasn’t haunted. He had no doubt of that. It was, however, under siege by a deranged stowaway.

  Each morning since they left San Blas, he’d detected a small amount of food missing from his pantry. At first, he’d chalked the petty thievery up to a hungry crew member sneaking into the kitchen for a late-night snack.

  But after several days, a distinct pattern had emerged.

  Given Captain Ayala’s diligent searches of the ship, Oscar reasoned the killer must have some sort of hidden closet or secret room, a niche where she resided during the day—that is, when she wasn’t hunting her next victim.

  The middle of the night, when she might be foraging for food, was the best time to surprise her and get the upper hand.

  —

  QUIETLY DRESSING, OSCAR wandered into the kitchen.

  He rubbed his scruffy eyebrows, trying to jolt himself awake. He would have to accomplish this task without the help of caffeine. It would make too much noise to roust the fire to cook a pot of coffee on the stove.

  As he gazed longingly at his empty percolator, a second figure entered the room.

  “You coming with me?” he whispered down to Isabella.

  He grunted as she rubbed her shoulder against his shin.

  “That’s probably a good idea.”

  His expression grew somber.

  “I might need backup.”

  —

  OSCAR LIT A lantern, and the pair moved cautiously into the hallway outside the kitchen.

  Isabella’s sharp eyes scanned the darkness as Oscar held the lamp up to the walls, inspecting the woodwork. He ran his free hand over the rough surface, feeling for hidden seams in the joints. Every couple of feet, he rapped his knuckles on the paneling, hoping to discern the presence of a hollow cavity beneath, anywhere a person might hide to avoid detection.

  The San Carlos was just over five years old. Since the boat’s initial construction, she had received regular maintenance at San Blas, but the constant tug and pull of storms, wind, waves, and rain had wrenched the ship’s rigid form. A number of small gaps could be seen in the wooden wall, but Oscar found none that weren’t easily explained by the natural contortion of the surrounding boards.

  He and Isabella continued to the next level down, descending on a much narrower flight of stairs than the one that led up to the ship’s top deck. The lantern flickered a dim halo of light as they resumed their search in the hallway directly beneath the kitchen.

  The ridge of hair along Isabella’s spine stood on edge. She could sense danger in the dark, damp air.

  As they reached the end of the corridor and turned a sharp corner, she let out a low growl—at the faint but unmistakable scent of a lemony-sweet perfume.

  • • •

  THE CORRIDOR REMAINED silent for several seconds after Oscar and Isabella passed, but there was a noticeable change in atmosphere. The perfume scent now carried with it a dash of expectancy.

  The ceiling creaked. Then an opening appeared in the top wood paneling, no more than a half-inch slat, just large enough for a single beady eye to peek through.

  The eye blinked, adjusting its focus. It stared down onto the hallway for a long moment before pulling back from the hole. After a brief shuffling, the eye returned, this time at a different angle. The watcher wanted to confirm that the area below was clear.

  Finally, the boards surrounding the modified slat began to move. A square section of the ceiling slid back on a hidden hinge, creating a square portal.

  A human’s feet, legs, and torso squeezed through the hole, and a curious figure dropped nimbly onto the floor.

  It was an older woman dressed in a rumpled gunnysack. Her white hair was knotted and tangled; her skin was mottled and dirt-stained.

  But her feet were clad in a pair of sturd
y women’s shoes.

  A cloth bag looped around her left shoulder held an assortment of knitting equipment and supplies, yarn, scissors, and a bundle of specialized needles, each one curved in shape, with the tip adapted to accommodate the fittings for a sharp blade.

  The stowaway set off down the corridor, her bowed legs walking with an odd limp as if they’d been cramped in a tight-fitting space for several hours.

  She followed after the chef and the cat with the orange-tipped ears and tail—leaving behind a scented trail of lemony-sweet perfume.

  Chapter 57

  A FEARSOME BEAST

  JUST BEFORE DAYBREAK, Humphretto readied a canoe for launch. It was the last remaining transport vessel on board the San Carlos. The rest had been taken by fleeing crew members and left beached along the bay’s south shore where the men had continued on foot, hoping to make it south to Monterey.

  It took every bit of Humphretto’s meager strength to heft the canoe over the ship’s side, but once he had the hull clear of the railing, the rest of the canoe’s descent to the water was easily controlled by a series of pulleys and ropes that ran through hooks attached to the boat’s side.

  The lieutenant had been dragging the canoe around for the last twenty-four hours—ever since the first crew members began abandoning the San Carlos. He’d kept it secured in his cabin, which was the only reason it was still available.

  When Captain Ayala alerted him to Oscar’s covert mission, Humphretto was glad he’d taken the precaution. He’d jumped at the chance to participate in the plan, eager to play a role in saving the ship.

  He just wished he knew why they were headed to the bay’s north shore.

  He couldn’t see how that would help return the men fleeing to the south.

  —

  THE SUN WAS but a faint glow on the horizon when the canoe touched down on the water.

  Humphretto jumped at a tap on his shoulder. With difficulty, he managed to stifle his instinctive yelp.

  Oscar stood on the deck behind him with a large rucksack slung over his shoulder. The chef had left the ship’s breakfast preparations in the hands of his niece, to be closely supervised by Isabella.