How to Catch a Cat

by Rebecca M. Hale

  Despite all the hassles—not to mention the ship’s near-abandonment—the voyage had been well worth the Baron’s time. He had gathered invaluable recon that would give him an advantage over his business competitors. As soon as he touched ground at San Blas, he would arrange to send a team north to start a permanent settlement.

  As the Baron neared the stairwell leading to the top deck, he could hear the by-now-familiar sounds of creaking ropes and the snapping of canvas sails.

  He’d never had much interest in sailing, but he’d taken a liking to it during this adventure. He might have to hire a mariner to give him some lessons when he returned home.

  Just then, the Baron heard Father Carmichael’s voice emerging from the chapel at the other end of the hall. He quickened his pace, leaping toward the stairs. He abhorred the priest almost as much as the phantom figure who had murdered the two crew members.

  Next time he traveled this route, he would take a different ship.

  • • •

  CAPTAIN AYALA COLLAPSED into his top-deck chair and propped up his left foot, leaving Humphretto to supervise the crew.

  The harried lieutenant took his duties seriously—even if the crew didn’t fully cooperate in the handover. Simply put, Humphretto lacked the captain’s gravitas. It was a struggle for him to convince the men to obey his commands.

  This did not in any way dissuade the little man from trying. He trotted up and down the deck, shouting instructions left and right.

  Then he stopped, put his hand on his hip, and shook his head.

  Cupping his hands around his mouth, he called up toward the crow’s nest. He knew his shout would have no effect on the intended recipient, a tall absentminded deckhand who was climbing toward the roost.

  “Watch yourself, Vancouver! You’re about to fall!”

  First Day of the America’s Cup Regatta

  Modern-Day San Francisco

  Chapter 63

  SIDELINED

  THE NIECE LOOKED up from her desk as Monty and Van rolled a television set through the reception area’s front door.

  She was deep into the reference book on the discovery of the San Francisco Bay that her uncle had sent her several months back. Despite the remoteness of the time frame discussed and the difficulty of construing the text’s early nineteenth-century English, she’d grown intrigued with the project. She’d even started to decipher some of her uncle’s handwriting in the margins. She just needed a few more hours of peace and quiet to study the manuscript . . .

  “What are you doing?” she asked, frowning at the disturbance. “Why are you bringing that television in here?”

  Monty plugged the power cord into the wall. “We’re going to watch the race,” he announced, as if there were nothing unusual about this activity. The niece leaned over the desk, trying to see his face, but it was hidden behind the roll-around cart carrying the set.

  “I thought you were boycotting the regatta?”

  Monty stepped from behind the cart and looked sheepishly at the niece. “I can’t help myself. I have to watch.”

  “We’re using your computer for the Internet feed,” Van added, holding up a cable.

  “You can do that?” The niece scooted her chair back as the intern crawled beneath her desk to access the main console.

  His muffled reply drifted up from the floor. “Do it all the time at my parents’ house.”

  Monty pulled an extra chair into the reception area from his office. He positioned it close to the set and plopped down on its seat cushion.

  “Who’s got popcorn?”

  The niece glanced up at the clock. It was almost lunchtime.

  “How about soup?” she asked, heading for the door.

  Rupert smacked his lips.

  “Even better,” Monty replied.

  From underneath the desk, Van called out, “Make mine minestrone!”

  • • •

  WHILE THE NIECE was rounding up the soup, Van and Monty continued to work on the television hookup.

  It turned out the setup wasn’t exactly like the one Van pirated at his parents’ house. The first several attempts failed to send the live video stream to the television.

  From his prone position beneath the desk, Van called out instructions to Monty.

  “Stick the thingamajig in the receiver hole.”

  “The who in the what?” Monty replied. He leaned over the back of the television. “Oh, you mean the whatsit in the spigot screw.”

  “Yeah, yeah. That’s what I said.”

  At the resulting static, Van suggested a different strategy.

  “Hmm. Try switching it to the hootenanny plug.”

  From her observation post on the filing cabinet, Isabella’s pixie face crinkled in confusion.

  There was a pause as Monty attempted to complete the revised connection.

  “It won’t go in there. Wrong shape.”

  “How about the donut hole?”

  Rupert, on the other hand, had no trouble interpreting the jargon. He especially enjoyed the donut reference, which immediately inspired images of his new favorite delicacy, fried chicken donuts.

  The static was suddenly replaced by the whir of helicopter blades. The screen flickered to a sweeping shot of the bay and the adjacent city.

  “Ah. Now we’re cooking with gas.”

  Van crawled out from under the desk, no small feat given his extreme height. He looked up at the filing cabinet, ever hopeful that he might gain favor with the dominant feline.

  “Excellent, dude.”

  Isabella stared back at him with disapproval.

  Van tried another tact. “Er, um, dudette.”

  The cat was unimpressed.

  “Ma’am.”

  Isabella finally relented.

  “Mrao.”

  —

  BOTH THE HUMANS and cats in the reception area were soon fixated on the America’s Cup television coverage. It was a perspective of their city unlike any they had ever seen.

  The cameras panned across the San Francisco shoreline, skimming over familiar hillsides and landmarks—as well as a few hundred curious citizens. Along the Marina Green, the Embarcadero, and inside the designated pavilion, pedestrians peered out at the bay, trying to catch a glimpse of the action.

  Helicopters hovered over the water, the whirring flap of their propellers a dull background roar. Cameramen dangled from the aircraft’s side doors, tethered to the framing by a series of straps and belts. After aiming their lenses at the shoreline, they focused their efforts on the boats below.

  It was a daunting scene to capture on film, but the result was a live feed that enthralled viewers on television screens across the country—and inside the mayor’s office suite.

  Isabella scooted forward on her filing cabinet perch. Monty and Van shifted to the edges of their chairs. Even Rupert gazed in wonder at the images on the screen.

  The sailboats approached the starting line, each angling for position. Both teams wanted to hit the designated spot at top speed, but neither could cross the mark before the official start time. The sailors scrambled from one side of the boat to the other, cranking the masts up and down, all the while dashing under swinging booms.

  It was a clean start, announced breathlessly by the television commentator. The boats charged across the bay toward the Golden Gate Bridge, channeling the wind to hit speeds of up to fifty miles per hour—until they reached the first buoy.

  The audiences on-screen and in the reception area gasped as both boats flipped around the turn at the far corner of the racecourse, teetering on their tiny hulls. Rudders lifted out of the water, scraping the surface like fingertips gripping a window ledge.

  The camera zoomed in on the nearest boat as it performed the precarious maneuver, framing a tight shot of a muscled sailor in his chain mail wet suit.

  “I wore one of those outfits,” Monty said wistfully, forgetting that his short sailing expedition had ended in a disastrous dunking.

  Van cringed a
t the close-up picture. “Dude, it looks uncomfortable.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t so bad,” Monty assured him. Then he added a wink. “And it makes you look like a warrior.”

  From the filing cabinet, Isabella issued a correction.

  “Mrao.”

  —

  THE REGATTA FOOTAGE only increased Monty’s frustration. As the race continued, he jumped up from his chair and began to pace around the room.

  Each time Monty passed in front of the television screen, Van, Rupert, and Isabella all weaved from side to side to see around him.

  The interim mayor failed to notice the inconvenience he was causing the others. He threw his hands in the air, wildly gesticulating.

  “We’ve got to figure out a way to get me back in this thing.”

  Chapter 64

  A CHANGE IN PATTERN

  THE NIECE SIGHED when she saw the daily soup line snaking around the foot of the central staircase, at least thirty customers deep. She had mistimed her soup procurement run. She’d been so caught up in Oscar’s history book, she’d missed the short window early in the lunch hour for getting through the soup selection process without a lengthy wait.

  The race would be half-over by the time she returned to the mayor’s office suite.

  Resignedly, she took up her spot at the end of the queue.

  Even though she knew the vendor, soup acquisition followed a strict first-come, first-serve protocol. It was a necessary regulation, preventing the riot of hungry soup-eaters that would otherwise ensue.

  No one was allowed to cut in line.

  Not even the chef’s niece.

  • • •

  MABEL WAS MAKING her regular rounds through City Hall when the niece emerged from the mayor’s office suite.

  While maintaining a discreet distance—and not deviating from her usual routine—Mabel tracked the niece to the rotunda’s first floor.

  The woman was picking up soup for herself and several others, Mabel surmised, just like she did every day. Although, Mabel reflected, on this particular occasion, the niece was a bit late in attending to her soup duties.

  It was only a slight aberration in the pattern, but for the pattern-obsessed, a development of keen interest.

  Mabel crossed to the ceremonial rotunda, keeping her thinly veiled focus trained on the niece.

  It was an easy surveillance to maintain. Due to the nature of her disguise, Mabel could stand by the Harvey Milk bust, staring out over City Hall’s vast interior, without having to provide any rationale or excuse for her presence.

  As the niece slowly moved through the line, Mabel reached into her purse. Her fingers threaded through a skein of yarn until they found a pair of knitting needles. Her hand wrapped around one of the curved metal rods—a twitching, itching response to the visual display on the marble floor below.

  Mabel felt herself nearing another off-kilter moment. She needed to change the pattern, create an erratic stitch.

  Her eyes narrowed as the niece approached the soup vendor’s cart and made her selections. The old man nodded and dutifully filled several paper cartons with the indicated soup formulations.

  Mabel gripped the needle even tighter.

  She was ready to make her next kill.

  And this time, her victim wouldn’t be an intern.

  • • •

  THE NIECE GATHERED her soup containers and carefully stacked them into a paper bag. Loaded with enough soup to feed an army of hungry mayors, interns, and cats, she started up the central marble staircase.

  Midway up the steps, she stopped, startled by a feathered shadow flitting past the stained glass windows that framed the rotunda’s upper half.

  She squinted up at the image of the San Carlos and then turned a slow pivot, her eyes scanning her periphery.

  The regular collection of tourists cluttered the building. A few wedding parties were grouped near the licensing office in the south wing. And, of course, several City Hall employees had lined up for soup.

  If Mabel was hiding amidst this crowd, she had done an excellent job of masking her identity.

  The niece detected nothing out of the ordinary—nothing except for a faint trace of lemony-sweet perfume.

  Chapter 65

  A DELICATE COURTSHIP

  THE BARON STOOD on his megayacht, watching the regatta’s first race unfold from the ship’s top deck.

  So far, his team had performed admirably. With just a few more legs to go, the US boat was neck and neck with the challengers from New Zealand.

  He expected his men to pull ahead at the next turn.

  He glanced down at his watch and nodded with approval. Everything was running according to plan.

  The only item on the day’s agenda left to be achieved was a win for the first race.

  —

  BEING A TECH guru, the Baron had employed every possible tool to monitor his team’s progress.

  A pair of binoculars hung from his neck, ready for quick consultation. His headset was tuned to the official race radio, and a portable television hooked up on the yacht’s deck played the live video feed.

  Despite the multiple information inputs, there was little he could do, at this point, to affect the outcome.

  Waiting was a frustrating activity.

  Patience had never been one of his virtues.

  —

  SEEKING A DISTRACTION, the Baron thought back to the prerace festivities. This had been one aspect of the day’s events that he could control. Every detail had been choreographed down to the letter.

  The welcoming ceremony at the racing pavilion had been headlined by a talented stunt pilot who would be appearing throughout the regatta. His shiny red plane had performed a series of stomach-churning maneuvers in the sky above the venue.

  A military band had played the national anthems of both the home and challenger countries. Following this fanfare, the crew members for each team had been introduced.

  The only wild card of the morning had failed to show up.

  The Baron had been relieved to see no sign of Montgomery Carmichael. He had taken every precaution to ensure that would be the case. An elite security team patrolled the pavilion perimeter. They were specifically tasked with keeping an eye out for the mayor and preventing any attempted incursions.

  And, of course, if the guards caught sight of an evil-looking granny with a bag full of knife-modified knitting needles, they were to detain her and immediately call the police.

  Truth be known, the Baron’s fear of the former far surpassed that of the latter. He firmly believed that if he kept Monty out of the event arena, he would have no problems with Mabel.

  “Nothing but bad luck, that priest.”

  The Baron frowned, shook his head, and corrected himself.

  “I mean politician.”

  —

  ABSENT THE TWO uninvited guests, the first-day crowds were a bit less than the Baron had hoped for—okay, a lot less.

  But he took comfort in the numbers that had turned out. He could build on the local interest in the race. He was developing a support base from the ground up. Over the long course of his business career, he had done more with less.

  The Baron knew his hometown, every finicky corner and curve. San Francisco was a city that must be wooed.

  This would be a delicate courtship.

  A mosaic of diverse, demanding individuals, the citizenry insisted on the best in food, wine, and entertainment. The city’s grocery stores offered the finest produce in the nation; her dining establishments routinely received superior star ratings.

  San Francisco would expect no less than excellence from this new sporting enterprise that had taken over her waterfront, and he intended to give it to her.

  He cupped his hand over his brow and scanned the shoreline. All along the Embarcadero, pedestrians peered inquisitively at the spectacle unfolding on the water, the spectator watercraft jockeying for observation positions along the racecourse, the helicopters hovering overhead, and, of co
urse, the unmistakably grand racing boats whose sky-high masts could be picked out from any vantage point.

  The people were flirting coyly around the edges of the race, waiting to see what was on offer. They wanted to be lured in and seduced by the action.

  He had no doubt that San Francisco would soon fall in love with sailing.

  After all, he thought proudly, it was her birthright, her heritage. It was in her blood.

  He just had to provide the right enticement.

  The Baron jammed the binoculars against his face, muttering unheard orders to his crew members.

  It would help immensely if the home team finished this first race with a win.

  —

  IT WAS A close contest for much of the route, but the challenger team from New Zealand took the lead on the last turn, gaining the advantage of a favorable wind. The Kiwis won the race by several boat lengths.

  The Baron winced at the visible disappointment that rippled through the crowds, but he refused to accept defeat. Given the regatta’s best-of-seventeen format, there were still plenty of races to go, including the day’s second race, which would start within the hour.

  His crew would quickly rack up the nine points needed for the championship, he assured himself.

  Even if he had to hop on the boat and captain it himself.

  Day Five of the America’s Cup

  Modern-Day San Francisco

  Chapter 66

  LOSERS

  THE FIRST RACING loss was followed by another—and another—and the next six after that.

  In surprisingly short order, the home team found itself down an impossible, seemingly irrecoverable zero points to eight. It was an unprecedented losing streak in the history of the regatta.

  New Zealand needed only one more win to take home the America’s Cup trophy and to top off their complete and utter humiliation of the US team.