How to Moon a Cat

by Rebecca M. Hale

  I straightened back to full height and pulled the mask and goggles up and over my glasses, perching them on top of my forehead. Still wearing the elbow-length rubber gloves, I lifted the vase from the table and held it up to the kitchen’s central light fixture to inspect it more closely.

  From the opposite side of the room, Rupert began a slow creeping approach toward the kitchen table. With each cautious step, his gaze swung between the vase in my hands and the enlarged hole in the wall behind me.

  Isabella, meanwhile, balanced herself on her back feet so that she could reach up toward my chest with her front ones. I shifted the vase into my left hand, attempting to fend off Isabella’s stabbing paws with the right. As the vase rotated, something inside it rolled against the glass.

  “Mrr-ow, ” Isabella called out shrilly to ensure I hadn’t missed this important development.

  “Yes, thank you,” I replied uneasily as I resumed my examination of the vase’s dusty, translucent surface.

  I aimed the top end of the container toward my face and squinted down into its narrow cylindrical opening. A hairy brown lump lay on the bottom of the vase.

  “You don’t want to see this, Issy,” I tried to convince her. “I think some poor creature died in this thing.”

  Perturbed at my unwillingness to share my discovery, Isabella returned to the seat of her chair, but her eyes remained glued on the dark lumpy shadow inside the vase. I turned the vase on its side and gently began nursing the stiff object over the humps and valleys of the internal curvature.

  I caught a whiff of a strange smell and assumed the worst. Wrinkling my nose, I swung the vase away from my face. A pointed edge connected to the furry mass scraped against the interior surface of the glass. I winced, imagining a gruesomely exposed bone.

  The sound only heightened Isabella’s curiosity. She chirped up at me encouragingly.

  “You know, that might be reassuring,” I replied sourly, “if you weren’t a mouse-eating cat.”

  Isabella’s voice warbled in confusion at my squeamishness. Her brother, however, appeared to share my apprehension. Rupert now sat on the floor near my feet, the furry orange tip of his tail tapping against the leg of Isabella’s chair as he continued to stare nervously at the hole in the wall.

  With a reluctant sigh, I gently jiggled the vase, trying to coax the corpse out the top of the container, to no avail. The motionless lump appeared to be stuck midway through the vase’s long slender neck.

  “Mrao,” Isabella urged as I turned the vase upside-down and secured my grip on its rounded base. Desperately hoping I wasn’t about to drop a dead mouse onto my kitchen table, I gave the vase a firm vigorous shake.

  “Eeew,” I cried, closing my eyes as a furry brown figure tumbled out the opening.

  Isabella popped up onto her haunches and leaned over the table, sniffing loudly as she issued a string of chattering observations. I placed a restraining hand on her slim shoulders and anxiously peered over the top of her head to the brown heap lying motionless at the center of the table.

  “Not a mouse,” I breathed out with relief as Isabella huffed a disappointed sigh.

  It was, instead, a small stuffed animal. The toy looked as if it had been well loved by a child and perhaps washed several times; its synthetic brown fur was mottled and worn down in places. A thick black thread stitched a crooked smile across its mouth; two dull black buttons formed the eyes.

  With a gloved hand, I gingerly turned the toy to its upright position. The animal appeared to be standing or sitting on its back haunches—the misshapen bulging of the creature’s body made it difficult to tell which.

  The scraping sound inside the vase had been created by a toothpick attached to the outstretched paw of an upper limb. Glued to the free end of the toothpick was a stampsized piece of paper. Isabella and I leaned over the table to examine it.

  “It’s the California state flag,” I mused as I studied the printed image of a brown grizzly bear walking beneath a red five-pointed star. “The Bear Flag,” I added, with an informative nod to Isabella, who murmured in concurrence.

  “I guess that makes you a bear,” I said dubiously to the tattered stuffed animal.

  Isabella appeared unconvinced of this last conclusion. Her pointed ears swiveled sideways as she considered the strange-looking beast.

  “What were you up to, Oscar?” I wondered aloud. My initial disappointment in the discovery of the green vase was now being replaced by the growing realization that I might have stumbled onto something far more valuable than a wad of fried-chicken-infused dollar bills.

  This toy bear might well be a clue to one of Oscar’s hidden treasures, I thought excitedly. I flipped the paper flag over and read the message printed on the opposite side.

  Shiny gold lettering typed out the words: NEVADA CITY, CALIFORNIA.

  Rupert didn’t share his sister’s interest in the inspection of the toy bear; he had ignored the human and feline commentary postulating on its potential significance. From his position on the floor beneath the kitchen table, his eyes remained fixed on the gaping hole in the wallpaper. Of the three of us, he was the only one aware of the kitchen’s fourth occupant that morning.

  Hidden in the shaded recess of the wall’s interior framing, two shiny pinpoints glowed in the darkness, the luminous pupils of a tiny hairless mouse.

  Chapter 5

  A SPANDEX-CLAD VISITOR

  I WAS STILL studying the toy bear’s paper flag when I heard three cracking knocks against the front glass of the storefront below.

  Whack. Whack. Whack.

  “We’re not open,” I whispered down to Isabella as I dropped the bear back onto the table.

  Bona fide customers were a rare occurrence in the Green Vase showroom. It had been over a week since the last stranger had stepped in off the street, and she certainly hadn’t made any purchases.

  “Mrs. Dempsey,” I sighed as I remembered our last such visitor. “The tooth lady.”

  Rupert’s head jerked up at me, his gaze temporarily leaving the hole in the wallpaper. The mere mention of Megan Dempsey’s name still filled him with dread. The bustling matriarch of a family of five had made quite an impression.

  I’d been sitting on the stool behind the cashier counter when a big-bosomed woman with bright lipstick and unnaturally white teeth opened the front door and asked for directions to North Beach. Midway through my handwaving attempts to point her toward the corner up the street, she spied the antique leather dentist recliner in the back of the store.

  “Oh, what do you have here?” she asked, stepping into the shop. Three rowdy children and a bedraggled husband followed her inside.

  It turned out Mrs. Dempsey had worked her entire adult life as a dental hygienist. After years of propping open people’s mouths and peering inside, she had developed a deep fascination with all things tooth-related.

  Before I knew what was happening, the entire clan had proceeded to the back of the showroom. The three children were already bouncing on the dentist recliner by the time I caught up to them. Oblivious to her offspring’s antics, Mrs. Dempsey bent over a display of rudimentary tooth removal devices from the Gold Rush–era.

  “It’s horrifying to think what people went through in those days,” she said with a shudder as she pulled out her camera and began taking pictures to show her coworkers back home.

  With a tired sigh, Mr. Dempsey bumped the children off the recliner and collapsed onto its worn leather seat cushions. His wife set down her camera and picked up a pair of rusted metal pliers.

  “Can you imagine what would happen if I tried to use this on one of my patients?” she asked her husband with an evil leer. She mashed the handles back and forth over his head as she aimed the pinchers at his mouth. Mr. Dempsey flattened himself against the back of the recliner, his expression one of genuine terror.

  I didn’t have time to worry about the torture Mrs. Dempsey was contemplating for her husband. The youngest of their children had begun to chase a t
errified Rupert around the showroom. Isabella watched from the top of a bookcase while Rupert scrambled for cover. The little girl’s wheezing, high-pitched voice filled the room as she squealed with delight, “Kit-tee . . . Kit-tee.”

  It took almost thirty minutes to get Mrs. Dempsey and her brood out the door. Rupert didn’t emerge from hiding until dinnertime, nearly four hours later.

  Customers, I had decided, were overrated—particularly the non-purchasing kind. Rupert and Isabella heartily agreed. I was beginning to appreciate the rationale of Uncle Oscar’s customer-deterrent strategies.

  With a grimace, I glanced down at my orange nylon jumpsuit and thick rubber gloves. One look at this outfit should be enough to scare off even the most tooth-enamored dental hygienist.

  A second series of raps echoed up from the showroom, and I glanced skeptically at the clock mounted onto the still-intact wall on the opposite side of the kitchen.

  In my short year of experience, antique buyers, elusive creatures that they were, rarely visited Jackson Square before early afternoon. Even in my more optimistic days of running the Green Vase, I’d given up manning the cashier counter downstairs until after lunch. A sign posted on the front door clearly advised passersby that the showroom didn’t open until 1:30 p.m. Whoever was trying to gain entrance to the Green Vase this sunny Friday morning was unlikely to be a shopper.

  Given the sounds echoing up from the floor below, the persistent person on the street outside had apparently decided to switch tactics. I began to struggle out of my rubber gloves as the decorative brass handle on the showroom’s front door rattled in its fittings. A moment later, I heard the metal grating of a key sliding into the door’s lock. With a slight clink, the key turned in the keyhole’s fittings.

  “Hello?” I called out tentatively as the unmistakable creak of iron hinges signaled the opening of the front door. Both cats immediately turned to look toward the top of the stairwell that led from the kitchen to the showroom below.

  “Hmmm,” I mused uneasily. I picked up the scraper and slapped its flat metal side against the palm of my hand. I thought I had confiscated all the rogue keys to the Green Vase that inexplicably circulated among Uncle Oscar’s friends and colleagues. Clearly, I had missed one.

  Heavy footsteps clunked across the showroom toward the bottom of the staircase. There was an awkward stilted motion to the stride, as if the walker were carefully measuring his motions to retain his balance.

  “Hello?” I called out again, my voice more demanding in tone. Still, the entrant below did not respond.

  The voiceless, unnamed feet began hiking up the stairs, loudly clapping against each step as if they were encased in concrete. The repeating sound rattled through the second floor, jostling the dishes in the cupboard over the sink.

  I glanced down at the cats. Isabella wore a dour, knowing look on her face as Rupert bounded happily across the room to the entrance of the staircase, his pudgy body wiggling in anticipation of the visitor’s arrival. I put my hands on my hips and turned toward the top of the stairs, waiting for the intruder to enter the kitchen.

  A dark rounded shadow emerged at the top of the stairwell. As the figure mounted the last few steps to the kitchen, the image of a black plastic helmet came into view. A pair of shiny reflective sunglasses obscured the man’s eyes, but I had seen enough of the long narrow face smashed inside the helmet to confirm his identity.

  The man raised himself another step in height. The momentum of the motion caused the helmet’s black nylon strap to sway beneath his pointed chin. He cleared his throat importantly as his shoulders leaned forward to reveal a green nylon shirt crisscrossed with a purple and white argyle pattern.

  The man smiled as Rupert hopped up and down in greeting. A black-gloved hand reached out to scratch him behind the ears. “Hey there, buddy,” the man said playfully. Then, with a dramatic flourish, he cleared the last step and entered the kitchen.

  Isabella and I stared skeptically at the bottom half of his biking gear: shiny green skintight leggings, partially covered by a pair of floppy black shorts. An odd-shaped bulge poked out from his posterior, the result, I suspected, of extra padding sewn into the seat.

  The man lifted the helmet from his head and posed with his narrow chest proudly distended as if he’d just reached the summit of a mountain. The brown curls that typically sprang from his scalp had been mashed into a towering cone-shaped pile. His thin lips spread into a sly smile as he waited for applause.

  We stood, curly-coned to goggle-strapped head, for a long moment before the man ripped his mirrored sunglasses from his face and squinted critically at me.

  It was a testament to Montgomery Carmichael’s selfassured cheekiness that after surveying my orange nylon coveralls, dust-covered face, and forehead-topping mask and goggles, he asked incredulously, “What’s with the outfit?”

  Chapter 6

  FRIEND OF THE MAYOR

  MY NOSY NEIGHBOR was a regular, if uninvited, guest to the Green Vase showroom and the apartment above. A closed or even locked door was no barrier to his intrusion. I had, unfortunately, grown accustomed to his spontaneous appearances in my kitchen, but I thought I’d confiscated all of his spare keys to my front door.

  Monty ran an art studio across the street from the Green Vase, although the number of paintings on display there had dwindled substantially over the past year. He’d been spending the majority of his time at City Hall, where his prestige and influence—inexplicably—continued to grow.

  Last summer, the Mayor had appointed Monty the city’s commissioner for the historical preservation of Jackson Square. The post was meant to be ceremonial, as evidenced by its basement-level office and nominal remuneration. It was created to placate the city’s many historical societies after the dissolution of the Jackson Square Board that spring.

  The position’s limited mandate had done nothing to dampen Monty’s enthusiasm. He’d simply set out, through sheer bluff and bravado, to expand the boundaries of his authority.

  The metal brackets poking out of the bottom of Monty’s bike shoes clacked against the floor tiles as he hobbled across the kitchen to inspect the hole in the tulip-printed wallpaper.

  I held out my hand, palm upward.

  “Key,” I ordered with a stern frown. He tossed it casually through the air to me.

  “Is this the last one?” I demanded as Monty’s eyes swept from my renovation gear to the protective sheeting I’d stretched across the kitchen counters.

  “What’s all this?” he asked, predictably turning a deaf ear to my question. His thin figure wobbled wildly as he pivoted on his metal-bottomed shoes to point a knobby finger at the hole in the wall. “Looks like a bit of offpermit work to me.”

  I sighed and rolled my eyes at the ceiling. While Commissioner, Monty had imposed a new set of guidelines regarding maintenance and repair of the city’s historically designated buildings. These rules had changed frequently, morphing spontaneously to accommodate the capricious whims of the Commissioner. Despite numerous requests, I’d been unable to obtain a copy of these oftquoted regulations. I had serious doubts as to whether a formal paper version even existed.

  Nevertheless, Monty had proceeded to barge his way into all the homes and businesses in Jackson Square under the pretext of inspecting them for compliance. Anyone who resisted his entry was confronted with a blustery charade in which he waved a blank tablet in the air and threatened to begin issuing citations.

  “You’ll have to talk to Rupert,” I replied flatly to Monty’s raised eyebrows. “He tore into the wall last night.” I crossed my arms over my chest, waiting for the act to play itself out.

  Rupert adopted his best “Who, me?” impersonation, and Monty’s admonishing expression broke into a broad smile. He directed his pointed finger at Rupert. “Lucky for you, I’ve given up the commissioner’s position.”

  The whole of Jackson Square had breathed a collective sigh of relief a few weeks back when the Mayor promoted Monty to his cabinet,
prompting his resignation from the commissioner’s seat. Due to current budget restraints, his replacement had yet to be named. After Monty’s tenure, we were all hoping the position would be eliminated—permanently.

  Many puzzled, however, over Monty’s new role in the Mayor’s cabinet. As far back as anyone could remember, no mayor in the history of San Francisco had employed a personal life coach on his staff of advisors. Certainly, none had included an assistant life coach, the job title Monty had assumed.

  While Monty touted his own credentials at every opportunity, an aura of mystique surrounded his boss, the Mayor’s Life Coach. Despite numerous attempts by both the media and the Board of Supervisors, the anonymous figure had never been seen, heard, or even photographed. Every aspect of the man’s identity remained cloistered in secrecy.

  On the streets of San Francisco, perplexed citizens scratched their heads in confusion. What exactly was a life coach, they wondered, and why did the Mayor need one? Moreover, particularly in these tough economic times, how could the Mayor possibly justify a life coach’s assistant ?

  Given Monty’s frequent visits to the Green Vase, I’d had plenty of opportunities to quiz him on the topic of life coaching, but thus far, I had declined to do so. Quite frankly, I was afraid to ask.

  Presumably, the life coaching staff at City Hall was tasked with pulling the Mayor out of the midlife crisis that had dogged him for the past several months. It had been a tough year for San Francisco’s beleaguered Mayor. He had never quite regained his gravitas following last summer’s infamous frog invasion of City Hall.

  There had been widespread press coverage mocking the Mayor’s desperate panic-stricken retreat from the masses of frogs milling about the rotunda beneath City Hall’s decorative dome. The Mayor had refused to return to his office until several SWAT team sweeps confirmed that every last amphibian had been evacuated.