How to Moon a Cat

by Rebecca M. Hale

  The Mayor’s attempt to explain the situation to a local television reporter had resulted in an awkward and embarrassing interview that he had eventually terminated by walking out. After that experience, he had declared a moratorium on further interaction with the press.

  Prominent newspaper columnists had responded by openly questioning the Mayor’s prospects in the upcoming gubernatorial race as well as his mental stability. Mayoral recall proposals began routinely appearing in the “Letters to the Editor” section of the Chronicle.

  To make matters worse, a local prankster in a chicken costume who occasionally showed up at the Mayor’s public appearances had modified his act to reflect recent events. His expanded routine now included an innovative frog-hopping bird dance, a video of which had become an instant download sensation on the Internet.

  The Mayor’s main political opponents had also cashed in. The website for the President of the Board of Supervisors featured a frame-by-frame color photo analysis of the Mayor’s indecorous departure from the frog-infested City Hall. The gubernatorial candidate for the opposing political party had adjusted his stump speech to include several oblique frog references, each instance generating raucous cheers from his supporters.

  With the Mayor under constant assault from all quarters, his poll numbers had taken a swan dive.

  After several tortured months of refusing to comment on or otherwise discuss the frog debacle, the Mayor had announced his withdrawal from the governor’s race. He’d issued a brief statement and left town for an extended Hawaiian vacation.

  When the Mayor finally returned to City Hall, he was accompanied by a new fiancée, a suitcase full of coconuts, and the elusive, seemingly invisible Life Coach. The lengthy vacation, engagement, and motivational guidance, however, had done little to buoy the Mayor’s spirits. When spotted by a roving camera crew the previous week, he’d looked as if he wanted to crawl under a rock and hide.

  Throughout all this turmoil, Monty had remained one of the Mayor’s most ardent supporters. It was this unwavering adoration, I suspected, that had earned Monty the invitation to the Mayor’s secret Hawaiian getaway. After a brief visit to the islands, Monty had arrived back in San Francisco with a light freckling on his normally pale face and the new head-scratching title of assistant—or apprentice, as he preferred to be called—life coach.

  In recent weeks, the city’s political rumor mill had been running hot with speculations that the Mayor would throw his hat into the race for lieutenant governor. Despite the political baggage of the frog-fleeing incident, pundits predicted he would be an easy front-runner in that contest, which was far less competitive than that for the office at the top of the ticket. If elected, there was a good chance the Mayor would take Monty with him to Sacramento.

  Four Monty-free years, I thought with a longing sigh as I watched my green spandex-clad neighbor prance around the kitchen. It was almost too much to hope for.

  At least Monty’s obsession with San Francisco politics had temporarily distracted him from his previous favorite pastime. It had been several months since Monty had approached me with another bizarre theory regarding my Uncle Oscar’s death—or lack thereof.

  In the weeks following Oscar’s passing, Monty had dreamed up numerous scenarios speculating on ways my uncle might have faked his death and assumed a disguise, perhaps in order to elude the likes of Frank Napis. According to Monty, it was entirely possible that a costumecamouflaged Oscar was walking around Jackson Square, right under our noses.

  I had at first let my imagination—and Monty’s endless stream of ridiculous theories—persuade me that maybe, perhaps, there was a chance that Oscar was still alive. Truth be known, I preferred to think of him that way, off on a wild adventure instead of cold, dead, and buried in the ground. But I had long since dismissed those fantasies and, thankfully, so had Monty.

  I watched as Monty’s eyes darted from Rupert to the dusty green vase.

  “Aha!” he said, spinning around the table to swoop it up. “You found a replacement.” He brought the container close to his face and slowly rotated it under his nose, carefully inspecting the curves of the glass as he tapped the surface with his fingers.

  “It’s hard to say for sure . . . ” he droned slowly as he turned the vase to squint down the opening into its interior. “But I’d have to say this is a match to the one you broke last summer.”

  I glanced grimly at the chunky cat sitting on the floor near my feet. “Actually,” I said, clearing my throat with a light cough, “I’m pretty sure it was Rupert who did that one in.”

  Rupert looked up at me with another innocenceproclaiming expression.

  “And what do we have here?” Monty asked, picking up the furry stuffed animal holding the paper flag. He sniffed the bear with the pointed tip of his nose, as if he were a wine connoisseur testing an elite vintage.

  “It was in the vase,” I replied. “I thought it was a dead mouse . . . ”

  “So you heard?” Monty asked excitedly as his eyes scanned the writing on the back side of the paper flag.

  “Heard what?” I replied, confused.

  “About Nevada City.” Monty dropped the stuffed animal onto the kitchen table and gestured down at his shiny green leggings. “That’s what I came over to tell you about. I’m heading up there this weekend.”

  Chapter 7

  THE TOUR OF CALIFORNIA

  I STEPPED WARILY back from the table, instantly concerned. During my brief tenure at the Green Vase, coincidences had a nasty tendency to result in disaster: a moment of hunger instantly sated by a cupcake whose frosting was spiked with a spider venom toxin, a transportation need suddenly fulfilled by a MUNI bus with faulty brakes. I had learned to be skeptical of any fortuitous convergence of circumstances, particularly when it landed so neatly in my lap.

  “Why are you going to Nevada City?” I asked suspiciously, the nerves along my spine contracting with apprehension.

  Monty wasn’t the least bit fazed by the conspicuous overlap in geographical references. “I’m representing the Mayor at the opening ceremony for the Tour of California,” he said proudly. “I’ll be making appearances for him at a couple of the host cities for the Northern California stages. Let’s see, Nevada City, Sacramento, Davis, San Francisco . . . ” He ticked off the names on his fingers as he spoke. “Of course the Mayor might decide to take that last one.”

  He thumped his narrow nylon-covered chest. “I’ve become rather important, in case you hadn’t noticed. It’s all set. I head out tomorrow.”

  I rubbed my temples, pondering. If the Mayor had started asking Monty to represent him at public events, he must be getting desperate.

  “And—the outfit?” I asked, wincing. “Is that an assistant life coach uniform?”

  “You know I prefer Life Coach Apprentice,” Monty corrected me crisply. “This is my cycling gear.” He strutted a circle around the kitchen table with a catwalk swagger. “What do you think?”

  The baggy shorts hung loosely from his narrow hips, swishing against the spandex leggings as he walked. Rupert trotted behind him, curiously watching the wiggle of the padded cushion sewn into the seat of the shorts.

  “I think it’s quite slimming, don’t you?” Monty turned his head from me to Isabella seeking approval.

  “Wran,” Isabella opined, her pinched face emphasizing her negative assessment.

  Monty plopped down on the nearest chair, swiveling his hips to adjust the rear padding. “There’s going to be a photo op at the start of the race, so I stopped by a bike shop this morning and got myself fitted.”

  His fingers plucked at the loose fabric of the shorts. “They tell me the cushioning makes the plastic bike seat more comfortable to sit on.” He bounced up and down on the wooden chair, his narrow face scrunching up as he judged the effect. “I have to say, there’s quite an improvement even with regular furniture. You know, they should put this type of padding in everyday clothing. I might have to start a new fashion trend with this.�
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  I pointed to the black plastic helmet resting on the table next to the dusty green vase. “And the helmet? Do you have cufflinks to match the helmet?”

  Monty smoothed the sleeves of his shirt. “Safety first,” he admonished. “The race organizers wanted the Mayor to appear on a bike to help promote the event.” He wrapped his hands around the helmet’s bowl-shaped top and crammed it down onto his head. “California law requires government employees to wear protective headgear when riding a bicycle during the performance of their duties.”

  Monty drummed his fingers across the round curve of plastic covering his noggin. “They’ve loaned me a nifty set of wheels for the trip. It’s got all the latest bells and whistles.”

  Ah, I thought with a wry grin. That perhaps provided the real reason Monty had been asked to step in for these cycling-related appearances. There was no way the Mayor’s famous swept-back hairstyle could be maintained inside the cramped confines of a bike helmet—an issue about which Monty no longer had any concern.

  It had taken several months’ convincing, but Monty had finally given up trying to emulate the Mayor’s hairdo. He’d developed an allergy to the hair gel needed to straighten, pin back, and cement his naturally curly hair into position. After an unpleasant episode with a head full of red rash and welts, he’d had no choice but to abandon the gel. You could still see a pinkish tinge on Monty’s scalp when he stood in the direct sunlight.

  Monty stroked the cutout divots and holes in the top of the helmet. “It’s ventilated,” he said, swinging his head rapidly back and forth like a wet dog. “Yep, I can feel the breeze.”

  “Okay, okay.” I relented, holding my hands up to stop the demonstration before Monty fell off the chair. “It looks like you’ve got the equipment angle covered.”

  Monty leaned back in his seat. “Other staffers were interested in this gig, but I was easily the best choice—for the first leg of the race anyway,” he said with an air of superiority. “What with my background in historical preservation and all.”

  I stared at him, puzzled, as he fumbled with the chinstrap to his helmet. Try as I might, I couldn’t see the historical angle to a cycling event that was only a few years old.

  “The tour begins this year in Nevada City,” Monty replied to my confused look. “It was a mining boomtown in the 1850s. Most of the downtown buildings are designated historical landmarks. They’ve tried to preserve as much as possible from the Gold Rush–era.”

  He pointed at the floor, down to the showroom below. “I believe you have some familiarity with that time period,” he added with a smirk.

  I glanced back at the little stuffed animal sitting on the table. It had rolled over onto its side, but its outstretched paw still clutched the tiny paper flag. The beady buttons of the creature’s eyes looked up at me bewitchingly.

  For some reason, Oscar had hidden this Nevada City bear behind a raft of tulip-printed wallpaper. It wasn’t the cash I’d been looking for, but I was growing more and more convinced I had found a clue to one of Oscar’s valuable hidden treasures.

  The possibility was too tempting. I had to investigate.

  I couldn’t believe I was actually considering accompanying Monty on this expedition, but if I were going to follow the trail Oscar had left behind, it seemed like the logical next step.

  I sucked in my breath and hoped I wasn’t making a huge mistake as I asked, “When did you say you were leaving?”

  Chapter 8

  THE DUFFEL BAG

  THAT AFTERNOON, RUPERT huddled on top of the bed, glaring down at the black canvas duffel bag lying open on the floor. A frayed airline tag from the bag’s last trip dangled from the handles, and its canvas fabric still bore a suspicious foreign scent. It had been several months since the bag’s last outing, but Rupert remembered it vividly. This bag, Rupert knew from painful experience, could not be trusted.

  An hour earlier, he had watched with intense loathing as his person lifted the bag off the closet’s top shelf and loaded a small pile of clothes into its zippered compartment. A collection of toiletries had started to accumulate on the bathroom shelf by the sink. He knew exactly what was coming next.

  A venomous hatred filled Rupert’s fluff-covered chest as he glowered at the duffel. That bag was about to run off with his person.

  Rupert sniffled sulkily. After all these years together, he thought they had an understanding, he and his person. It was quite simple, really. He allowed her to call him Rupert if she agreed to stay home and take care of him.

  He was a cat, after all, and he had needs.

  First off, there was the matter of his water dish. He preferred to drink his fluids out of a glass from the kitchen cabinet. No plastic pet bowls. No aluminum bins. Those were unacceptable; they left a strange aftertaste. He shook his head, as if remembering the unpleasant flavor.

  Now, once the appropriate glass had been selected, it should be filled with water from the special filtered container in the refrigerator. After being poured, the water must be allowed to warm to room temperature before it was suitable for drinking. Then, as soon as the first cat food floaties began to accumulate in the glass, the whole thing must be dumped out, thoroughly cleaned, and refilled.

  In Rupert’s opinion, these were all perfectly reasonable requests, but not ones, in his experience, that were honored by your typical breeze-in, breeze-out cat sitter.

  He stomped his feet stubbornly. Who was going to maintain the proper conditions of his water supply if the bag took off with his person? Who?

  Then, he thought worriedly, there was the issue of tummy rubs. After a big meal, Rupert looked to his person to provide a warm lap for him to curl up in while she gently massaged the round pouch of his stomach. This procedure, he was convinced, was absolutely critical to proper feline digestion. He shuddered to think what might happen if he were deprived of this essential service. Who was going to rub his tummy while that duffel bag and his person were off gallivanting around Nevada City? he demanded in perturbed silence. Who?

  Rupert ticked off a growing list of concerns regarding his pending abandonment. What if he got a kink in his back that needed massaging? What if his blankets got stale and needed fluffing in the dryer? What if the fog rolled in and he wanted the heater turned on? There was no end to the numerous calamities he might face.

  That was the whole point, Rupert thought as his mind raced in growing panic. He might need something. What could be more important than staying here and taking care of Rupert?

  Suddenly, Rupert sat bolt upright, his heart nearly stopping from a last alarming realization. The worst possible scenario had flashed before his eyes.

  What if he got lonely?

  The fluffy orange tip of his tail whapped against the surface of the bed in frustration. He puffed out another selfpitying sniffle. Honestly—that woman! What was she thinking?

  Rupert stiffened his shoulders with resolve. He knew what he had to do. If his person thought she could leave him here all alone in the Green Vase with his bossy sister and that weird-looking mouse—well, she had another thing coming. Wherever that black duffel bag was going, he was going, too.

  He crept to the edge of the bed. Carefully, he studied the zippered opening and sized up the distance. His claws dug into the comforter as he wiggled his back end and prepared for his leap. With a last defiant “mreow,” he sprang into the air.

  A moment later, he disappeared inside the bag.

  ISABELLA CURLED UP on a rug at the far side of the bedroom, skeptically observing her brother’s mental machinations. She sighed dismissively as he leapt off the bed into the mouth of the duffel bag. No offense to her brother, but he was an amateur when it came to communicating with their person.

  Isabella’s brow furrowed as she thought of the toy bear they’d found earlier that day. She sensed that this was a significant revelation, a clue to one of Oscar’s deeply guarded secrets.

  Her white face pinched as she considered her person’s pending departure. In most
instances, she preferred the comforts of home to a car trip. She hated being locked up in her carrier, unable to control the direction of the vehicle. But this was more than the typical excursion her person was about to embark on, and she would no doubt need Isabella’s expert feline guidance.

  Isabella twitched her whiskers as she came to the inevitable conclusion. She would have to convince her person to take the cats along with her to Nevada City.

  As Isabella stared at the rustling duffel bag, pondering how best to instruct her person on this topic, she heard the familiar knocking engine of a pickup rumbling into Jackson Square.

  Isabella trotted across the bedroom to the window overlooking the street. She propped her front feet on the edge of the sill and poked her head through the slats in the blinds. Down below, the pickup’s rusted frame puttered to a stop in front of Monty’s art studio. The driver’s side door swung open with a loud creak, and a wrinkled old man in frayed overalls limped out of the cab.

  Harold Wombler glanced up at Isabella’s window as he rubbed a sore spot in the crook of his neck. Seeing her tiny white face in the blinds, he nodded an acknowledgment, his version of a friendly gesture.

  Isabella watched as Harold hobbled around to the truck’s back bed. His gnarled hands clamped down on the handle to the dented tailgate and dropped it into a horizontal position. With effort, he lifted a large object out of the bed and set it on the sidewalk.

  Isabella’s face registered bewilderment as she tried to figure out what Harold was doing with this strange wheeled contraption.

  With a rueful grimace at Isabella’s confused expression, Harold rolled the object to the street side of the truck to give her a better view. He pointed emphatically at a compartment positioned over the wheels. Then he turned to look up at her window to see if she’d understood his meaning.