A chuckle rumbled up from Clem’s chest. “Oregon immediately became Senator Benton’s favorite word. He repeated it over and over again in his mind. He bought himself a dog and named it Oregon, just to have an excuse to call it out.”
Stroking the rumpled collar of his suit jacket, Clem stood up from the stool and beamed at the audience. “Benton knew the trip to Oregon would take the pesky Pathfinder a year, if not more, to complete. It would send him on a perilous journey through scorching desert heat and jaw-locking blizzard freezes . . . through lands chock-full of scalp-severing Indians, ravenous mountain lions, and ornery outlaw bandits.”
Clem stretched his face into a serene smile. “Yes, Senator Benton had the perfect expedition for this daughterstealing Frémont,” he said, rolling blissfully back on his heels. “He could hardly wipe the grin from his face as he watched that infernal Pathfinder set his compass, mount up, and begin his long ride west. Benton felt certain he’d seen the last of him.”
Ruefully, Clem shook his head and leaned forward again, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “He had no idea what chain of events he’d set in motion.”
“THE BEAR FLAG Revolt,” I mused to myself. “Maybe that’s what Oscar left the clue about. What do you think, Issy?”
I glanced down at the stroller. Rupert was stretched out luxuriously across the inside of the passenger compartment. His sleepy blue eyes blinked happily up at me.
It was at that moment I noticed the six-inch opening in the net cover.
“What happened to Isabella?” I whispered urgently.
Rupert replied with an uninformative yawn that ended in a cat-food-smelling belch.
Chapter 18
SEARCH AMONG THE SEATS
I SPUN MY head back and forth, searching the surrounding area for any sign of my missing cat.
“Issy,” I hissed as Clem continued his oration from the stage. A few heads turned to scowl at my interruption.
A searing panic gripped my chest as I re-zipped the netting to make sure Rupert didn’t join his sister in the escape. Still flopped lazily on his back, he appeared unconcerned about her disappearance.
I hunched down as low as possible and slid off my seat, catching the rebounding cushion with my hand to keep it from banging against the seat-back. Rupert watched curiously as I scooted around the stroller and crawled down our row on my hands and knees.
“Issy,” I whispered again, ducking my head to check the concrete floor beneath the seats in front of me.
I reached the end of the row and poked my head around the armrest of the last seat. The carpeted path leading down the theater’s center aisle was disturbingly vacant.
Several more heads turned to glare at the strange woman creating the commotion at the rear of the auditorium. My face flushed with embarrassment, but I was far too worried about Isabella to let their stares impede my search.
“Isabe—” I swallowed the rest in a gulp of relief as I spied a furry white glow peeking around the lobby’s red velvet curtains.
“Don’t move,” I mouthed silently.
Isabella sat on the floor and demurely looked in my direction.
Trying to make as little noise as possible, I returned to the stroller and eased it out of the back row. I drew a few last irritated looks before Rupert and I exited the auditorium.
We found Isabella waiting patiently for us in the lobby. Her sharp blue eyes stared up at me expectantly.
“What are you doing?” I whispered reproachfully. Despite my harsh tone, I was immensely relieved to have found her.
“Mreo,” she replied pleasantly as I stepped around the stroller and bent over to pick her up.
From that crouched angle, my line of sight matched up with the bottom rim of a display case mounted on the wall next to the auditorium’s curtained entrance. Distracted by the food trays on the table in front of the wall, I hadn’t noticed the case when I’d passed it earlier. Clem’s amplified voice faded into the periphery as my eyes honed in on a furry figurine sitting in the far corner of the display.
It was a little stuffed bear holding a tiny paper flag colored to match that of the state of California.
HAROLD WOMBLER CROUCHED behind the stairs to the balcony, silently munching on a second triangular-shaped sandwich. He watched the woman with the long brown hair as she peered into the glass display case at the toy bear.
Harold gummed his dentures, satisfied with the result of his efforts; then, still carrying the terrarium, he slipped quietly through a side door leading out to the parking lot.
Seconds later, Ivan Batrachos tiptoed out behind him.
Chapter 19
THE NEVADA CITY BEAR
ISABELLA HUNG IN my arms as I stared at the toy bear. It was in better condition than the one I’d found behind Oscar’s kitchen wallpaper, but otherwise, it appeared to be almost identical.
“Mrao,” she said, tapping the display case with one of her front paws.
“How did you . . . ?” I wondered, leaning in closer to inspect the bear.
Isabella muttered a response under her breath, offended that I would question her clue-hunting expertise.
I set Isabella on the floor between my knees and placed my hands on the surface of the case. The glass front moved easily beneath the pressure of my fingertips, making a grating sound as I slid the top panel to one side. Threading my hand through the opening to the back corner, I stretched my fingers to catch the outer tip of the bear’s paw and pluck it out.
As I removed the bear from the display case, I thought I heard a slight shuffling near the stairs to the balcony—but Clem’s voice was still booming from the theater, so it was impossible to be sure. A quick glance around the lobby convinced me that it was still empty. I put the bear on the ground next to Isabella and, as quietly as possible, pulled the glass front back into place.
The bear didn’t appear to have any relevance to the other subject matter in the case, I noticed as I scanned the rest of the contents in the display. The main exhibit contained a black-and-white photograph of the Nevada Theatre from the late 1800s. A short article posted alongside the photo described the theater’s long history as well as some of the famous figures who had graced its stage, most notably Mark Twain.
I already knew much of the history of Twain’s California experience. He had arrived in San Francisco in the mid-1860s, fresh off a disappointing mining stint in the Sierras. After a few months working a local reporting beat, a job he had vehemently detested, Twain had transitioned into writing short stories and essays for Bay Area literary magazines.
Twain’s first nationwide success came with The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County, but even this triumph failed to bring in enough income to pay the rent. Increasingly desperate for funds, he decided to try his hand as a public speaker. He transformed his humorous writings into a comedic stand-up routine.
Despite Twain’s lack of stage experience, his show was an instant hit. After a successful start in San Francisco, he took the act on the road. His first performance circuit trekked across Northern California, eventually passing through Nevada City.
In order to gin up interest in the tour, Twain papered each town along his route with over-the-top adverts and fliers bearing messages similar to the billboards the cats and I had followed up Broad Street.
I looked around the empty foyer, trying to imagine a young Mark Twain, still rough around the edges, nervously summoning his best bravado before marching inside the theater to begin the night’s show.
“So what does this second bear have to tell us?” I asked, returning to the task at hand. I retrieved the toy bear from Isabella, who had by now thoroughly sniffed it over. Tilting my head, I squinted in the lobby’s dim lighting to read the gold-lettered writing on the opposite side of the bear’s flag.
“Sutter’s Fort, Sacramento,” I murmured out loud as another roar erupted from inside the theater. Between the noise of the crowd and my intent studying of the flag, I failed to notice the footsteps creeping acr
oss the lobby toward us. I looked up with a start at Isabella’s disgruntled “Mrao.”
“What a love-a-lee ki-ki-kitty,” a man said in a stilted, stuttering, high-pitched voice. I dropped the bear into my jacket pocket as I twisted on my knees to face him.
“Umm . . . yes. Thank you,” I mumbled in return. Something about his voice provoked a squirrely sensation in my gut.
The man wore a theater attendant’s cheap cotton vest over a faded T-shirt that bulged around the belt-line of his dark-colored jeans. On his feet, I spied a pair of black leather tennis shoes.
“Do you have a t–t-tick-et?” the man asked as he adjusted a green visor pushed up against his brow.
The visor seemed a strange addition to his theater attendant’s uniform. It shaded the top half of his eyes, leaving me to focus on his unusually plump lips, which resembled those of a fish.
Before I could answer, the man hunched down toward Isabella. “Sh-sh-she’s pretty,” he wheezed.
My hand wrapped protectively around Isabella’s shoulders as he reached out to pet her head.
“Hisssss,” Isabella spat at him.
“I’m s-s-sorry,” he stuttered, quickly retracting his hand. He pointed to the yellow and black CATS ON BOARD decal pinned to the side of the stroller. “B-b-but we don’t allow p-p-pets inside the theater.”
“Right,” I replied. “Of course.” Isabella continued to glare up at him as I grabbed her around the middle and stuffed her into the stroller’s passenger compartment. She and Rupert huddled together, suspiciously eying the theater attendant.
“Oh, you’ve g-g-got two c-cats,” he observed haltingly.
I gripped the stroller’s handle and spun it toward the exit. The odd tenor of the man’s voice was making me extremely uneasy. “We were just leaving,” I said briskly.
The attendant waved at us, his plump fishy lips spreading into a strange smile as I hurriedly shoved the stroller out the theater’s front doors.
The sun had begun to set on Nevada City, and Broad Street’s crowds were starting to peter out. Past the corner of the theater’s red brick building, a few feet down the sidewalk, I parked the stroller and knelt down to check on the cats.
“That guy gave me the heebies,” I said with a shudder.
“Mrao,” Rupert piped up at me. Isabella looked at her brother as if she agreed with his assessment.
As I puzzled at my cats, the image of the theater attendant flashed before my eyes. For a moment, he stood in my mental picture, awkwardly leering. Then, his appearance began to change.
The visor vanished from his head, and the thick plump of his lips deflated. The face beneath the disguise, so flat and featureless, had easily hidden behind the distracting visor and the stuttering lisp.
I turned back toward the entrance of the theater, my cheeks flushed with recognition. My pulse began pounding with the realization that I had just been face-to-face with Frank Napis.
Chapter 20
POST-DINNER REPORT
A TELEVISION CAMERA panned the darkening slope of Broad Street’s twinkling hill, taking a moment to focus on the painted wooden sign of the Mine Shaft Saloon before sweeping across the street to the green and white balcony on the second floor of the National Hotel.
Will Spigot and Harry Carlin sat at a round metal table on the balcony, their faces spotlighted by production equipment. Microphone wires snaked up the backs of their lightweight sport jackets and wound discreetly around their ears.
The silver-haired Spigot leaned in toward the largest camera as a harried producer counted down the seconds to the start of their next broadcast segment.
“Welcome to our continuing prerace coverage for this year’s Tour of California. Eight stages over eight consecutive days covering a race route that will take us the length of the Golden State.”
The camera widened its frame as Spigot turned to his partner. “And it all gets going tomorrow morning.”
Harry smiled warmly into the lens. “I can hardly wait. Let’s take a moment to review the route.”
The camera zoomed in on Harry’s ruddy face as the television monitor in front of him split its screen to show a stylized map of California. The cities and roads had been removed to allow for a thick red line that highlighted the race route.
“You can see on the map here that we kick off tomorrow morning in the Sierra Gold Country. Stage One will begin on the street below us. After the riders leave Nevada City, they’ll wind their way through several acres of stunning pine-tree forests until they reach the flatlands of the upper delta. That will take them into a sprint through downtown Sacramento.”
The cameraman swung his lens back toward Spigot. He ran his tongue over the slim line of his upper lip and began the description of the race’s second stage.
“Day Two will take us out across the lower Sacramento delta, west to the shoreline of Lake Berryessa. After circling a portion of the lake, the riders will cut through the vineyards of the Napa Valley, climb over the lower coastal mountains—there’ll be some twisting roads through that stretch—and finish up in the town of Santa Rosa.”
Spigot’s lean face scrunched into a hungry expression. “Harry and I have been invited to dinner at a Sonoma winery that evening. That should be a spectacular meal . . . ”
Carlin coughed lightly as the producer waved his hands in a circular motion, urging the broadcasters to hurry along and keep on topic.
“Tuesday will see us leaving out of San Francisco, heading south on Highway One down the coast,” Carlin said smoothly. “The riders will cut inland for a couple of climbing segments up and over the Santa Cruz Mountains before arriving in the town of Santa Cruz. The Stage Three finish line will bring them right up to the famous Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk.”
Carlin turned toward his partner, raising his eyebrows, trying to cue him to launch into the summary of Stage Four. But Spigot was still fixated on the dinner reservation.
“Those folks in Sonoma—they’ll know how to properly cook a piece of fish,” Spigot opined indignantly.
Carlin cleared his throat again as the producer tapped his watch impatiently. “Ahem, returning to the route, then, Day Four of the course takes us from San Jose to Modesto . . . ”
“Unlike the chap working behind the curtain at tonight’s little bistro,” Spigot muttered bitterly.
Carlin nervously eyed the now wildly gesticulating producer. “And then the, uh, yes, the next stage takes the riders inland through California’s Central Valley, its breadbasket, so to speak.”
“It was a perfectly honest piece of salmon, from what I could tell,” Spigot cut in grumpily. “Before that cook got hold of it.”
Carlin pressed on. “Stage Six takes us up into the San Bernardino Mountains . . . ”
“Coated it with that wretched pepper and paprika concoction . . . ”
Carlin wiped perspiration from his brow. “Stage Seven is an individual time trial through the streets of downtown Los Angeles . . . ”
“Seared the taste buds right off my tongue.” Spigot gripped his stomach, moaning in pain. “And now that toxic paste is working on my intestines . . . ”
“Well, you did tell them to make it extra spicy,” Carlin snapped as the producer threw his hands up in despair.
Spigot shrugged his shoulders as if surprised by Carlin’s sudden outburst.
Carlin took in a deep breath. Then he concluded, “Finally, the last stage of the race wraps up just north of Malibu, in what will surely be a thrilling—”
“I say,” Spigot interjected, leaning over the edge of the balcony, “what’s that going on down below?”
The cameraman followed the motion of Spigot’s head and aimed the focal point of his equipment at the sidewalk beneath the balcony, where a gangly-legged man in green spandex leggings weaved wildly through the crowds on a bicycle. Pedestrians scrambled to jump out of the way as he careened from side to side. Angry shouts were hurled at the wobbly rider, drowning out his frantic apologies. The front wheel of the
bike hit the curb of an intersecting side street and plunged into its gutter, causing the man to somersault over the front handlebars and land, padded rump first, on the pavement.
“Poor fellow,” Spigot said sadly as he turned toward the camera and cocked his right eyebrow knowingly. “I reckon he had the fish.”
Chapter 21
THE STOAT
I STOOD IN the gathering darkness, staring at the doors to the Nevada Theatre, still reeling from the realization of my encounter with Frank Napis. If nothing else, I tried to reason optimistically, the presence of Napis was a clear indication that I was on the track of one of Oscar’s hidden treasures. I just wished I had some idea of what I was searching for.
The metal brackets on the soles of Monty’s bike shoes clapped against the concrete as he marched up the hill, pushing his bike beside him. A five-foot-long flexible stick of plastic was taped to the frame’s back end. Flapping at the top of the stick was a green triangular-shaped flag that proclaimed the rider of the bike to be the “Official Representative of the Mayor of San Francisco.”
I turned to study his advancing figure, frowning in concern as he approached. The right sleeve of his nylon shirt was torn open, and the skin on his exposed elbow was raw with road rash. The reason he was walking rather than riding his bike also became obvious: The front tire was completely flat.
“What happened to you?” I asked as he staggered to a stop beside me.
“Lucky . . . to . . . be . . . alive!” Monty gushed emotionally between deep air-sucking breaths. “A bike like this . . . ” He coughed hoarsely. “It’s really quite complicated to ride.”
My mind drifted back to the treasure hunt as Monty began a long-winded explanation of his biking accident. Bears, I thought intensely. Oscar’s clue related in some way to the little stuffed bears.
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