How to Catch a Cat (19 page)

THE MEDIATION

CAPTAIN AYALA HEARD
Monty’s voice inside the chapel as he approached. The captain stopped in the corridor, across from the entrance to the kitchen, and listened to the priest’s one-sided conversation.

“Now, gentlemen. Let’s discuss the nature of your dispute.”

Frowning, Ayala leaned in closer. He wasn’t aware of any specific frictions among his crew—and he was leery of Father Monty getting involved in such a conflict if one did exist. Surely, Monty’s meddling would only make the problem worse.

The next comment appeared to support this conclusion.

“He pulled your hair?” Monty tutted his disapproval. “That doesn’t sound very nice.”

There was a long pause, followed by Monty’s summation of the rebuttal.

“I see. And you say he chased you up the mast pole?” Finger tapping echoed out into the corridor. “That sounds a bit extreme.”

Ayala pressed his ear against the hallway’s wooden paneling, straining to hear. Try as he might, he couldn’t pick up anything from the voices of the two men who were participating in the counseling session. Monty’s words, however, continued to come through loud and clear.

“Well, there’s no reason why you two can’t be friends.”

The suggestion was met by an awkward silence, broken only by Monty’s blustering
pshaw
.

“You think he’s trying to
kill
you? Oh, surely not.”

At the loud
squawk
that followed this last statement, Ayala charged into the chapel.

“What’s going on in here?” he demanded loudly—and then stopped short.

He squinted at the feline and feathered pair seated in front of Father Monty: a fluffy orange and white cat and a green parrot with a bright red head.

Rupert and Petey turned to look at the room’s intruder.

“Captain Ayala,” Monty said, standing from his chair. “I was just gathering a few tools for the exorcism.”

He nodded to the animals seated next to him.

“Gentlemen, I think we can pick this up later.” He added sternly, “I trust you can put aside your differences until then.”

Ayala stood speechless as the bird and cat filed, one after the other, out of the room.

—

THE CAPTAIN WAS
still staring at the empty doorway when Monty leaned toward him and whispered in his ear.

“So, Captain, about this exorcism . . .”

Ayala immediately snapped his attention back to the priest.

Monty stared sheepishly at the ground. “I have to confess, I haven’t performed that particular ceremony before.”

The captain tensed with alarm.

“What?”

Monty stepped back, self-consciously straightening his brown robe. “Well, of course, I studied the procedure at seminary.” He reached beneath his robe to fiddle with a cuff link. “And I did see it done once . . . on a rabbit.”

The captain’s head ached with the same intensity as his left foot.

“Listen here . . .” Ayala’s face skewed up as he suppressed an expletive. With effort, he instead used the priest’s name. “Father Carmichael.” He drew in a steadying breath and continued. “We’ve got an emergency situation on board this ship. My men have bought into this crazy notion that the
San Carlos
is cursed. If we don’t get this thing under control, there’s going to be a mass exodus—or worse.”

He placed a hand on the priest’s shoulder to emphasize the seriousness of the matter. “You’ve got to go out there, do your hocus-pocus, and convince the crew that whatever evil spirit they think has invaded this ship has been exorcised.” He clenched his grip through the brown robe. “I mean totally and completely gone.”

Monty twisted the hem of the ceremonial collar he’d draped around his neck.

“You know, I really should have permission from my bishop before trying this.”

Ayala gritted his teeth. “I’ll cover for you.”

With that, the captain turned and headed for the exit. At the threshold, he stopped and looked back.

“Just make it believable.”

INEXORABLE

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER,
Father Carmichael emerged from the second floor stairwell carrying a velvet bag and a book that detailed the steps for performing the exorcism ritual. On his head, he wore a pointed hat whose purple fabric matched that of the velvet bag.

Captain Ayala stopped him at the top of the steps. He grimaced at the hat, pursed his lips as if he’d just swallowed something distasteful, and hissed, “Remember, Father. Be convincing.” With that, he shoved the priest forward.

The passengers and crew had gathered on the ship’s top deck for the ceremony. The observers’ faces reflected a mix of curiosity, bemusement, religious fervor, and skepticism. The niece and Isabella fell into the last category, while Rupert landed decidedly in the first. He could hardly wait to see what entertainment Monty had up his sleeve this time.

The niece stood with her arms crossed over her chest; the corners of her mouth pinched with concern. Isabella sat at her person’s feet, her orange ears turned sideways. Rupert bounced up and down beside them, trying to see around the surrounding sea of legs.

With a solemn nod to the assembled audience, Monty set the velvet bag on the deck, pulled out several wooden crosses, and arrayed them in a circle at his feet.

Standing, he opened the book to a marked section. The pages were yellow and frail with age, the edges gilded with a crusty gold paint. Holding the book up to his face, he ran his index finger down a column of text, as if reviewing a checklist, and then began to read out loud.

He appeared to be reciting some sort of incantation, but the words were (perhaps intentionally) difficult to discern.

“rom
 . . .
tus
 . . .
ettya
 . . .
mmm
 . . .
nnn
 . . .
nus . . .”

The audience edged closer, straining to listen. A sailor whispered at the back of the crowd.

“If we can’t hear him, how will the demon?”

Monty raised the volume of his voice.

The niece soon concluded he would have been better off masking his words. She’d never heard Latin spoken in such a garbled and unmetered manner.

“romulus terribulus
,
adieus supplicamus . . .”

She looked down at Isabella. The cat’s expression conveyed utter disdain.

The performance continued to deteriorate as the chant droned on. Monty still held the book up to his face, but he had clearly stopped reading the text. The ad-lib became obvious.

“
exitus
the
boaticus
you
evilus spiritus . . .”

But things really went downhill when he began tapping the toes of his shoes. Before long, he was swaying wildly back and forth, as if a lively music played inside his head.

Even the true believers in the crowd started to question the ritual’s authenticity.

Monty finished off the recitation with a few dancing pivots. Scooping up one of the crosses at his feet, he used it to make a series of wild flourishing gestures, first at the audience, then at the stairs leading down into the hold, and, finally, up at the ship’s masts.

Petey squawked offense at the last action and fluttered off his cross-pole perch.

With a deep sigh, Monty wiped the sweat from his forehead and took a bow.

“Well, folks, that should do it.”

The crew members exchanged glances and a few disconcerted shrugs.

Moments later, the first splash was heard.

Several sailors had untied a canoe from the ship’s side and were fleeing for the shoreline in the hopes of trekking south to Monterey.

The unmarked land route was fraught with its own dangers, but the men had decided to take their chances on foot. No one wanted to stay on board a boat haunted by a murderous spirit.

Captain Ayala watched the canoe paddle away from the
San Carlos
and shook his head. Scowling, he turned to Father Monty, who was sliding the crosses back into their velvet bag.

“Good job, Father,” the captain said sarcastically. “You really nailed it at the end.”

Isabella chimed in with her own assessment.

“Mrao.”

The Week Before the America’s Cup Regatta

SACRIFICIAL LAMB

THE FIRST COUPLE
of weeks following the sailboat debacle were tough on Mayor Carmichael. Monty arrived at City Hall each day, moody and out of sorts. He spent hours sulking behind the closed door to his office, lamenting his ouster from the America’s Cup promotional team.

Not knowing what to do with all of his free time, Monty brought in a stack of blank canvases from his Jackson Square art studio. He set them up on easels and began painting dark, calamitous scenes of sailboats sinking in a stormy San Francisco Bay.

When the niece dared to peek inside the office to check on him, his only words were muttered curses about the upcoming regatta.

Oh—and, of course, he was also sad about Officer Toronto’s death.

—

MEANWHILE, THE POLICE
were at a loss on how to proceed with their case against the Knitting Needle Ninja. The serial killer had stymied their best investigators—and murdered one of their favorite officers. They’d been unable to recruit another volunteer to fill the undercover intern position.

Whatever disguise she had adopted was eluding detection—even, apparently, in the corridors of City Hall.

Simply put, they were out of leads.

As for the lemony-sweet perfume that randomly swamped Mabel’s old desk, the odor disappeared every time the detectives were summoned to the mayor’s office to investigate. After several fruitless aroma alarms, they had dismissed the niece’s smell reports.

After all, who ever heard of a serial killer haunting her victims by scent?

—

THE NIECE HAD
just received another fragrance bombardment when the reception door opened and the secretary for the president of the board of supervisors marched inside.

Wanda Williams crinkled her nose and frowned with disapproval.

“You should really cut back on your perfume, honey.” She tapped her neck. “Just a light touch is all you need.”

The niece opened her mouth to protest, but held back as a second entrant moved into the room.

“Can I help you, sir?” she asked, leaning to see around Wanda.

She soon realized that she needed to look up instead of sideways. The man was nearly seven feet tall. He was a gaunt fellow with graying temples. His face carried a wispy, faraway expression—as if he were permanently lost.

“This is my nephew.” Wanda turned and grabbed the man’s wrist, pulling him forward. With her free hand, she plopped a résumé on the desk. “He’s here for the intern position.”

The niece glanced up at the filing cabinet, exchanging wary looks with Isabella.

She returned her attention to Wanda and her nephew. “You know that the last three interns have been murdered?”

The tall man cleared his throat. He spoke with unwavering self-assurance—that or he had been well coached by his aunt, the niece wasn’t sure which.

“I am not afraid.”

“Umm.” The niece tapped her pencil against the desk as she skimmed the résumé. Then she sniffed the air, puzzled. The perfume smell had suddenly disappeared.

“I have faced great challenges in my life,” the nephew said. He began pacing back and forth in front of the niece’s desk. He appeared to be reciting a well-practiced speech, and his voice took on a vaguely familiar drone. “Recently, I rode my bike across the country.”

“Just California,” Wanda broke in, correcting. “And it was almost fifteen years ago.”

The man continued his spiel without flinching. He obviously had practice tuning out criticism. “The trip was a treacherous experience, one that pushed me to the limits of my abilities.”

“To be clear, it was the width of the state, not the length,” the aunt cut in testily. “He rode from the Golden Gate Bridge to Lake Tahoe. Not more than two hundred miles.”

“Along the way, I was chased by a bear.”

Wanda sighed testily. “I heard it was a cat.”

“I’m writing a book about my experiences,” the man persisted.

“He’s only written the first chapter.”

“These things can’t be rushed.”

“In the meantime, he needs a job.”

“Well, I have a small part-time position.”

Wanda shot her nephew a sharp look. “But it’s not enough to pay his bills.”

Throughout this tit-for-tat, the niece’s gaze bounced back and forth between the aunt and the nephew. She wasn’t sure how the minimal intern salary would help the man’s finances, but at the momentary break in the verbal traffic between the two, she jumped in and tried to steer the conversation toward the applicant’s résumé.

“I see you have experience in the fast-food industry?”

The nephew began another pacing circle. “I spent several years exploring the complicated science of nutrition and how the body processes food. I was a line chef . . .”

The aunt interrupted. “At a burger joint.”

“Ahem.” He raised a bony finger. “At a restaurant geared to speed-optimized consumption.”

“I see.” The niece squinted at the next line in the employment history section. “It says here you have master-level skills in recreational management?”

The man beamed proudly. “Ah yes. I’m a certified outdoor practitioner.”

Wanda folded her arms over her chest. “It means he likes to ride his bike through the forest.”

The niece glanced up from the résumé. Wanda and her nephew both stared down at her, she with intensity, he with a laid-back—and inexplicable—confidence.

“There’s no address listed. Do you live in San Francisco?”

“I prefer to camp, mostly. I live in the spiritual care of the stars.” He tilted his head toward the ceiling, reflecting. “Or sometimes in my car, if it’s raining.”

The aunt cut in. “All of his stuff is in his parents’ garage. Most of the time, he sleeps there.”

He gave a casual shrug. “To use their Wi-Fi.”

The niece looked over her shoulder. Isabella tapped the tip of her tail against the filing cabinet. As if sensing that the cat was the real decision-maker, the tall man shifted his attention to the cabinet.

The niece couldn’t interpret the visual exchange that passed between them, but Isabella soon chirped out an approving comment.

“Mrao.”

The niece looked up at the strange man, trying to figure him out. “So why are you interested in this internship?”

He smiled cheekily. “It seemed like a short-term commitment.”

The niece sighed her capitulation. “Okay, then. The job is yours.”

She reached into a desk drawer for a file folder. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“It’s Van.” He grinned. “My parents met up north. It’s short for Vancouver. You know, Vancouver, Canada.”

Wanda left the mayor’s office suite as the niece began writing the name on the folder tab.

“Of course it is.”