How to Catch a Cat (20 page)

UNCUNNING

THE NIECE WAS
about to take the new mayoral intern downstairs to show him his basement cubicle when the office printer connected to Monty’s computer began to hum.

The machine kicked out a sheet of printed paper as the mayor’s office door swung open. Monty swept into the reception area and danced up to the printer. For the first time in weeks, there was a grin on his narrow face.

The niece looked at him with concern. While the sunny disposition was welcome, the sudden change in attitude was cause for alarm.

Monty scooped up the sheet from the printer tray, scanned the inked side, and beamed triumphantly.

“It’s a fabulous day, isn’t it?”

“I suppose . . .” The niece craned her neck, trying to see what was on the printout. “We, uh, have a new intern.”

Van gave the mayor a slanted salute. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

“Oh, hello,” Monty said, stepping forward to greet the intern. He stared at Van’s chest and then adjusted his head upward. He was unaccustomed to looking up to someone taller than himself.

Both men were enthusiastic hand-shakers. The result was a wild, bouncing clasp of hands.

The niece managed to stand clear of the flailing body parts as she called out, “This is Van.”

“Welcome, Mr. Van.” Monty waved the paper in the air. “Perfect timing. Things are about to get busy around here. We’re going to need the extra help.”

The niece nearly tripped over a chair, trying to get a glimpse of the printing on the paper. She couldn’t imagine what could be written on it that would have inspired such a dramatic shift in circumstances—but she was afraid she was about to find out.

“Ahem.” The mayor assumed a solemn expression. “I have a cunning plan.”

The niece cringed at the announcement. Despite having a fondness for the phrase, Monty was not known for devising brilliant strategy. And besides, she reflected, no self-respecting plan that was truly cunning in nature would have allowed itself to be branded as such.

Truth be told, most cunning plans were smart enough to keep away from the likes of Montgomery Carmichael.

She heaved out a reluctant sigh, and then, because she knew she had no other choice, asked warily, “All right. Let’s hear it.”

Monty pumped his eyebrows. “I’m going to perform an exorcism.”

Van nodded his head approvingly. “Cool.”

The niece had a far less supportive reaction. “You’re going to do what?”

“I’m going to perform an exorcism,” Monty replied succinctly, speaking as if this was a regular everyday occurrence. “In order to rid my office, my persona, my
aura
of this serial killer woman and get myself reinstated to the America’s Cup publicity committee.”

Nothing about this proposal struck Van as odd. “Sounds good,” he said with another nod. “I’m in.”

The niece looked back and forth between the mayor and the intern, struck by the many similarities in both body type and personality. Van could have been Monty’s long-lost—and decidedly weird—cousin.

Oh no
, she thought with horror.
I hired a Monty.

The niece looked up at the filing cabinet. As if denying responsibility, Isabella uncharacteristically averted her gaze.

The cat issued a feeble defense.

“Mer-rao.”

ORDAINED

THE NIECE COULD
see that she faced an uphill battle to stop the mayor from making a fool of himself.

“Monty, you can’t perform an exorcism. You’re not a priest.”

“I am now!” With a flourish, he turned the paper so she could read it. “I just took an online course and paid a small fee. It’s all official.”

“How small a fee?” she asked suspiciously.

Pursing his lips, Monty flipped the document around and read the scrolling font. “It says here that I’ve just been ordained in the Church of Vincent Santa Maria.” He squinted at the address line. “From the Stargazing Chapel on the Miracle Mile.”

“The what on the where?” The niece tried to grab the paper from Monty’s grasp, but he held it over her head and continued reading.

“. . . by the power and blessing of Father Aaron E. Presley, I hereby confer upon Mayor Montgomery Carmichael of San Francisco, California, the highest order of ordainment . . .” He paused, reflecting. “Hey, we should frame this.”

The niece remained unconvinced. “And this new church of yours does exorcisms?”

Monty lowered the document and puffed out his chest. “They do now!”

She tugged the paper from his hands and studied the certificate.

“Monty, this isn’t real. That man’s an Elvis impersonator—from Las Vegas!”

“Sure it’s real,” Monty replied. “Real enough for my purposes, anyway.” He tapped the desk. “The exorcism ceremony only has to be good enough to satisfy the entrepreneur that I’m not jinxed, so he’ll let me back into the regatta.”

Van peered over the niece’s shoulder at the certificate. “Looks legit to me, dude.”

The niece scowled up at the intern. The last thing Monty needed was encouragement.

Pushing the intern aside, she returned her attention to the artificially ordained interim mayor.

“Is the Baron Catholic?”

Monty thunked his chin, pondering. “Presbyterian, I think.”

Van chimed in from across the room. “Close enough!”

The niece handed back the document.

“You’ve got your work cut out for you, Reverend.”

A SÉANCE . . . OF SORTS

MONTY AND VAN
spent a couple of hours working on the computer inside the mayor’s inner office, researching exorcisms. They consulted several online resources, reviewed materials from various religious websites, and pooled their combined recollections of fictional depictions they’d seen in movies and on television.

Having devised an overall plan of attack, they then headed out into the streets of San Francisco to search for the necessary supplies.

They returned to City Hall later that afternoon with several large shopping bags.

Isabella and Rupert inspected each item as it was removed from its sack.

“What’s with the hat?” the niece asked, pointing at the purple pointed item Monty had just placed on his head.

“Ooh, I’ve got one, too,” Van said, lifting up a rainbow-colored tie-dye version and setting it on his noggin.

She grimaced at the intern’s headgear. “Have you also been ordained?”

“I appointed him my associate bishop,” Monty replied. He gave the niece an impish grin. “I would have offered you the title, but you declined to join our purchasing expedition.”

The niece rolled her eyes. “Thank goodness for small blessings.”

—

WITH THE PROPS
unpacked and laid out across the floor, Monty and Van began to assemble an array of incense-burning devices they’d picked up in Chinatown.

Soon several candles, votives, and ceramic containers of sandalwood and sage were organized in a circle in the middle of the floor. Van offered his cigarette lighter to ignite a foot-long wooden match, which Monty then used to spread the flame among the incense units.

The niece crinkled her nose as a musky aroma spread through the room. “Maybe all this will get rid of the perfume.”

“Hold up!” Monty exclaimed. He ran into his office and brought back a digital video camera. “Here.” He thrust it at the niece. “Make yourself useful.”

“You want me to film this?”

Monty blew out an exasperated
sfft
. “Of course. That’s the whole point. How am I going to convince the Baron I performed an exorcism if I don’t have video evidence?”

Reluctantly, the niece took the camera and flipped on the recording switch. She aimed the lens at Monty as he finished lighting the various incense containers.

“Oh!” He skipped over to the wall and turned the America’s Cup poster around so that its front once more faced into the room. “Make sure you get this in the video, too.”

The stage now set, it was time for the ceremony to begin.

Van sat on the floor, cross-legged, his arms folded in front of his chest, nodding and humming supportively.

Monty stepped into the center of the ring of smoking canisters, straightened his purple hat, and held up a plastic crucifix purchased earlier from a tourist shop.

“I, Reverend Interim Mayor Montgomery Carmichael, of the Church of Vincent Santa Maria . . .” He paused to take a breath—and choked on the incense smoke.

Still coughing, he continued. “I, Reverend Carmichael, command the evil spirit of the Knitting Needle Ninja to leave this building and to permanently disassociate herself from San Francisco’s mayoral office.”

Van stopped humming. He cleared his throat in a prompting manner.

With a nod to his assistant, Monty added, “And I forbid you to do any harm to anyone employed as a mayoral intern.”

The niece turned her head away from the camera’s viewfinder. She and Isabella exchanged dubious glances.

Rupert, however, looked on in fascination. He remained hopeful that one of the shopping bags might contain yet another package—perhaps a box of fried chicken donuts.

A sudden screech caused everyone to jump.

It wasn’t the reply of the Ninja’s demonic spirit. The clouds of incense smoke had triggered the fire alarm.

Seconds later, the sprinkler system lowered from the ceiling, and metal spigots began shooting water onto the floor.

Humans and cats ran for cover. The ring of burning materials sputtered and hissed.

The niece hovered with Isabella under the desk. Rupert zoomed inside his domed litter box.

Monty and Van hopscotched around the room, dodging water spigots while holding on to their respective pointed hats.

The reception door opened and Hoxton Finn stuck his head inside.

The reporter took one look at the scene and threw up his hands.

“I don’t want to know,” he muttered, before retreating back outside and shutting the door.

—

AFTER THE SPRINKLERS
finally shut off, the niece and Van began mopping up puddles of water from the reception room’s carpet. As the smell of wet incense began to dissipate, she stared up at the holes in the ceiling where the spigots had descended, pondering.

Isabella waved a paw in the air, concurring with her person’s hunch.

The perfume smell had just returned.

“Van,” the niece said. “You’re tall enough to reach up to those sprinkler heads, aren’t you?”

San Francisco Bay, August 1775

A MAN OF THE WOODS

CAPTAIN AYALA SAT
at his desk in his ship quarters, adding notes to his sheath of papers, both to the official registry and to his personal reflections.

This evening, the latter log had received the bulk of his attention.

The desk lantern sent out a warm glow, casting a small circle of light in an otherwise dark room. It was a quarter past midnight and most of the passengers and crew on the
San Carlos
were asleep—that is, those who remained on board.

At last count, nearly half of the sailors had abandoned ship, relinquishing their posts rather than risk falling victim to the evil spirit who had already murdered two of their number. No longer an unsubstantiated rumor, the men were now convinced that the ship was haunted and that none of them would make it back to Mexico alive.

Despite exhaustive searching, Ayala had failed to find any evidence linking one of the crew members to the killings. Nor had he seen any indication of the elusive stowaway widely believed to be responsible for the murders.

The ship was in a state of all-out panic. Without a dramatic change in circumstances, he faced the near-certain prospect that the
San Carlos
would be left stranded here in this remarkable bay—which, if they all perished, might remain undiscovered for another decade or more.

The captain set down his quill. He pressed his fingertips against his temples, trying to quell the headache that had intensified during his lengthy writing session.

Sighing wearily, Ayala shifted his gaze to the green parrot curled up in the discarded shirt that had become his nighttime nest. Snuggling in the warmth generated by the nearby lantern, the bird wheezed out a contented coo.

The captain wished he could emulate the parrot’s peaceful sleep. With a groan, he returned to his log:

“Crew morale affected by . . .”

He held the quill in the air for several seconds, searching for the right words. Finally, he dipped the tip in the inkwell and added: “motivational challenges.”

As early as the eighteenth century, but human language had already been corrupted by corporate-speak.

—

AYALA LOOKED UP
at a knock on his door.

“Humphretto?”

The door cracked open and the ship’s chef leaned inside.

“Captain, if I may?” The chef nodded toward the captain’s desk. “I saw the glow of your light from the hallway.”

“Oscar. Please, come in.” Ayala yawned his exhaustion. “I don’t think there’s any chance of sleep for me tonight.”

“I have an idea that might help with your . . . uh . . . situation,” Oscar said, stepping into the room.

Ayala grunted his response. “Not another exorcism.”

“No.” Oscar smiled. “I have a much more nuanced approach in mind.”

The captain turned his chair away from the desk. He looked up at Oscar expectantly.

“Well, don’t just stand there. Spit it out, man.”

Oscar pointed to the captain’s paperwork. “It might be better if you don’t know the specifics, given your reporting obligations.”

Ayala nodded his understanding. “Just give me the general gist.”

“I’ll need a canoe and a man to help me paddle it,” Oscar replied with a wink. “Humphretto if you can spare him. We’ll leave at dawn.”

Standing, the captain shook his head. “Oscar, we cannot survive if the ship’s chef abandons us. That would be the last straw. The men have to eat.”

“Trust me, Captain. I’ll be back by sundown.”

Ayala was unconvinced. He paced a nervous circle around the room.

“I’ll leave my niece here,” Oscar said. “I’m sure you know I would never abandon her.”

Ayala tapped his quill against his left thigh. “Where are you going?”

“The north shore.” Oscar began retreating to the exit. He paused at the threshold and looked back. “I saw a plume of smoke in the hills the other night. I think a friend of mine is camped there.”

The captain sensed he wouldn’t get any more details, but he pressed with a last question as Oscar stepped out of the room. “Is your friend an Indian?”

“He’s not an Indian, but he is friends with them,” Oscar replied. “He’s a man of the woods. A rustic.”

Oscar chuckled to himself as he disappeared down the hallway.

“The Indians are far more civilized than Samuel Eckles.”