Authors: Rebecca M. Hale

How to Wash a Cat (20 page)

BOOK: How to Wash a Cat

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Isabella paused and stared, as if mesmerized, into the dead eyes of the bug, her head following it back and forth, back and forth. Rupert quivered like a tightly wound spring; he couldn’t bear to wait any longer.

There was a poof of dust as he charged out from under the dusty piece of furniture. Isabella hopped up onto the seat of the dental chair, the pads of her feet touching it for only a second. A sly smile spread across her face as she leapt nimbly from the seat of the recliner to a spindly side table three feet over.

In hot pursuit, Rupert pounded onto the dental chair—already slightly spinning from Isabella’s touch and go. His added momentum increased the rotation of the chair, moving him farther away from Isabella, but he was determined to keep up the chase.

Rupert clambered up onto the thick, leather back of the swiveling recliner and hurled his heavy mass towards the delicate table, but his arrival sent it tipping. He tried to jump clear, but his back feet tangled in the scrolling wood detail that rimmed the top edge. The wobbling table and awkward, scrambling cat crashed to the ground while Isabella smugly looked on from the top of the bookcase.

It was Friday morning. The cats and I had spent another night in the flat above the Green Vase. My apartment had begun to feel more and more alien to me—the last vestige of my quiet, predictable, pre-Monty life.

He strode through the front door of the Green Vase just after breakfast, for no apparent reason other than to recline on the stool by the cash register, wingtipped feet propped up on the counter, mining the morning’s paper for tidbits of the latest local gossip.

“Let’s see,” Monty said, shaking the edges of the paper to stretch out the center fold. “What do we have in here today?”

Monty shifted so that he could cross one long leg over the other. The cuff of his gray trousers slipped up to reveal his skinny, black-socked ankles. His bony back curved against the nearby wall, so that his pink and gray bow tie rested pertly on the folds of his black cashmere vest. Cufflinks in the form of miniature pink flamingoes, each with one leg crooked up under its body, decorated his wrists.

“Ah, here’s a bit on the Mayor. This should be good.”

The paper crackled as Monty brought the sheet in closer to his face, and his head slipped from view behind the printed shield. “It’s another dating debacle for the Mayor,” he said, perusing the article. “Here, listen to this.”

The Mayor dined last night at Ciao, a popular Italian restaurant in North Beach. He was accompanied by yet another starlet from that city to the south, a fetching girl with a bit part in an ‘artsy’ independent film coming out this summer.

Isabella hopped up on the counter, her attention fixed on Monty’s right wrist. Her eyes zoomed in on the flamingo’s gold leg as it flickered in the early morning light.

Upon arrival, the Mayor took a seat at a table near the front window while the starlet pushed her way through the packed restaurant to the unisex powder room near the kitchen.

Isabella stretched out her neck and curiously nudged the metal bird, the pink of her nose the same shade as its painted feathers. Unaware of Isabella’s attentions, Monty shook his hand as if shooing away a fly. Isabella ducked under the flying fingers, her hunting instincts piqued by the sudden movement. Her tail began to swing back and forth as Monty continued.

The Mayor scanned his menu, running a careful hand over his thick hair, swept back, as usual, with a shellacking coat of hair gel. He’d read halfway through the list of offerings when an elderly admirer approached his table.
The lovely lady was an inspirational barrage of color—with a disposition to match. She insisted on toasting the Honorable M. with a glass of the house red.

“Dilla,” Monty gasped as he turned the page to pick up the rest of the article. Isabella’s head swung back and forth, following his arm, her eyes never leaving the dangling flamingo.

Those of you who have frequented this establishment will remember that the house wine is served in signature ceramic carafes, fashioned into the shape of a chicken, with the spout decorated as the bird’s beak.
To the surprise of the wait staff and nearby tables, our engaging spinster clucked loudly as the celebratory beverage glugged out of the container and into her glass.

Monty gulped, his eyes bulging. He shifted his arms up to read the bottom half of the paper. Isabella raised a tentative paw towards the nearest cufflink and gently swatted it. The bird’s gold leg teetered as Isabella rose up on her hind legs to nose it. Monty, engrossed in the article, failed to notice.

All eyes in the cozy, family style dining room were soon on the Mayor’s colorful companion as she urged him to cluck reciprocally while the waiter filled his glass.
A growing crowd of diners moved in to cheer on this heretofore unreported Tuscan tradition. In short order, the entire restaurant began calling for the Mayor’s best chicken impersonation.
At long last, the Honorable M. succumbed to the pleadings of the people, stood up and let out the kind of clucking cackle this proud city expects of its fearless leaders—just as the stunned starlet emerged from the powder room.
Representatives from the Mayor’s office have so far declined to comment.

“Oh, Dilla,” Monty sighed, suddenly lowering the paper, startled to find Isabella’s unblinking, ice-blue eyes inches from the tip of his nose. He jumped back, nearly falling off the stool in the process.

“Are you sure it was Dilla?” I asked from the other side of the room. I’d been sifting through another open box while Monty read.

“I’d bet my favorite pair of shoes on it,” he said, easing cautiously away from Isabella as Ivan’s truck pulled up outside.

IVAN MADE A quick job of demolishing the old brick exterior of the Green Vase. By early afternoon, the deteriorated fronting had been stripped away leaving the wood framing exposed like a skeleton.

Monty returned after lunch, allegedly to help supervise, and resumed his accumbent position on the stool behind the cashier counter. Rupert joined him, sprawling out on the counter as the two of them watched Ivan work.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Monty said loftily.

Rupert, busy grooming stray pieces of litter from the fine, feathery hairs of his tail, snorkeled encouragingly.

“I think you’re quite right, Rupert.” Monty’s fingers reached up to his thick, frizzy curls as he stared out the window to where Ivan’s long, golden-brown waves shone in the sun. “The mullet is definitely making a comeback. What would you think if I grew mine out a bit longer in the back. Maybe down to my shoulders?”

I looked up from the latest box, my hands on my hips, shaking my head.

Rupert paused his grooming and stared at Monty as if he were imagining the transition. His whiskers twitched critically.

“Well, yes, I suppose it might get a bit woolly,” Monty said defensively, tugging on the short hairs at the nape of his neck.

Rupert’s blue eyes swept pointedly from the curly top of Monty’s head to his own feathery tail, spread out in a semi-circle on the counter.

“That’s not a mullet. It’s a tail,” Monty spat bitterly. A Cheshire grin spread across Rupert’s face.

The front door swung open, and we all turned to look at the entrant. The sun blazed behind the woman as she crossed the threshold, momentarily obliterating her features, but I had no doubt who she was.

The fetidly floral scent that horripilated down my spine unmistakably announced the arrival of Miranda C. Richards, Esquire.

Chapter 23

MIRANDA RICHARDS SURGED into the room, the putrid cloud of her perfume swilling around her.

She wore a flowing, salmon pink pants suit made of long, billowing sheets of fabric that flapped like gills as it swam around her. An emerald green broach sparkled on her right lapel; earrings made out of clumps of pea-sized, pea-colored, glass balls clung to each earlobe.

“Good afternoon,” she greeted me briskly.

“Hello, Miranda,” Monty bleated from behind the cash register, his face blanching as his feet hit the floor.

Her noxious perfume shocked me speechless. I could almost see the vile odor seeping into the recesses of the room, contaminating it with its brutal, nose-assaulting aura.

For the moment, mercifully, Miranda’s focus had turned to Monty. She approached the cashier counter, each foot-step echoing through the room like a brick falling off a building and slamming down onto concrete.

“Mr. Carmichael,” she said, dismantling him with her cutting stare. “I didn’t expect to find you here.” The wide cuff of her pants swished as she walked, kicking up to reveal three-inch, taupe-colored heels. “To what do we owe your
inauspicious
presence here in the Green Vase?”

Monty slid away from the counter until his back hit the wall. “I’ve been helping with the remodel,” he replied, straightening his bow tie, struggling vainly to sound important. “I presented the proposal at the last board meeting—perhaps you heard?”

Her painted lips curled menacingly as she placed a manicured hand on the counter next to Rupert. “Yes, I heard it was quite a
lengthy
oration.”

Rupert sat frozen on the counter, his delicate pink nose overwhelmed by the floral onslaught of the perfume. He shook his head, his nose twitching with the same pre-sneeze itch tormenting my own nasal passages.

Monty squirmed uncomfortably as Miranda leaned over the counter towards him, planting her elbow dangerously close to Rupert’s right paw. “What I don’t understand is why you’re here
now
.”

Monty pointed desperately at the sidewalk where Ivan was pulling rusty nails out of a recently removed framing board. Even though Ivan’s face was pointed downward, I could tell he was straining to hear every word.

“And you thought that you would be the most assistance to Mr. Batrachos on
this
side of the wall?” She eyed Monty’s lanky figure like a grasshopper she was about to squash under the spike of her heel.

“Puh . . . puh . . . perhaps,” Monty stuttered, shrinking under the forceful burn of her gaze, “I should go outside and check up on him.”

“Yes,” she said, her voice a gelid stake, “perhaps you should.”

He leapt up and soared around the counter, his eyes squirreling as he scurried out the front door to join Ivan on the sidewalk. For once, I was not relieved to see him leave.

Miranda watched until the front door clicked shut; then she shifted her gaze down to a terrified Rupert, huddling on the counter by her right sleeve. The moist surface of his nose pulsed from the battery of her offensive perfume.

“What’s this?” she asked appraisingly, waiving a long, hooked fingernail dangerously close to Rupert’s head. “One of your feline friends?” Rupert squeaked as the nail poked his stomach. “A little plump don’t you think?”

Rupert’s nose could take no more. A violent trembling spread through his body, signaling the start of the eruption. It was followed by a high-pitched screech, part Rupert, part Miranda, as a wet, mucus spray splattered across the broad, salmon front of her suit.

Fearing for Rupert’s life, I sprinted across the room to intercede. I snatched my disoriented cat off the counter and whisked him into my arms.

“Sorry,” I said, hugging Rupert close to my chest. “I’m so sorry, Miranda.”

A frightening rage swept across her face, telegraphing the tempest within. She drew in a deep, voluminous breath, as mine vanished inside me. I slid my left foot backwards, trying to ease away from her fuming pyre.

Outside, Monty and Ivan had plastered their faces to the dingy glass still held in place by the wooden framing. Monty cupped his hands around his lips and mouthed, “
Run Rupert!
”

Through the glass, I saw Ivan turn to look quizzically at Monty.

A cool calm coated down Miranda’s face as she regained her composure. “It’s not a problem,” she said stiffly, brushing off the front of her suit. “I’m sure it will come off at the cleaners.”

“Mmm,” was about all I could muster, marveling at her staggering transformation, terrified by the strength of the inner force which had wrought it.

Rupert had seen enough. He crawled up over my shoulders and leapt off my back, hitting the ground behind me with a scraping thunk. I listened as his chunky feet raced up the stairs to the kitchen.

“Now,” she said, fixing me with her mascara stare. “How are things going, dear?” There was a sickening sweetness in her voice that was almost more nauseating than the smell of her perfume.

“Just fine.” I said meekly. “Thanks.”

“I understand you’ve left your previous place of employment,” Miranda said, unblinking in her stare.

I cleared my throat, nodding. “I’m working on setting up shop here.” I felt as if I might crumble into a pile of dust at any moment.

BOOK: How to Wash a Cat

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