How to Catch a Cat

Book 6: Cats and Curios Mystery

by Rebecca M. Hale

Genres: Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

In the latest novel from the New York Times bestselling author of How to Paint a Cat, there are choppy waters ahead...

A serial killer with a peculiar penchant for City Hall interns is on the loose in San Francisco, and it’s up to me—and my two cats, Rupert and Isabella—to put a stop to the spree. Unfortunately, worrying about my uncle Oscar’s failing health and assisting with the interim mayor’s America’s Cup regatta doesn’t leave me with much opportunity to chase down clues.

Could the key to apprehending the killer be found in San Francisco’s sailing history? The first European vessel to pass through the Golden Gate contained a familiar cast of human—and feline—passengers as well as an elusive killer who used a similar murder weapon. Will the past catch up to the present in time to crack the case?

Release date: March 3, 2015

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 352

Sample

On Board the San Carlos

Off the California Coast

August 1775

Introduction

A SPANISH SUPPLY ship bobbed in the Pacific swells off the California coast. Dual masts of square-shaped sails billowed in the wind, powering the ship forward as its rigging creaked and groaned under the strain.

The San Carlos had recently departed the Mexican port of San Blas on a mission to find the ocean entrance to a protected bay that a Spanish land exploration had stumbled upon a few years earlier.

The reported dimensions of the enormous cove didn’t match any of the geographic formations depicted on available maps. The San Carlos was searching for an opening that had been missed by several experienced explorers—a passage to a fabled bay many still doubted existed.

It was a journey into uncharted and frequently mischarted territory, undertaken at a time when the full breadth of the Pacific had yet to be appreciated. Most navigators thought East Asia lay almost adjacent to the North American continent and that only a narrow straight separated the two landmasses.

The path ahead lay fraught with danger and uncertainty—for both the boat’s human and feline passengers—but the San Carlos was destined to change the course of history.

The discovery of the Golden Gate entrance to the San Francisco Bay would forever alter the settlement and colonization of America’s West Coast.

—

FAR BELOW THE ship’s whipping sails, a pudgy white cat with orange-tipped ears and tail skidded across the wooden deck. Claws scrambling on the wet floorboards, Rupert chased after his prey, a green parrot with a bright red head and a yellow beak.

The boat dipped behind a swell, causing it to rock into a steep tilt, but Rupert continued his pursuit, smashing into buckets and crates as he barreled down the length of the deck.

He reached the bow and spun around, his fluffy tail swishing through the air. The bird pulled up into a holding pattern, and Rupert sensed he was about to be mocked with a flyby.

Not this time, Rupert thought with determination. Tensing his muscles, he crouched for an epic leap.

Sure enough, the bird dipped his wings and feinted toward the deck. Rupert launched into the air, his front feet wildly swatting, to no avail.

The parrot swooped upward, easily evading the cat’s swiping paws.

Rupert landed with a wheezing thump on the deck.

Cackling with delight, the parrot soared into the sky, his red head bobbing in and out of the sails. He landed on the rim of the crow’s nest and looked down toward the deck, smirking in triumph at another successful ruse.

Rupert regrouped for a second attempt. He hoisted himself onto the rigging of the ship’s forward sail and quickly climbed twenty feet up the main mast.

Intrigued, the bird fluttered off his perch. He flew a tight circle around the pole, taunting his adversary.

Wretched creature, Rupert thought as he wrapped one paw around the mast and clawed the air with the other.

After a few more dizzying circles, the parrot landed just out of reach, on a webbed netting that stretched beneath the nearest sail.

His frustration mounting, Rupert released the pole and wobbled onto the net.

This was exactly the response the parrot had hoped to elicit. He gripped his toes into the webbing and swung beneath it. For a few short seconds, he eyed the cat’s pudgy belly through the holes in the knotted ropes.

The target was too tempting to resist.

With a loud squawk, he bumped his head up through the netting and into the pillow of white fur.

Rupert jumped, startled and offended. He tumbled across the net, swatting at the feathered fiend who had so rudely poked him in the stomach. But in his zeal to catch the bird, he lost his footing and rolled off the webbing.

Luckily, the next lower sail broke his fall.

He bounced onto the top end of the canvas sheet and slid down its length. Flailing wildly, his chunky feet caught the sail’s hem as he slipped off the edge.

He dangled in this undignified position, swinging back and forth, until his person climbed a rope ladder and brought him down to safety.

“Oh, Rupert,” she said with a sigh, cuddling him in her arms. “What am I going to do with you?”

Twittering triumphantly, the parrot landed on the captain’s shoulder.

Chalk up another win for the bird.

—

A SECOND CAT with similar coloring but far sleeker physique sat on the deck near the captain’s feet. She watched Rupert’s antics with minimal interest. The game had played out countless times before.

Her brother never caught the bird. He wouldn’t know what to do with it if he did.

Cheeky parrot, Isabella thought.

But she resisted the urge to assist in her brother’s hunt.

Occasionally a stray pigeon or a passing gull made the mistake of roosting on her boat. Those feathered intruders met a quick end. Petey the Parrot, however, wasn’t meant for meals. The captain had made that quite clear.

Isabella sniffed derisively. The bird didn’t have enough meat on his bones to make him worth her effort—even if he hadn’t been declared off-limits.

She returned her attention to the boat’s helm and the watery path ahead. She couldn’t be distracted by such nonsense; there were far more important tasks on her agenda that afternoon.

It was her job to guide the San Carlos safely through the camouflaged entrance to the largest—and still unknown—bay on the Pacific’s West Coast.

The Embarcadero

Modern-Day San Francisco

Chapter 1

AN ELDERLY MAN with short rounded shoulders hobbled along San Francisco’s waterfront Embarcadero. His pace was stilted and slow, every other step paired with the thump of a wooden cane.

Red and white banners lined the route, part of an advertising campaign plastered across the city that promoted the America’s Cup sailboat regatta. The prestigious competition had reached its final day. After months of hoopla and weeks of racing, the two teams representing the United States and New Zealand were tied eight to eight. Whoever took the next race would secure enough points in the “best of seventeen” format to be crowned the champion.

San Franciscans filled the Embarcadero’s wide sidewalk, a stream of newly minted racing enthusiasts anticipating the day’s matchup. Even those who had been blasé about sailing at the start of the event now eagerly joined in the fun.

It was a typical summer morning on the bay—which meant the weather could be anything from sunny and bright to soupy and overcast. Often, a single day would showcase both extremes.

For the moment, the city’s shoreline enjoyed a clear sky, but the wind blowing in from the Pacific carried the sharp edge of a cooling front. The red peaks of the Golden Gate Bridge had begun to feather with fog.

Oscar looked out across the water and cracked a weary smile.

These were perfect conditions for the regatta’s finale—and, he thought as the smile disappeared—for tracking down a serial killer.

Unlike the rest of the pedestrians flocking to the America’s Cup pavilion, Oscar had little interest in the outcome of the pivotal last race.

He was on the trail of a cunning criminal, a woman known throughout the Bay Area as the Knitting Needle Ninja.

—

THE COLORFUL CROWDS on the Embarcadero walked at a much faster clip than the determined old man. Oscar’s weary eyes scanned each individual and group that strolled by, all the while knowing that the Ninja might pass within inches without his detection.

He gummed his dentures back and forth, reflecting on the Ninja’s bloody history—and her proficiency with disguise.

The Ninja’s crimes had first come to light earlier that year. Revelations that a mayoral intern had been murdered by the former mayor’s long-serving administrative assistant had rocked San Francisco’s City Hall.

The story had quickly captured the morbid fascination of the local news media, and it wasn’t long before an enterprising reporter came up with the alliterative nickname, the Knitting Needle Ninja. The moniker was a reference to the Ninja’s unique method of attack: a pair of knitting needles that had once been used as a weapon of self-defense on the rowdy streets of San Francisco’s Barbary Coast.

The curved metal rods contained a hollow compartment fitted with razor-sharp blades. Unsheathed, the handy implements became a deadly means of stabbing, slicing, or viciously goring an unsuspecting victim.

They were also quite useful for knitting and crochet.

Despite her lengthy killing spree and unusual MO, the Knitting Needle Ninja operated undetected for almost a decade. No one had suspected Mabel, a demure woman in her late sixties, of harboring violent tendencies.

She had arrived for work each day at City Hall, a model of propriety and efficiency. Invariably, she was clad in a heather-gray skirt, soft cotton sweater, and sensible heeled shoes. Her wardrobe rarely varied from these staples.

She was a diligent employee, rigorously professional and deeply loyal to her boss. Never once had she showed up tardy or unprepared. She occasionally mingled with the administrative staff for the board of supervisors, but she shared few personal details with her colleagues.

No one knew much about her private life—other than, of course, her penchant for knitting.

The homicidal aspect of her favorite hobby had slipped under everyone’s radar.

Up until her last kill, Mabel had been careful to select prey who were unlikely to be missed. Her targets were generally low-level interns that she hired specifically for the job of becoming her next victim. The deceased bodies were neatly dismembered and disposed of in out-of-the-way locations, the remains often left to decompose in secluded tracts of public forest.

Any concerned friends or loved ones of the victims had concluded that the missing person had voluntarily left town.

City Hall’s myriad employees and elected officials had merely shrugged off the disappearances and continued on about their business. Political interns were a transient group. Mabel seemed to go through a lot of them, but no one ever guessed the reason why.

Until she hired Spider Jones.

—

JUST OUT OF high school, Spider was an inquisitive young man, killing time, so to speak, while retaking his college admissions exams. With his skinny jeans and high-top canvas sneakers, Mabel might have initially pegged him as a wayward youth.

If so, she had greatly misjudged his character. Raised by a single mother, he was firmly grounded, committed to his family, and looking forward to his academic future.

Innately curious about the world, Spider had pedaled his bike up and down San Francisco’s steep streets. A daredevil on wheels, he had explored almost every corner of the city. He had also nosed through City Hall’s basement archives—and the files secured in Mabel’s desk. Sadly, it was the last activity that had proved most dangerous to his well-being.

Late one night, Mabel overheard Spider planning to share a secret he’d uncovered in his file snooping. She erroneously concluded that Spider was about to divulge her connection to the missing interns. Panicked, she lured Spider to City Hall’s ceremonial rotunda, a decorative cove on the building’s second floor.

The poor lad never knew what hit him. The Ninja attacked him from behind, reaching around his torso to stab him in the chest with her curved needle knife.

—

OSCAR DISCOVERED THE gruesome scene seconds too late to help the hapless intern. Spider’s spirit had already left his blood-soaked body.

But the former antique dealer had recognized the killer’s handiwork and quickly connected the weapon to its owner.

Not wanting to draw police attention to himself—as he had been declared legally dead a few years earlier—Oscar revealed the identity of Spider’s murderer through a painting. In a replica of one of Coit Tower’s famous WPA murals depicting scenes from early nineteenth-century San Francisco, Oscar inserted an image of Mabel, wielding her unique weapons against the slain intern.

That, combined with the discovery of a pair of bloody knitting needles taped beneath the center drawer of the mayor’s office desk, had blown open the case.

—

ONCE THE SECRET was revealed, the Knitting Needle Ninja became an overnight sensation. Instantly infamous, her grandmotherly face was plastered across every available news outlet, along with the grisly details of her crimes.

With the verified body count still rising, Mabel was now listed as one of San Francisco’s most prolific serial killers—in a town that had some competition for the title. The number of kills attributed to her handiwork had topped two dozen and was expected to climb as more missing interns were identified.

While citizens initially expressed shock and horror at the hideous nature of the crimes, over the course of the ensuing months, the Ninja had become a macabre celebrity.

T-shirts, sweatshirts, and mugs appeared in the tourist shops at Fisherman’s Wharf. Ninja jewelry was displayed across the fold-out tables of the vendors who set up daily outside the Ferry Building.

In May, a number of runners had dressed up as Nanny Ninjas for the annual Bay to Breakers footrace (and citywide street party). She’d been spoofed on late-night television and mocked in countless newspaper columns and online blogs.

But despite the humorous publicity, the Ninja was still a dangerous—and deranged—criminal.

Oscar would forever feel responsible for her slayings.

He had sold the woman her first set of dagger-fitted needles.

Chapter 2

OSCAR CONTINUED HIS labored walk along the Embarcadero, stopping every couple of blocks to catch his breath until he reached the flagged entrance to the America’s Cup pavilion.

Located about a mile from the Ferry Building, the event staging area had taken over piers Twenty-seven and Twenty-nine on the city’s north shore. It was a massive enterprise, one that had transformed the abandoned platforms into a festive sports venue.

The pavilion piers stretched several hundred meters out into the bay. Spectators could enjoy jaw-dropping views of the Bay and Golden Gate bridges, Alcatraz, Angel Island, and a gorgeous backdrop of the city.

Inland from the event entrance, San Francisco’s steep hills rose up like bleacher seating. Directly south of the pavilion, Telegraph Hill hoisted Coit Tower’s concrete nozzle up onto its shoulders, as if giving the landmark a boost to look out over the venue piers.

Oscar squinted up at the tower as a swarm of green parrots circled it, chattered at the activity on the shoreline below, and then settled back into the surrounding trees.

Given the distance, he couldn’t be sure, but he thought he recognized one of the redheaded birds in the flock.

With a grunt, Oscar turned toward the entrance and joined the queue of spectators waiting to be admitted to the event piers.

Security personnel in matching red shirts inspected everyone who entered the pavilion. Most visitors received a diligent screening, but they gave the old man in the navy blue shirt stained with cooking grease just a quick glance before waving him through the gates. He had no bags to search, no bulky pockets to pat down. All he carried was the wooden cane that he clearly needed to keep himself upright.

The nearest attendant called out cheerfully, “Enjoy the race, sir.”

Oscar nodded weakly, trying to ignore the constricting pain in his chest. The walk had depleted him and drained his meager energy reserves.

He had but one concern—and it wasn’t watching the race.

He only hoped he could hang on long enough to catch the Ninja.

—

PAST THE SECURITY station, Oscar hobbled down the pavilion’s main walkway lining the pier’s east edge. Most of the regatta infrastructure was located at the far end of the platform, where it jutted out over the water to offer the best racing views.

Oscar soon paused for another break. Propping his cane against the walkway’s side railing, he reached up to adjust his cap. His thinning white hair covered less and less of the bald spot on his crown, and he needed the cap’s extra coverage to prevent sunburn.

Pulling the rim down over his eyes, he stared at the high-end boats docked along the pier and shook his head in amazement.

San Francisco was accustomed to glamour and glitz. She had hosted the world’s finest royalty, fêted the grandest moguls of business. She proudly claimed some of the country’s most elite hotels and restaurants. The West Coast diva was no stranger to ostentatious display. She knew how to show off while still maintaining a sense of elegant refinement.

As for maritime interests, the city had plenty of experience as a global hub. Starting with the swarm of boats that swamped the bay during the Gold Rush and continuing to modern day where massive container ships routinely bellowed through the fog, her waters had rarely been vacant.

But San Francisco had never seen anything quite like this.

Oscar gazed at the lineup of flashy multimillion-dollar yachts tethered next to the walkway. The ships varied in size, but even the smallest was large enough to comfortably house several dozen people. They were luxurious homes on water, lavishly designed to entertain their wealthy owners and any number of lucky invited guests. One ship even had a helipad—complete with the requisite helicopter. The collection of vessels lined up along this once-abandoned pier would have fit right in at Monte Carlo, St. Barths, or any other exclusive yachting location around the globe.

A formal placard affixed to the security railing listed each boat’s name, point of origin, size, and unique features. Oscar skimmed the nearest summary and then tilted his head to watch the onboard activity.

It took a lot of manpower to keep these vanity vessels in showroom shape. Workers scurried about on deck and inside the living quarters, cleaning and polishing every square inch of wood, chrome, and Plexiglas.

San Francisco’s inaugural hosting of the age-old regatta had attracted a sizeable crowd, he mused, rubbing the gray stubble on his chin.

Millionaires, sailing enthusiasts, countless support staff, hordes of casual spectators—and, he feared, the Ninja.

—

GRIMLY, OSCAR RESUMED his walk, shifting his attention from the docked ships to the various structures spread across the pier’s wide platform.

Several gourmet food stalls were set up around the grounds, some inside large tented structures that had been constructed to provide shelter from the elements, be it sun, wind, or rain. Oscar let his nose sift through the decadent smells wafting up from the eating areas.

Here, the yachting crowd and San Francisco’s regular citizens shared a common interest, he thought as he spied several patrons sipping wine and champagne. No matter how casual the venue, only the finest food would do.

He detected roasted, barbecued, and curried meat dishes—but, he noted with disappointment, no fried chicken.

He amended his last comment: the finest food—with one notable omission.

With a dismissive snort, Oscar turned his attention to the main stage. Spectators had filled in around the raised platform, blocking his view. Using the cane for leverage, he straightened his posture, but there were too many taller heads blocking his line of sight.

Giving up on the stage, he pivoted toward a video screen positioned on the far side of the commons. The screen broadcast footage from a live feed of the prerace ceremonies, offering additional viewing for those not able to get close enough to the stage to watch the events directly.

Oscar peeled off from the crowd and headed for the seating area in front of the screen. By the time he had crossed the commons, the screen had shifted to a stunt plane swirling through the air above the pavilion. The pilot performed a number of daredevil maneuvers that caused the crowd to gasp and applaud.

Oscar gripped his cane, frowning at the close-up image of the smiling man hanging upside down in the cockpit. In Oscar’s view, the pilot was a darn fool.

After tracking the plane’s last white plume across the sky, the video returned its focus to the center stage. The figure standing on the podium was instantly recognizable to almost everyone who lived in the Bay Area.

It was the wealthy entrepreneur responsible for bringing the regatta to San Francisco.

The Baron of Silicon Valley.

Chapter 3

THE BARON GAZED out at the crowd of spectators and beamed with satisfaction. The late-morning sun shone on his peppered mustache and beard. Both had been cropped in an eccentric style that gave him the appearance of an eighteenth-century nobleman.

It had been a long and gritty ride to reach this critical last race, but he couldn’t have asked for a more dramatic story line.

He was either on the verge of a prize greater than all of his entrepreneurial triumphs combined—or he was about to suffer a crippling loss that would wound him far deeper than the sharpest blow from his strongest business competitor.

He felt his pulse quicken with the thrill of competition. After years of preparation, training, and investment, this was the moment for which he had been waiting.

“Welcome to the grand finale of San Francisco’s America’s Cup!”

—

AN ICON OF the computer world and one of the top-earning CEOs of Silicon Valley, the Baron had dedicated a sizeable portion of his vast wealth to the sport of competitive sailing. It was his sponsorship of the sailing team from the local yacht club that had brought the America’s Cup to San Francisco. Winner of the last competition in Valencia, Spain, the Baron’s team was the official defender of the cup and, consequently, the host of the current event.

The Baron had applied the same relentless mind-set to sailing as he had to his business empire. He took a hands-on approach to his sponsorship. He was actively involved in the team’s race strategy, directly participating in the optimization of the boat’s streamlined design as well as specific gear choices and personnel decisions.

The Baron’s ambitious agenda extended far beyond defending the cup title. He had his sights set on modernizing the age-old regatta and making sailing a spectator-friendly sport.

As the reigning champions, the Baron and his team had the privilege of setting the rules for this year’s race. He had taken a number of measures to ensure the competition would be more accessible—and exciting—to lay viewers with no nautical expertise.

First off, the San Francisco race format was dramatically different than any America’s Cup that had come before. Instead of traditional long-haul segments, the Baron had devised a short sprint course that took advantage of the bay’s natural amphitheater.

Each race started with a high-speed launch on the bay’s west end heading toward the Golden Gate, followed by a blitz back along the San Francisco shoreline toward the Bay Bridge. Sharp tacking skills were required to flip the boats around at the east side of the course, just south of Alcatraz. The teams then charged once more across the length of the course, before taking a last leg along the waterfront and a final tacking pivot at the eastern boundary. From there, it was a short sprint into the finish, near the event pavilion off the Embarcadero.

From start to finish, no race could exceed a preset forty-minute time limit. In the sixteen successful heats that had been completed over the course of the last two weeks, most of the races had taken less than twenty-five minutes.

The head-to-head battles had included several heart-stopping down-to-the-wire finishes, leaving fans breathless and clamoring for more.

The racing boats, too, had been souped up for mass appeal. The craft designed for this year’s regatta were much faster than any that had ever faced off in the competition.

The sailboats were specially built catamarans with forty-meter-high sails that balanced on a pair of streamlined canoe-shaped hulls. The lightweight contraptions were built for speed, flashing across the bay at previously unheard-of velocities. On tight turns or in heavy gusts, one or even both of the hulls lifted completely out of the water. In this elevated hydrofoiling posture, the pronged rudders and lone daggerboard that extended from the bottom of the craft were all that kept it stabilized on the water.

The distinctive boats could be spotted from almost every viewing angle in and around the bay. From Coit Tower to the Marina Green, the enormous triangular-shaped sails moved like chess pieces as they circled the buoys that demarcated the race route. Of course, the swooping helicopters hovering in the air just above the craft were also hard to miss.

Sailing purists had railed against the Baron’s changes, decrying the speedy course, the flashy merchandizing, and the dangerously unstable new boats.

But as each day of racing progressed, the event drew increasing numbers of spectators. Now, with the competition tied up and everything riding on the results of the final segment, the whole city was mesmerized.

While the Baron desperately wanted to win, the regatta was already a phenomenal success.

He could hardly contain his excitement.

“Let’s introduce the two teams and get them out there on the water!”

Chapter 4

OSCAR GRIMACED AT the scene on the stage.

He didn’t have anything against the Baron—or rather, that wasn’t the primary reason for his negative reaction. Oscar could think of several worthy causes that would have been a better use of the Baron’s money than some snooty sailboating competition.

Nor was his objection directed to the event’s nautical theme. He liked boats well enough—just not these flashy, flimsy contraptions that were zooming around the bay. He preferred a far more solid craft, one that could brave the waves of the Pacific on a long-haul voyage.

It was the brazen politicization of the event that had drawn Oscar’s scorn.

The Baron had just introduced San Francisco’s interim mayor. After an overzealous handshake with the Baron, Mayor Montgomery Carmichael had taken control of the podium and was now in the midst of lengthy self-promoting remarks (to which no one was listening).

Perhaps noting the widespread yawns and overall boredom in the crowd, the Baron cut in and, with difficulty, ushered Monty to the rear of the stage.

“For that act of mercy, Baron, I’ve upped your standing,” Oscar muttered under his breath.

While the mayor was being (somewhat forcibly) repositioned, the camera widened its lens and turned its focus to the crowd.

Near the far right side of the stage, Oscar spied his niece standing next to a green nylon carriage. While not visible from the video feed, Oscar knew that inside the carriage’s mesh-covered passenger compartment, a plump orange and white cat had curled himself up into a tight ball. Rupert had likely snoozed through the performance of the daredevil pilot, the thirty-piece military band that played before the Baron’s speech, and the rest of the prerace ceremony.

Oscar smiled. Rupert was a champion sleeper.

The wind whipped the woman’s long brown hair as she watched the proceedings on stage. In her arms, she held Rupert’s sister, a sleeker, more slender Siamese mix. Isabella trained her focus on the crowd. Her ice blue eyes scanned the assembled spectators.

The niece winced as Isabella extended her claws.

Oscar sucked in his breath, startled by the expression on the cat’s face. The feline had detected an ominous presence.

His hunch had been right.

The Ninja was lurking somewhere in the audience.

—

GRIPPING HIS CANE, Oscar leaned toward the Jumbotron. He stared intensely at the screen as the camera panned the crowd.

A number of colorful characters had gathered near the pavilion stage. There were racing fans from New Zealand, easily identified by their painted faces, fuzzy stovepipe hats, and the emblems of their country’s flag. Still new to the sport, the American counterparts were somewhat more muted in dress, but just as vocal in shouting for their team.

Beyond the partisan supporters, the crowd also included the regular handful of bizarrely dressed individuals that one frequently saw on the streets of San Francisco, including a woman dressed up in a Marilyn M