How to Moon a Cat by Rebecca M. Hale Read Free Book Online

top of the stairs, waiting for the intruder to enter the kitchen.
    A dark rounded shadow emerged at the top of the stairwell. As the figure mounted the last few steps to the kitchen, the image of a black plastic helmet came into view. A pair of shiny reflective sunglasses obscured the man’s eyes, but I had seen enough of the long narrow face smashed inside the helmet to confirm his identity.
    The man raised himself another step in height. The momentum of the motion caused the helmet’s black nylon strap to sway beneath his pointed chin. He cleared his throat importantly as his shoulders leaned forward to reveal a green nylon shirt crisscrossed with a purple and white argyle pattern.
    The man smiled as Rupert hopped up and down in greeting. A black-gloved hand reached out to scratch him behind the ears. “Hey there, buddy,” the man said playfully. Then, with a dramatic flourish, he cleared the last step and entered the kitchen.
    Isabella and I stared skeptically at the bottom half of his biking gear: shiny green skintight leggings, partially covered by a pair of floppy black shorts. An odd-shaped bulge poked out from his posterior, the result, I suspected, of extra padding sewn into the seat.
    The man lifted the helmet from his head and posed with his narrow chest proudly distended as if he’d just reached the summit of a mountain. The brown curls that typically sprang from his scalp had been mashed into a towering cone-shaped pile. His thin lips spread into a sly smile as he waited for applause.
    We stood, curly-coned to goggle-strapped head, for a long moment before the man ripped his mirrored sunglasses from his face and squinted critically at me.
    It was a testament to Montgomery Carmichael’s selfassured cheekiness that after surveying my orange nylon coveralls, dust-covered face, and forehead-topping mask and goggles, he asked incredulously, “What’s with the outfit?”

Chapter 6
    FRIEND OF THE MAYOR
    MY NOSY NEIGHBOR was a regular, if uninvited, guest to the Green Vase showroom and the apartment above. A closed or even locked door was no barrier to his intrusion. I had, unfortunately, grown accustomed to his spontaneous appearances in my kitchen, but I thought I’d confiscated all of his spare keys to my front door.
    Monty ran an art studio across the street from the Green Vase, although the number of paintings on display there had dwindled substantially over the past year. He’d been spending the majority of his time at City Hall, where his prestige and influence—inexplicably—continued to grow.
    Last summer, the Mayor had appointed Monty the city’s commissioner for the historical preservation of Jackson Square. The post was meant to be ceremonial, as evidenced by its basement-level office and nominal remuneration. It was created to placate the city’s many historical societies after the dissolution of the Jackson Square Board that spring.
    The position’s limited mandate had done nothing to dampen Monty’s enthusiasm. He’d simply set out, through sheer bluff and bravado, to expand the boundaries of his authority.
    The metal brackets poking out of the bottom of Monty’s bike shoes clacked against the floor tiles as he hobbled across the kitchen to inspect the hole in the tulip-printed wallpaper.
    I held out my hand, palm upward.
    “Key,” I ordered with a stern frown. He tossed it casually through the air to me.
    “Is this the last one?” I demanded as Monty’s eyes swept from my renovation gear to the protective sheeting I’d stretched across the kitchen counters.
    “What’s all this?” he asked, predictably turning a deaf ear to my question. His thin figure wobbled wildly as he pivoted on his metal-bottomed shoes to point a knobby finger at the hole in the wall. “Looks like a bit of offpermit work to me.”
    I sighed and rolled my eyes at the ceiling. While Commissioner, Monty had imposed a new set of guidelines regarding maintenance and repair of the city’s historically