Nine Lives Last Forever Read Online Free PDF Page A

circus she might have in mind. I had learned my lesson from the Palace Hotel cat auction.
    “How’ve you been, Dilla?” I asked cautiously. “I haven’t seen you since right after . . .”
    I let the silence fill in the blank. I hadn’t seen Dilla since I checked out of the hospital. She’d brought my cats back to the Green Vase from their temporary living quarters at the flower shop down the street.
    She’d been wearing a memorable outfit—a strange but convincing costume disguising herself as an elderly Asian woman. A thick rubber mask had covered her face, concealing all but her distinctively Dilla voice. The drab, frayed clothing she’d worn on her body had been a shock compared to her typically bright, colorful garb. I hadn’t quite known what to make of it.
    “Yes, well, I had some things to take care of,” Dilla replied evasively. “I did some traveling, visited some old friends.”
    Her bubbling voice deflated to a hushed whisper. “I thought it best to lay low for a while, so I took myself out of circulation for a couple of weeks. There hasn’t been any sign of . . . ?” She paused, letting the question hang in the air, unfinished.
    “Nope,” I popped in the answer. There was no reason for her to complete the sentence. I could empathize with the strain in her voice; we both knew her reference was to Frank Napis. The poisoning event had really shaken up Dilla; for some reason, she’d been certain that he would be coming after her next.
    “It’s been nothing but quiet here.” I sighed, glancing at the stolidly silent cash register.
    Those last words were still zooming through the telephone line when a thudding plunk sounded at the back of the showroom.
    Isabella leapt off of the counter, her ears alertly perked. The hair along her backbone spiked up as her tail stretched out behind her, both indications of the seriousness of her inquiry. I leaned over the counter to watch her stalk across the floor toward the stairs at the back of the room.
    On the other end of the phone line, Dilla relaxed back into a perky chatter. “Did you hear about Monty’s new position?” she asked conversationally, sounding more like her buoyant self. “I ran into him the other day. He told me all about it.”
    Montgomery Carmichael—Monty to everyone in Jackson Square—ran an art studio across the street from the Green Vase, but he spent little time manning its sales counter. He was far too busy nosing around in other people’s business. His well-intentioned but often ill-fated efforts of assistance were a constant nuisance to his neighbors, me in particular. Monty’s ubiquitous presence was a fact of life in Jackson Square, a daily vitamin with a strange aftertaste whose dosing it was pointless to protest.
    It had been a couple of days since Monty’s tall, stringy figure had stopped by to poke around the Green Vase showroom. Counting my blessings, I hadn’t gone looking for him.
    “He’s so excited,” Dilla reported cheerily. “The Mayor has appointed him as City Commissioner for the Historical Preservation of Jackson Square.”
    She spun the title out slowly, as if trying to make sure she remembered it correctly. “It’s a new position. The Mayor’s just created it—to replace the old neighborhood Board.”
    The Jackson Square Board had been responsible for managing the historical preservation of the buildings in our neighborhood. Uncle Oscar and his attorney, Miranda Richards, had tussled with it numerous times over the last couple of years, the result of the many complaints raised about the decrepit condition of the Green Vase.
    The Board had disbanded a couple of months ago, following the mysterious disappearance of its disgraced chairman, Gordon Bosco. I was one of only a handful of people who knew that Gordon Bosco had actually been an alter ego of Frank Napis. It was information I would just as soon not have acquired.
    There had been months of speculation in Jackson Square about how the Mayor