How to Paint a Cat (Cats and Curios Mystery)

by Hale, Rebecca M.

  “The Works program proved so successful that it was expanded to public buildings across the country. Additional New Deal murals were contracted in San Francisco, the most prominent being in the Rincon Post Office down by the Embarcadero and the Beach Chalet in Golden Gate Park.”

  With her overview of the murals completed, Dilla began highlighting some of the paintings’ specific features.

  “Now, I said that the artists all worked in harmony. That’s true. But these were creative, independent types, so as you might expect, there was plenty of back-and-forth, good-natured pranking.”

  She drew the crowd to a farm scene painted adjacent to one of the hallway corners. “The painters needed models for the figures they depicted in the murals, so they took inspiration from what was readily available: themselves and the other artists.”

  She pointed at a farmer standing in a barn next to a cow.

  “You see on the wall here, the man who’s been tasked with cleaning the animals? That’s one of the artists—not the one who painted this mural. Note that he’s shown hosing down the cow’s rear end.” She grinned at the crowd. “The painter thought that was funny.”

  After highlighting a few more mural jokes, Dilla shifted to a different type of visual allusion.

  “Some of the subtextual meanings were far more serious or controversial in nature. If you look at this library scene, you’ll see an example. A number of the artists apprenticed under Diego Rivera—a famous Mexican muralist who was also a well-known Communist. The painters were influenced by Diego’s political views as well as his artistic techniques. Now, focus on the bookshelf there on the left. One of the artists is depicted reaching for a book. It’s Das Capital by Karl Marx.”

  After everyone had a chance to inspect the various books painted into the library scene, Dilla guided the tour group toward a painted wall across from one of the plate glass windows. A bench anchored to the tile floor in the middle of the hallway provided a comfortable viewing spot out the window to the Bay Bridge and, on the inward-facing angle, the colorful mural, which depicted a San Francisco street scene.

  “There were other messages conveyed through the murals . . .” Dilla began, when a member of the tour group piped up with a question.

  “Excuse me, ma’am. How did you get interested in these murals, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  Dilla acknowledged the speaker. “I worked on a renovation project here a few years back. The interior is exposed to a great deal of moisture from the air, and the paintings need constant attention. They’re always looking for volunteers.”

  Her gray eyes twinkled mischievously. “A close friend got me involved. He brought me in and showed me around. He knew everything about the history of the place and the artists who worked here.”

  She nodded at the San Francisco street scene and then turned to look directly at the niece.

  “He was particularly fascinated with this mural.”

  • • •

  DILLA RAISED HER hand above her feathered hat and dangled a key ring in the air.

  “I’ve got a treat for you,” she said, ushering the tour group toward the tower’s front entrance. “I have special permission to let you into the stairwell today. There are several additional murals inside that are closed off to the general public. Step along right this way.”

  As the group filtered around the corner and up the staircase, the niece stayed behind to inspect the cityscape that Dilla had so adroitly referenced.

  Brass railings had been posted throughout the hallway to keep the viewing public a safe distance from the walls. Small plaques affixed to the rail gave the title of each mural and the principal artist.

  The cityscape was titled City Life by Victor Arnautoff.

  The niece took a seat on the bench and stared at the brightly colored painting. Spanning two huge quadrants on either side of the rear entrance to the trinket shop, it was one of the largest murals in the Coit Tower collection. The mesmerizing tableau was filled with dozens of busy San Franciscans, countless moving pieces frozen mid-action.

  According to the information on the railing placard, Arnautoff had painted himself into the piece. Using the placard’s description, the niece was able to spot the artist near the center of the mural, next to the trinket shop door.

  Arnautoff’s self-portrait depicted a man with broad imposing shoulders, a strong jaw, and closely cropped hair. He wore a thick camel jacket and a jauntily tilted fedora hat. While his figure stood facing toward the left, his head was turned to look straight out into the hallway. He had a crafty, cagy stare that was almost unsettling to the viewer.

  “It feels like he’s trying to tell me something,” the niece said. “I just wish I knew what it was.”

  Sliding her gaze to the left, she picked out a signpost marking the intersection of Washington and Montgomery.

  That would put the mural’s viewpoint at the lower end of Columbus Avenue, she reasoned, mapping the location in her head. She’d passed by the intersection at the beginning of her run.

  The niece frowned, perplexed. Something was off.

  She broadened her view, seeking additional markers.

  On the mural’s right-hand span, a second street sign pointed toward the Oakland auto ferry. That service had been rendered obsolete by the construction of the Bay Bridge, and she wasn’t sure where in downtown San Francisco the car ferry had originally docked.

  Puzzled, she returned her gaze to the mural’s left-hand panel. Across the upper horizon, she recognized the square shape of the national bank building and the sculpted pillars that fronted the Pacific Stock Exchange. Toward the center, in the space over the convenience store entrance, she found City Hall’s ornate dome and the Asian Art Museum. On the mural’s upper right, another museum, the Legion of Honor, resided on a hilltop.

  “That’s not right,” the niece murmured, shaking her head. “There’s no way you could see this view from that intersection.”

  She shifted her focus to the many human figures spread across the wide scene.

  In the upper middle, policemen and firefighters attended to the victim of a traffic accident, while a fire truck, marked engine number five, raced down what appeared to be Columbus’s diagonal roadway.

  Closer to the front of the mural, a postman removed letters from the storage cabinet of a US Mail drop box. In another mini-scene, a suited man was held up by a robber who had slipped in behind his back and pulled a gun. A few feet away, a policeman stood at a call box, apparently unaware of the nearby crime. Dockworkers unloaded boxes of produce, and businessmen milled about a newspaper stand perusing the latest headlines.

  And there, in the middle of it all, was Arnautoff, overtly eying her.

  The niece rotated her head one way, and then the other. The details were myriad and incredibly distracting. She stood from the bench, leaning forward and back, her brow furrowed as she studied the full sweep of the scene. Then she blocked out the people at the front of the mural and concentrated on the landmarks across the top.

  “City Hall, the Legion of Honor, the Pacific Stock Exchange, they’re not in the right orientation,” she finally concluded, placing her hands on her hips.

  “They’re in the wrong place.”

  • • •

  AS THE NIECE stood in the empty hallway, pondering the mural’s geographic anomalies, an eerie sensation swept over her. It was similar to her earlier experience during the start of her hike up Telegraph Hill.

  She was not alone.

  Someone—other than the painted Arnautoff—was watching her.

  She spun around, quickly scanning the curved corridor. She peeked into the souvenir shop, but even the attendant manning the cash register had left his post. Turning, she looked out the window, craning to see around the side of the building, certain that someone must be hiding in the bushes.

  Nothing.

  Anxious, she eased back down onto the bench, trying to calm her nerves.

  Then she watched, stunned, as a set of we
t footprints—in the distinctive tread of rubber-soled high-top sneakers—appeared across the tile floor and tracked toward the tower’s exit.

  The Painted Words

  Chapter 18

  YOU ONLY DIE ONCE

  LEAVING THE BEFUDDLED niece inside the mural hallway, Spider hurried out of Coit Tower and down the asphalt drive.

  Since his sudden ghostly appearance earlier that morning, he’d been waiting for direction, some indication of his intended purpose.

  What he was doing here and how long would his supernatural visit last? Why had he been brought back to the land of the living? To avenge his death or to help identify his killer?

  But after observing the niece in front of the City Life mural—and her obvious confusion at its mismatched monuments—he was infused with a new sense of motivation and resolve.

  The brown-haired woman clearly hadn’t appreciated the significance of what she’d seen in the mural. She must not have known about the trail of hidden markers her uncle had discovered in San Francisco’s New Deal artwork.

  It was his task, he intuited, to steer her in the right direction—along the same path her uncle had followed—and toward the scrawling letter O.

  Spider grinned with confidence.

  He had an idea of how to prod her along.

  • • •

  JOGGING THROUGH THE rain, Spider reached the edge of Pioneer Park and started down a sidewalk that would take him toward Columbus Avenue.

  He had at least a five-minute lead on the niece. That should give him enough time to get into the Green Vase and leave his clue before she returned.

  If only he had his old bike, he thought longingly. He could have quickly ridden it down to Jackson Square. He felt lost in the city without his trusty wheels.

  Then his eyes lit upon an object propped against the front porch of a second-story walk-up—a plastic plank with rollers attached to its bottom side. The skateboard was scuffed and missing several chips of paint, a sign that it saw regular use.

  “That might do the trick,” Spider whispered eagerly.

  He glanced surreptitiously up and down the street, checking for bystanders. Not yet adjusted to his new ephemeral existence, he completely forgot that he held the advantage of invisibility.

  Seeing no potential objectors, he edged casually toward the building’s front stairs. After one last look around, he sprinted up the steps and snatched the board. Carrying it in his arms, he raced back to the street.

  • • •

  A MOMENT LATER, Spider was flying down the hill. His sneakered feet balanced with ease on the board’s contoured surface. He knees bent to a deep forty-five-degree angle, skillfully absorbing every bump and rut in the road.

  He was a picture of perfect coordination—that no one could see to appreciate. To the few pedestrians who noticed the seemingly self-propelled skateboard rocketing along the pavement, it was just another odd occurrence on the streets of San Francisco.

  For Spider, the skateboard provided the fun of an amusement park ride combined with the challenge a video game, all rolled into one fantastic thrill. A rush of freedom coursed through his phantom body. He was a vibrant memory of his former self, brazenly whipping around corners, splashing through puddles, and skidding across slick spots. The wet wind slapped his face, and a laugh bubbled up through his chest, casting a shimmering disturbance in the rain.

  He rounded a sharp turn, tilting the board to lean into the curve. It was a tight hook, and he narrowly avoided a catastrophic wipeout on an unexpected pothole cover.

  Spider looked back at the turn, admiring his feat. Still celebrating the successful maneuver, he returned his gaze to the road ahead—and spied a small delivery truck parked outside of a corner grocery, blocking the road as the truck’s driver unloaded supplies.

  The barrier was located directly in front of him. There was no way to stop or even jump off the board.

  He winced, anticipating the collision, as the speeding skateboard closed in on the side of the truck. A second before impact, he let out an involuntary yelp, and threw his hands up in front of his face.

  But the crash never came.

  Spider’s body passed through the outer metal flashing and into the truck’s cramped cargo hold.

  His eyes popped open to a whipping view of shrink-wrapped packaging, boxes of fruit, and crates of bagged potato chips.

  “What?” he managed to peep out before sliding through the flat blank of the truck’s opposite wall and out the other side.

  Dazed, Spider looked down at his feet. They were still planted on the skateboard, which had rolled through beneath the truck without hindrance.

  • • •

  PUZZLING AT SPIDER’S voice, the driver looked up from his loaded dolly, which he’d just hefted over the curb. He spied the apparently unmanned skateboard rolling down the hill. Concerned, he parked the dolly and bent to look under the truck’s carriage. Seeing nothing, he shrugged his shoulders and resumed his delivery.

  • • •

  SPIDER ROLLED SLOWLY toward Washington Square, keeping the skateboard under much greater control. Despite having streamed through the truck without harm, the experience had left him momentarily dazed.

  A drizzling mist shrouded the park. The church’s courtyard had fallen silent; the students had returned inside for their next round of lessons.

  Chattering groups of Asian women peeled off for the bus stop, their morning tai chi session having just finished. One of the practitioners looked at Spider as he surfed past, and for a moment, he thought he saw his reflection in her eyes.

  Then she pointed at the skateboard and laughed at its apparent self-propulsion.

  She was looking right through him, Spider suddenly realized. He was invisible, a spirit released from his human form.

  The magnitude of the situation finally hit him. The joy of the day’s adventure deflated like a popped balloon. He was nothing more than an empty shell, an illusion of life, missing all of its essential elements.

  There was no threat or danger that could touch him. The adrenaline from his near-collision faded with the negation of the risk. Without the possibility of pain or fear, the emotions on the opposite end of the spectrum were impossible to achieve. These were sensations reserved for the living.

  His turn was over.

  You only die once.

  Chapter 19

  COLLEAGUES

  A SOMBER, SUBDUED Spider returned to Jackson Square a few minutes later.

  “Time to get down to business,” he said firmly.

  The skateboard rounded the corner just as Montgomery Carmichael stepped out of his art studio and into a waiting taxi. The interim mayor looked the part, dressed in a dark suit and shiny leather shoes.

  Spider watched the taxi pull away. Then he steered to a stop on the exact spot where he’d begun the day. Leaning the board against the studio’s front entrance, he approached the nearest glass window. He slipped seamlessly through and began searching for supplies.

  After circling the many easels set up around the room, he reached a desk positioned in the center. He dug around in the desk’s drawers before shifting to an adjacent plastic shelving unit.

  “Aha,” he exclaimed upon finding Monty’s collection of paints. The bin was packed with tubes, tins, cans, and glass jars of every imaginable size, color, and formulation.

  Spider sat back on his heels, pondering the vast array of options.

  Then he made his selection.

  He picked up a small can of water-based paint labeled with a sticker colored dark brick red, the shade of spilled blood.

  • • •

  ARMED WITH THE paint can and a medium-sized brush, Spider returned to the sidewalk, this time by unlocking the front door and passing through its opening.

  The rain had begun yet another cycle of lessening, and the wet street sparkled as the sun once more broke through the clouds.

  Spider crossed to the Green Vase antique shop, striding up to its redbrick storefront
. He stopped in front of the scrolling iron-framed door and stared down at the brass handle, whose surface was shaped in the form of a three-petaled tulip.

  He’d been stymied by this locked door the last time he’d tried to gain access to the store. In that instance, he’d circled to the alley around back, climbed on top of a metal Dumpster, and leaped toward the ledge of the building’s second-floor window.

  “That was an adventure,” he said, allowing himself a triumphant smile. He had hung from the ledge for several seconds before finally forcing open the window and crawling inside.

  “No need for such antics now,” he added, grimly observing his reflection in the door’s glass panes—no more than a paint can and a brush hovering in the air.

  With a sigh, Spider kicked his left foot forward, expecting to flow smoothly through to the other side. Mid-stride, however, his motion was abruptly stopped.

  Clink.

  The brush fell to the ground as the paint can, still gripped in his hand, smacked against the door’s outer surface.

  “Right.”

  Muttering under his breath, Spider jumped back outside, set the can on the sidewalk next to the brush, and slid through the doorway, this time unimpeded. Once inside, he unlocked the door, swung it open, and retrieved his supplies.

  “I’ll never get the hang of this ghost business.”

  It wasn’t until he shut the door and turned back toward the showroom that he realized he was not alone.

  An orange and white cat sat on the floor looking up at him.

  A line of hackles rose along Isabella’s back as she stared suspiciously at the intruder.

  “She can’t see me,” Spider assured himself. “She’s just looking at the brush and paint can.”

  He waved his free hand to the left, expecting no reaction. But he watched in amazement as Isabella’s ice blue eyes tracked the movement. Then she returned her gaze to his chest.

  “Can you see me?” he whispered excitedly. He paused, tamping down his enthusiasm. She was probably just tracking his voice.