How to Paint a Cat (Cats and Curios Mystery)

by Hale, Rebecca M.

  Spider decided to test the cat with a different action. Setting the supplies on the cashier counter, he silently jogged around to the opposite side of where Isabella was sitting. He waited, expecting her to remain stationary.

  He watched with elation as she warily turned to face him.

  “You don’t know how happy you just made me,” he said gleefully. Taking a step forward, he reached down to pet her.

  At Isabella’s stern “Mrao,” he jumped back, holding his hands, palms out, in front of his chest.

  “Okay, okay. We don’t have to be friends.” The mere possibility of animal interaction greatly improved his mood. He felt far less isolated and alone. “We can be associates. Colleagues, if you like.”

  Spider walked around the showroom, inspecting the display area. It was almost exactly the same as when he had last visited, except that the hatch to the basement was now closed.

  As he stood by the leather recliner, reflecting, he heard the elegant saunter of paws padding across the wooden floor.

  Isabella circled his feet, sniffing ever so delicately. She seemed to have relented, if only just a little. She sat on her haunches and waved a front paw in the air.

  “Oh, so now you want me to pet you,” Spider said with a grin.

  Isabella lifted her head in a regal gesture that clearly conveyed her response: I have decided to allow you the privilege of petting me.

  Tentatively, Spider bent again.

  Isabella held her head perfectly still as the ghostly hand reached out and dropped onto the silky white crown between her orange-tipped ears.

  Spider felt a tingling beneath his fingertips—the slight vibration of a rumbling purr.

  Chapter 20

  THE PANTRY

  WHILE ISABELLA COMMUNED with Spider’s ghost, Rupert returned to the feeding station in the upstairs kitchen, in the hope that his old food might have magically reappeared.

  Rupert cautiously approached his bowl and took a short whiff of the offensive material that had been left there. As he stared in disgust at the off-putting brown tidbit of diet cat food, his earlier anger returned.

  Here he was, wasting away, a mere shadow of his former fluffy self, while his person was out running around San Francisco. How could she have left him here for—he glanced up the clock on the wall—for forty-five minutes with nothing but a bowl of diet cat food? It was the ultimate betrayal.

  Disgruntled, Rupert paced a circle through the kitchen, his furry feet stomping in indignation.

  As he passed the pantry door, however, a faint scent, smothered by packaging, triggered an alarm in his sensitive nose.

  It was coming from inside the pantry.

  Sniffing loudly at the half-inch space along the door’s bottom threshold, Rupert sucked in the closet’s full array of odors, creating an aroma inventory of the interior contents.

  It took him a moment to process the data. Mentally, he sifted through the identified objects, filtering out a box of cereal, several cans of soup, various cleaning supplies and dry goods, and, of course, the container holding the new diet cat food.

  Then he sat upright, straightening his shoulders. He had reached his conclusion. He was certain of his results.

  His person had not been altogether truthful earlier when she told him he’d finished off the last bag of his old cat food. There was an unopened bag trapped on the other side of this door.

  Traitorous scoundrel of a woman.

  Rupert focused his feline brain waves on the flat wooden surface. His wobbly blue eyes crossed with concentration. His whiskers quivered with intensity.

  Open sesame, he commanded, but the door didn’t budge.

  Trying a different approach, Rupert raised himself up on his back legs, propped his front paws against the door’s lower panel, and pushed with all his might.

  The door rocked in its hinges, but remained solidly shut.

  Dropping back to all fours, Rupert trotted into the center of the room, about five feet away. Puffing out his chest like a raging bull, he charged at the door, slamming into it with the full force of his furry body.

  Still nothing—other than a dull ache in his shoulder.

  He was about to despair when he heard a noise on the stairs. Turning, he spied his sister and a faintly glowing figure in the shape of a young man.

  Rupert trotted amicably over, his tail popped up in a friendly gesture.

  Perhaps their newfound friend had better taste in cat food than Oscar’s niece.

  • • •

  IT DIDN’T TAKE much effort for Isabella to guide Spider to the pantry door and convince him to open the bag of regular cat food. Under her supervision—and Rupert’s delighted gaze—the diet formulation was tossed into the trash, the bowls rinsed out in the sink, and a generous amount of the old concoction poured in.

  As a loud munching commenced beneath the kitchen table, Spider popped open the paint can and dipped his brush inside. Crouched on the tile floor, he held the red tip in the air for several seconds, contemplating the right words.

  Then he began to paint his message.

  “Follow the Murals.”

  Beneath this slogan, he drew a large looping O.

  The Newsroom

  Chapter 21

  SWEET CAKES

  HOXTON FINN SAT in a barber chair with a vinyl cape strapped around his neck, his peppery-gray hair wet and combed back.

  The newsroom had been converted into a makeshift salon, with the barber chair at its center and the stylist who worked for the newspaper’s television affiliate standing on a short stool behind it, snipping away with his shears. The same stool had assisted a few minutes earlier when, accompanied by a considerable amount of grumbling, the stylist had washed Hox’s hair by dunking his head in one of the bathroom sinks.

  The wispy little man had been assigned by the news station to revamp Hox’s image. The reporter could no longer hide behind his black-and-white byline; modern media demanded a much more visual presence. The increasing number of television appearances had dictated a makeover—of his upper half, at least, the portion that was routinely captured on film.

  It was not a process that Hoxton Finn had readily embraced.

  Several months into the project, neither the reporter nor the stylist was satisfied with the results—but the pair had developed a lively rapport.

  “Humphrey,” the reporter sniped, “I’ve got cold water running down the back of my neck.”

  “There, there, dear,” the stylist replied soothingly, dabbing the drips with a clean towel.

  Hox rolled his eyes in annoyance.

  “I told you, don’t call me ‘dear.’”

  Humphrey nodded agreeably.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” he replied impishly. “I wouldn’t dream of it . . . sweet cakes.”

  • • •

  HOX CLOSED HIS eyes as Humphrey continued his work. The whirring scissors provided a calming background noise, and the reporter’s thoughts returned to the unresolved questions surrounding the murdered City Hall staffer.

  His jaw clenched as he mulled over the case. He still couldn’t shake the unsettled feeling that he had overlooked an important piece of evidence.

  Humphrey finished the day’s clipping and switched out the shears for a hair dryer. As he aimed the hot air gun at the reporter’s scalp, he noticed Hox’s tense expression.

  He was starting to worry about his prickly friend. This was the third all-night session after which he’d been called in to revive Hox for a television shoot. The Spider Jones murder was becoming an unhealthy obsession.

  The stylist pumped his thin eyebrows as an idea popped into his head. He knew just how to distract the moody reporter. Shutting off the dryer, he picked up a comb.

  “Guess who’s on the front cover of the gossip magazines this week?” he asked slyly.

  Hox groaned his response. He knew where this was going. He’d seen the horrifying spread on a Market Street newsstand when he’d slipped out to grab breakfast a few hours earl
ier.

  “Your ex, the movie star,” Humphrey supplied with a cheeky grin. “And her fiancé.”

  Ever since her New Year’s Eve engagement, the celebrity news had been full of stories about Hox’s ex-wife and her impending marriage—to a much younger male model.

  Hox sighed testily. “Why’d it have to be the model?”

  • • •

  IT WASN’T A matter of jealousy—or, at least, that wasn’t the primary cause of Hox’s angst. Long ago, he had accepted the fact that his ex-wife would eventually remarry.

  Since their divorce, she had dated a slew of powerful and distinguished men. There’d been politicians, business moguls, and movie producers, any one of which Hox would have been relatively content for her to choose as her next husband. He felt he could measure up to the representatives she’d chosen from those categories.

  Not so, the male model.

  The comparison wasn’t solely one of Hox’s making.

  Every entertainment news report featuring his ex-wife included an obligatory dating biography, starting of course, with her failed marriage to Hox. He was forever lumped together with the men who came after.

  Since the movie star’s engagement, however, the coverage had been intensely focused on the comparison between the first husband and the new fiancé. Each article included a picture of Hox—not the distinguished headshot from his official newspaper bio, but a paparazzi snap taken as he was being wheeled out of the hospital after having the tip of his left toe amputated.

  It was, quite possibly, the worst photo ever taken of him. His face was pale from the recent blood loss. The administration of numerous vaccine shots and an IV drip of Komodo dragon anti-venom had sickened his stomach. His hair was rumpled and sticking up all over the place from having slept the previous night in a hospital bed.

  The miserable post-operation photo was now being juxtaposed with that of the model fiancé, who, by all accounts, was an athletic Adonis.

  The situation was bound to get worse before it got better. The wedding wasn’t scheduled to take place until late spring.

  As Hox brooded over the unfair celebrity news coverage, Humphrey squeezed a dollop of hair gel into the palm of his hand and tutted sympathetically.

  “Don’t you fret, Hoxy. That gorgeous man’s got nothing on you . . . dear.”

  • • •

  IGNORING HUMPHREY’S MOCKING endearment, Hox refocused his thoughts on the Spider Jones case. Once more, he began mentally reviewing the information he’d collected in the spare conference room.

  After a moment he sat bolt upright in the barber chair, his rugged face registering a sudden insight. Blinking, he rubbed his eyes.

  “Humphrey, I need a file from the workroom. Second pile to the left, third one down.”

  “You can get it yourself,” Humphrey replied with a flourish. “We’re all done here.”

  He unsnapped the vinyl cover he’d secured around the reporter’s neck.

  Hox grimaced as Humphrey gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder and blew a kiss into the air.

  “Mmm-wa. You look fabulous.”

  Chapter 22

  FRIED CHICKEN FANATIC

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Humphrey knocked on the closed door to the newspaper’s conference room. He could see Hox inside, bent over the table, examining one of the many file folders relating to the Spider Jones murder.

  The reporter strummed his chin, pondering a line item in the police evidence report. If he’d heard the stylist’s knock, he showed no indication of it.

  Humphrey opened the door and stuck his head inside.

  “Uh, Hox?” he said, tapping the designer watch strapped to his wrist. “We’ve got to head over to City Hall for your interview with the interim mayor.”

  Slowly, Hox rotated toward the door.

  “Tell me this, Humphrey,” he said as he scooped up the file. “What’s your favorite place to eat here in San Francisco?”

  The stylist pumped his eyebrows. “Why? Are you asking me out on a date?”

  Humphrey laughed at his own joke, but after Hox’s reprimanding stare he straightened his mouth into a serious expression.

  “Let me see. It changes by the week. There’s that Vietnamese joint in the Mission—that’s high on everyone’s list right now. Long lines to get in though. And, of course, there’s the fusion spot on Polk Street, one of my all-time favorites. It’s hard to pick just one. There are so many good restaurants . . .”

  “Exactly,” Hox cut in. “You’re a foodie. And pretentious.” He smacked the file against his left thigh. “The kid was neither.”

  Grabbing his notepad, he shoved it into his coat pocket. Then he pushed past Humphrey and strode briskly down the hallway. At the corner, he paused to look back at the confused stylist.

  “Come on, let’s go. We’re making a quick stop along the way.”

  Humphrey grabbed his jacket from a hook on the wall and jogged down the corridor.

  “Where?” Humphrey panted. “We don’t have much time, you know.”

  Hox started down the stairs leading to the building’s street level. “North Beach.”

  “That’s not on the way,” Humphrey called out as he chugged after Hox. “That’s on the other side of town. The producer lady made me promise I’d get you to the mayor’s office at one P.M. sharp.”

  Hox waved his hand dismissively. “Montgomery Carmichael can wait. He’s not going anywhere.”

  As he pushed open the building’s front door, he added a sarcastic aside. “Unfortunately.”

  • • •

  AFTER A SHORT cab ride up and over the city’s hilly center, Hox and Humphrey hopped out at Columbus Avenue. The reporter set off briskly along the sidewalk, thwacking the file against his left leg, his broad shoulders deftly parting the lunchtime crowds.

  A number of waiters stood outside the street’s row of Italian restaurants, catcalling to passersby and waving menus in the face of anyone who slowed or showed the slightest interest. Hox fended each one off with his steely-eyed stare and a menacing pop of the file folder.

  Humphrey trailed several feet behind. Detained by every entreating waiter, he politely declined the offers as he fought his way past.

  It was all the stylist could do to keep sight of Hox’s peppered gray head and the perfectly coiffed hair that was quickly deteriorating in the day’s misty air.

  • • •

  A FEW BLOCKS up the street, Hox stopped at a corner to consult the information in his file, allowing Humphrey time to catch up.

  Licking his thumb, Hox pulled out a photocopy of a recent newspaper article.

  The article was from the newspaper’s dining section. It wasn’t a typical review entry but an obituary-styled posting, mourning the closing of a North Beach diner whose signature dish had become an overnight sensation.

  Fried chicken gourmands throughout the city have suffered a terrible loss with the impromptu closing of Lick’s Homestyle Chicken . . .

  Hox noted the address listed at the end of the article and compared it against that of the empty storefront about five yards from where he stood.

  “Hox,” Humphrey panted between breaths as he gripped his side. “We’re going to be late.”

  “It’s up here,” Hox replied, motioning for the stylist to follow.

  “But, but . . .” Humphrey protested, before throwing his hands up and trotting after the reporter.

  • • •

  CUPPING HIS HAND across his forehead, Hox peered through the vacated diner’s grimy storefront glass. The interior was empty, devoid of any tables, chairs, or wall hangings, but a dim light appeared to be turned on in the rear of the building.

  Sliding over to the entrance, Hox pushed in on its flat handle. The door swung open, creaking on its hinges.

  Humphrey peeked nervously over the reporter’s shoulder as together they looked inside. They were greeted by a puff of musty air. The abandoned diner smelled of mold and the faint whiff of stale chicken grease.

&nb
sp; Hox leaned forward, listening intently. Hearing nothing, he glanced back at the stylist.

  “Cover me.”

  Humphrey’s face registered alarm.

  “Oh, no. No, no,” he sputtered in protest. “That’s not in my job description.”

  “Sure it is, honey muffin,” Hox replied caustically as he crept into the diner. “Don’t you think my hair is going to need a touchup after this?”

  • • •

  HUMPHREY HOVERED IN the doorway as Hox circled what had once been the diner’s front seating area and then passed through an opening to the kitchen. A bare bulb screwed into a ceiling socket had been left burning, the source of the light he’d seen from the street. Other than a worn stool, the area had been cleaned out of all skillets, pans, or other cooking utensils.

  But on the floor behind the counter, Hox noticed a discarded takeout box. Lifting it up to the bulb, he examined the gold writing on the green paper exterior.

  Mumbling to himself, he once more consulted the article from the file, scanning to the last line of the text.

  And so, we resign ourselves to the end of the precious little green and gold takeout boxes. So long to Lick’s fabulous fried chicken.

  Setting aside the article, Hox flipped to a page that he’d copied from the police evidence report. It listed everything that had been found within a ten-foot radius of Spider’s desk in the basement of City Hall. He thumped his finger against a line item at the bottom of the list.

  The nearest trash bin to the intern’s desk had contained several greasy green takeout boxes.

  “It’s a match,” Hox mused as Humphrey scampered up behind him. “Spider was a fried chicken fanatic.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” Humphrey asked.

  With a grunt, Hox slapped the file shut. He pondered the eyewitness statement that James Lick had been seen fleeing the crime scene. “It may well have gotten him killed.”

  The stylist looked at the reporter as if he’d lost his mind.