How to Paint a Cat (Cats and Curios Mystery)

by Hale, Rebecca M.

  “Hoxton Finn,” he said after reading the name associated with the number on the phone’s digital readout. He brought the receiver to the side of his face. “What can I do for the city’s most fashionably coiffed reporter?”

  He held the phone away from his ear, grimacing at the predictably terse response. The comment, however, didn’t stop him from making a further tease.

  “Calling me from the newspaper’s salon?”

  He nearly dropped the phone at Hox’s rude reply. This remark was, however, followed by a more substantive communication.

  “You want to meet?” The PM pulled up his sleeve to check his watch. “How about lunch?”

  The proposal was apparently met with approval. He nodded his head and closed the conversation.

  “I’ll see you at my regular place.”

  • • •

  A HALF HOUR later, the Previous Mayor strode into one of his preferred lunch spots. Before his recent stretch of self-imposed isolation, he had typically visited the restaurant three or four times a week.

  The lunch crowd had packed in, filling all of the available tables and the stools around the bar, but the hostess waived him forward as soon as he walked through the front doors, offering to store his overcoat and bowler on a rack by her station. An empty seat appeared at the corner of the bar, a space that had been held open, just in case he arrived.

  The PM cracked a superior smile as he slid around the line of patrons waiting for their name to be called and strolled across the dining room to his seat. Local celebrity had its perks. It was good to be back at his familiar haunt.

  As for Hox, he would just have to fight his way in.

  The bartender looked up from a rack of wine glasses. “Good afternoon, Mayor,” he said in a polite tone that bordered on reverence.

  Regardless of whatever nominal changes occurred in the pecking order at City Hall, this was still the only mayor who counted both in terms of prestige and tipping potential. If he approved of the day’s service, he would pay his tab with a $100 bill. Waving his hand, he’d then utter the bartender’s favorite phrase.

  “Keep the change.”

  Pushing his other orders to the side, the bartender set a wide-mouthed martini glass on the bar next to an iced shaker and began preparing the PM’s standing-order mixed drink.

  Shifting in his seat, the PM casually surveyed the surrounding patrons. He held up the laminated menu, but he had already decided—back at the frog fountain when he received Hox’s call—what he would be eating. It was crab season in the Bay Area, and there was only one dish that would suit his palate.

  As the bartender carefully set a martini in front of the PM, he pointed to the daily special section of the menu.

  “Crab Louie for me, Leonard,” he said, loud enough to be heard over the din.

  Nodding smartly, the bartender turned to relay the order to the kitchen.

  Sighing with contentment, the PM lifted the glass, filled to the rim with a dry martini. A twisting lemon peel curled through the center of the liquid, spiraling in perfect symmetry.

  But just as the drink reached his lips, a rumpled reporter shoved himself into the six-inch space between his stool and the corner of the bar.

  “You might have picked a place with a little more privacy,” Hox spat crankily.

  The PM maneuvered his elbow around the newcomer, narrowly avoiding dribbling the drink down his chin. He straightened his shoulders, bristling with mock affront.

  “Hoxton, these people are my friends.” He gave a wide wink at the bartender, who smiled impishly as he set the Crab Louie plate on the counter.

  The PM picked up his fork and dove into the creamy crab mixture. As he brought the mouthful to his face, Hox leaned in next to the mayor’s shoulder.

  “I’ve remembered something from the night of Spider’s murder.”

  The PM stopped with his mouth wide open. Setting down the fork, he pushed back his plate. Then he turned, giving the reporter his full attention.

  Hox lowered his voice to a whisper.

  “He was carrying a backpack,” he said, tapping his shoulder for emphasis. “I’ve checked the police report. There’s no mention of it being found with the body. I just left the Lieutenant Governor’s house. His assistant Mabel was there, and she told me Spider was working on some sort of private research project in the weeks before his death . . .”

  The PM held up a shushing hand. “Leonard, can we move to the back room?”

  A moment later, the pair was ushered through a side door to a smaller dining area with a single table. The PM pulled out a chair for Hox and then seated himself.

  Leonard dutifully carried in the martini and the Crab Louie. The PM waited while the bartender set down his tray and then disappeared through the door before propping his elbows on the tablecloth and leaning toward Hox.

  “Now, tell me about this backpack.”

  The Rincon Center

  Chapter 45

  A HISTORY OF CALIFORNIA

  STILL CONFIDENT IN the accuracy of her route, the niece rolled the stroller across Market and headed in a zigzag fashion toward the shoreline. Two blocks south of the main thoroughfare, she reached the next stop on her mural-projected path of New Deal art, the Rincon Center.

  Located near Mission Street’s lower end, the area was in much better shape than the neighborhood surrounding the newspaper’s offices, about a mile farther up.

  Like much of downtown San Francisco, the landscape had changed dramatically following the onset of the Gold Rush. The now relatively flat streets had originally been part of Rincon Hill, an elevated region filled with prestigious homes.

  Rincon Hill began to lose its volume (and prestige) in the late 1860s with the implementation of the Second Street Cut, a leveling effort meant to create a flatter route between Market Street and the southeast waterfront. Further leveling occurred in the early 1900s during the construction of the Bay Bridge. The bridge’s main downtown access ramps now cut through the old neighborhood.

  The architecture transitioned with the changing use. The grand estates of the early years were gradually replaced by warehouses and industrial property. The late 1990s saw another evolution, with a wave of loft conversions and shiny new office buildings.

  The former Rincon Post Office was swept up in this latest building trend. The once-small rectangular building was now but a tiny part of a commercial complex that took up an entire block. The facility housed a food court, a dim sum restaurant, several thousand feet of glitzy office space, a pair of apartment towers, and yes, even a post office—although the modern postal facility was located in the building’s new addition, not the original structure.

  Preserved during the massive addition, the vintage post office now served as a gallery for the extensive set of New Deal murals painted on its walls.

  • • •

  “YOU’LL SEE,” THE niece assured the stroller’s skeptical feline occupants. “We’re on the right course.” She muttered a less confident aside. “I can’t think of any other way to follow the murals.”

  Isabella murmured a dubious response. Rupert merely shoved his head, ostrichlike, farther beneath the blankets.

  After crossing with the light, the niece bumped the carriage up a few short steps to enter through the building’s older north side.

  Streamlined Art Deco styling prevailed both outside and in the original post office space. A tile floor of muted green covered the length of the interior. Matching green walls, a combination of textured drywall and tile, rose toward a cream and yellow ceiling. The murals were painted just above eye level, at the intersection of the color change.

  On the lookout for any mural-related clues, the niece rolled the stroller past a security desk where a female guard in uniform sat reading a book. The woman looked up only briefly; the feline cargo in the stroller’s passenger compartment slid by undetected. The post office was otherwise empty of pedestrian traffic.

  Staring up at the walls, the niece piloted the str
oller around the circumference of the room. Isabella peered up through the protective netting, quietly making her own observations. Even though the cat doubted the accuracy of her person’s intuition, there was much to observe inside the renovated post office.

  The building contained twenty-seven murals, each one depicting a different scene from California history. Plaques positioned at regular intervals gave titles and brief descriptions of the works, all of which were painted by the artist Anton Refregier.

  Another Russian emigrant, the niece mused, just like the creator of City Life.

  As she moved from one mural to the next, she was once more struck by the sensation that she was retreading episodes from the past two years. Several of the places she’d visited during her Oscar-inspired treasure hunts were represented in the pictures.

  One panel showed the Mission Dolores, where she and Monty had visited the grave of William Leidesdorff, while another depicted the Sonoma Bear Flag Revolt, the pivotal event that led to California’s independence from Mexico.

  The murals continued a visual map through California history, featuring scenes from the Gold Rush, the Vigilance Committee, the territory’s controversial induction into statehood, and the 1906 earthquake.

  “It all fits,” the niece said. “Everywhere we’ve been in the last two years, every bit of history we’ve researched, it’s all here.”

  Isabella clicked out an unconvinced series of chirps.

  Meanwhile, the niece couldn’t help noticing a second unifying theme across all of the paintings. Each of the human figures was drawn with a sharp, swooping nose, oversized with respect to the rest of the body’s features.

  As she self-consciously cupped her hand over the center of her face, Rupert burrowed out from beneath the blankets. His tummy was rumbling again. It was time for his person to return them to the Green Vase—and to dish out a decent serving of non-diet cat food.

  He looked crankily up at the niece and then shifted his gaze to the noses in the nearest mural.

  “Mao-wow.”

  Grimacing down at the stroller, the niece’s muffled voice replied.

  “That’s not funny.”

  Chapter 46

  THE FRIED CHICKEN DANCE

  THE NIECE REACHED the far end of the Rincon Post Office display area, but after closely studying all of the Refregier murals, she had little to show for her efforts.

  Despite the numerous California landmarks she’d identified in the murals, she’d found no clear sign of her uncle or where to search next. Even she was about to concede defeat.

  “It had seemed so promising,” she said, deflated.

  Isabella looked up at her person and emitted a barely audible but clearly sarcastic “Mrao.”

  With a sigh, the niece turned the stroller, preparing to leave. As she swung the stroller around, she noticed the security guard striding toward them.

  The woman had a purposeful look about her, as if she had spotted questionable activity that needed to be investigated.

  She’s seen the cats, the niece thought, guilt blushing her cheeks.

  “Time to go,” she whispered, steering the stroller toward the exit.

  She was halfway across the room when the guard called out, “Is this yours, ma’am?”

  The code violation that had caught the guard’s attention wasn’t the presence of cats in the display area. Frowning with disapproval, the guard pointed to an apparently discarded takeout container sitting on the floor beside a flat bench at the rear of the room.

  “No,” the niece replied. But as she gave the stroller another shove toward the front door, there was a rustling inside the passenger compartment. Rupert’s head poked out of the covers, his pink nose prickling at a recently detected scent.

  Looking over her shoulder, the niece watched as the guard opened the lid of the container—green with gold printing—and released the distinctive aroma of fried chicken.

  She caught only a glimpse of the gold writing on the container’s lid, but a quick look was all she needed to identify the large looping O printed on the container’s top. It was her uncle’s handwriting.

  “Oh, wait,” the niece called out. She smiled awkwardly. “Actually, that is mine.”

  The guard began walking toward the niece, eying her suspiciously as she held out the carton. The woman’s eyes traveled down to the stroller, where Rupert had thrown himself into a full fried chicken frenzy.

  The niece stepped in front of the stroller, trying to block the guard’s view into the passenger compartment, but it was impossible to mask the carriage’s spring-squeaking gyrations.

  Handing the carton to the niece, the guard peered down into the stroller.

  Isabella lifted her head regally while Rupert paused in his fried chicken celebrations long enough to give the guard his most innocent-looking blink. Then his tongue slipped out and licked his lips. Slurp.

  Putting her hands on her hips, the guard turned back to the niece.

  “Are those cats?”

  • • •

  A FEW YARDS away, a slight glimmer sparkled across the post office’s green floor tiles, the ghostly imprint from the rubber soles of a pair of high-top tennis shoes.

  Spider had followed the niece through the rounds of the Rincon Post Office murals, all the while puzzling over her interest in the artwork. He could see no relevance to his murder—or the encrypted directions from the City Life mural. As far as he was concerned, she had drifted way off track. He gathered that the cats shared his view on the matter.

  And so, he was perplexed by the discovery of the takeout carton, particularly the gold printing on its lid.

  His ghostly form shuddered with apprehension as he peeked over the niece’s shoulder and stared at the letter scrawled across the container, a large looping O.

  Jackson Square

  Chapter 47

  CINDERELLA

  MONTGOMERY CARMICHAEL STRODE briskly around the corner to Jackson Square, returning from a busy morning at City Hall.

  Everything was in place for the next day’s inauguration ceremony. The schedule had been finalized, the decorations were going up both inside and outside the building, and rows of temporary seating were being deployed in the rotunda area at the bottom of the central staircase.

  He had just one last item to take care of.

  Tapping an envelope in his chest pocket, he stopped in front of the Green Vase and knocked on the door.

  No answer.

  “That’s funny,” he said. “She should be back from her morning run by now.”

  Pressing his face against the glass, Monty peered inside the showroom. There was no sign of the niece or her cats.

  He looked up toward the second-floor apartment.

  “Rupert,” he called out. “I’ve got chicken!”

  Still, there was no response.

  “Hmm,” Monty grunted, curiously scanning the empty store. There was definitely no one home. He generally kept closer tabs on the goings on inside the Green Vase, but his new position at City Hall was already putting a damper on his snooping activities. “I wonder where they’ve run off to.”

  Still puzzling over the whereabouts of the niece and her cats, he crossed the street to his art studio.

  As he approached the glass-fronted building, his demeanor began to change. His fingers nervously fiddled with his cuff links, and a light sweat broke out across his forehead.

  He cracked open the front door and cautiously poked his head inside. The space appeared to be empty. There was no sign of the—well, he refused to say or even think the word ghost. He preferred the term pesky figment of his imagination.

  With a sigh of relief, he tossed his briefcase on the desk and pulled out his sketchpad. The pad’s top sheet was clean. He’d torn off the most recent drawing and thrown it in a bin at City Hall.

  There would be no more images of dead people, he told himself firmly as he propped the sketchpad on the easel by his desk.

  Monty made a slow circle through the studio,
rolling his shoulders as he cleared his head. Other than the niggling appearances by the ghost, he was generally pleased with the week’s progress. Yesterday’s interview with Hoxton Finn had gone far better than expected, and by this time tomorrow, he would be officially sworn in as mayor.

  Flipping on his phonograph, he set a record spinning on the turntable.

  As music pumped out of the speakers, Monty began to dance around the studio, sliding his flat-soled dress shoes across the floor’s smooth surface in an elegant waltz. He held his arms out, as if they were wrapped around an imaginary partner.

  He felt a bit like Cinderella on the night before her big ball. Nothing could spoil this moment. Nothing except . . .

  “Nooooo,” he groaned as a shimmering image reflected in the studio’s wide front windows.

  “I don’t see you,” he whimpered, clamping his hands over his face and squeezing his eyes tightly shut.

  Blinded, he pivoted in place. Once he was safely facing the windowless back wall, he carefully lifted his fingers. Furtively scanning the rear studio space, he saw several paintings, a few cabinets filled with supplies, and a couple of easels—but no ghost.

  Until the shimmering translucent figure of a young man in blue jeans, T-shirt, and high-top sneakers stepped from behind the nearest easel.

  Monty blew out a sigh of frustration.

  “Oh, man, you’re killing me.”

  Spider crossed his arms over his chest. The toe of his left sneaker tapped a sarcastic response.

  “Well, obviously,” Monty sputtered, gesturing at Spider’s translucent figure, “that was a poor choice of words.” His thin lips pursed into a petulant pout.

  “But why are you bothering me?”

  • • •

  WHILE MONTY WAS whirling around the studio, the niece and the cat-filled stroller arrived back at the Green Vase.