How to Paint a Cat (Cats and Curios Mystery)

by Hale, Rebecca M.

Then he shook his head and let out a frustrated sigh. It was no use.

  “Time to give up this nonsense,” he muttered to himself.

  But just as he lifted his left foot off the top step of the staircase, a rush of color swept through his brain. The jolt nearly caused him to lose his balance and fall the length of the stairs. His wild wobble drew a few concerned looks from passing bystanders, but he paid them no heed.

  He’d finally received his breakthrough.

  Suddenly, he saw the scene with a renewed clarity, a deeper, more enhanced perception that broke with the previous script.

  The intern began climbing the steps. His face, at first apprehensive, soon flashed with recognition. Hox nodded an informal greeting as Spider passed alongside him.

  The sequence was the same as before, but this time, the reporter noticed something new.

  He caught a glimpse of the intern’s profile—and the detail that had slipped from his initial recollections.

  There was a bulky lump draped over the young man’s shoulders.

  A whisper soaked through Hox’s subconscious: Spider was carrying a backpack.

  • • •

  MINUTES LATER, SPIDER collapsed on the front steps outside City Hall, spent from the effort of transferring the vision. He felt as if the interaction with Hox had drained every last bit of energy from his ghostly being, but when he looked across the Civic Center’s open green space, his dimpled face beamed a satisfied smile.

  At the far end of the plaza, he could just make out Hox’s silhouette, hurrying through the rain as fast as his hobbled foot would allow.

  • • •

  HOX RACED BACK to the newspaper’s offices. Soaking wet, he sprinted through the front door and up the stairs, ignoring for once the pain in his left foot.

  The paper’s managing editor looked up with a frown. He had been briefed on Hox’s less-than-stellar interview with the interim mayor. Connie stood beside the editor, her arms crossed over her chest.

  Hox waved them off and charged down the hallway to the conference room. Slamming the door behind him, he began rummaging through the Spider Jones files, tossing papers this way and that until he found the stack containing the police report.

  Holding his breath, he scanned through the report, searching for every reference to the items that had been found with the victim’s body.

  After ten minutes of increasingly frantic review, Hox blew out a sigh of relief and collapsed into the chair. There was no mention of a backpack having been found anywhere near the ceremonial rotunda.

  Hox drummed his fingers against the table, contemplating.

  What did Spider have in his backpack the night of the murder and had it been worth killing for?

  The Sonoma Woods

  Chapter 35

  THE CAMPSITE

  THE LAST EMBERS glowed in the fire pit of the Sonoma woods campsite where the burly frog aficionado and the former proprietor of Lick’s Homestyle Chicken had been hiding for the past two months.

  From his seat on a log at the edge of the camp, Sam looked up at the redwood canopy. He always preferred a natural roof to any man-made contrivance. While his companion had been sleeping on a bunk inside the cabin, Sam had spent every night outside by the fire.

  He took in a deep breath, soaking up the surrounding earthy scents. It had been weeks since his last shower; a grimy layer of black dirt covered his skin and clothing. His overgrown beard gave him the look of a Sasquatch.

  But he’d never felt as clean as he did right now. The air in his lungs carried the purified oxygen of a thousand-acre forest. The mist drifting down through the trees dampened his face with a refreshing spritz.

  He sighed. He wasn’t ready to go back to the city.

  Regardless, they couldn’t stay any longer at their current location. Oscar had heard over his radio that a forest ranger had been sent to check on their campsite. Even though they were camped on private land, it would be best to pack up and leave to avoid potentially awkward questioning.

  The nosy ranger was the least of their problems. More concerning was the news that the murdered intern had hidden a stash of documents near his cubicle at City Hall. The bundle would have to be retrieved before the police discovered it—and the sensitive information inside.

  Standing to full height, Sam dusted himself off and returned to his duties. He loaded the camping gear and the remaining provisions into the rear of the cargo van. Then he turned to the two domesticated frogs. Opening their carrier, Sam carefully set them inside.

  “Don’t worry, my friends. You’ll be out again soon.” He hoped the amphibians didn’t detect the anxiety in his voice.

  It would be a short visit to the city. He and Oscar couldn’t afford to be seen in San Francisco.

  • • •

  INSIDE THE CABIN, Oscar carefully tapped the paint-covered canvas with the tip of his index finger. Happily, no color transferred to his skin.

  The painting was finished and, despite the moist air, it had dried sufficiently to cover it for transport.

  He stepped back, studying the busy scene depicted on the canvas.

  A midday crowd gathered near the San Francisco intersection of Washington and Montgomery. Mismatched landmarks spread across the painting’s upper horizon. It was a near-perfect replica of Arnautoff’s City Life—with two small but important exceptions.

  Bending back toward the frame, he looked closely at the anomalies and nodded with approval.

  Now it was just a matter of his niece putting the pieces together.

  Securing the cover over the canvas, he carried the large frame to the cargo van and handed it inside to Sam.

  Grabbing a stitch in his lower back, he turned and gazed at the empty campsite. Then he returned to the cabin to retrieve one last item.

  Slowly, he walked to the far corner of the room. His face shadowed with guilt, he reached down to pick up the bloodstained backpack last worn by Spider Jones.

  Following the Murals

  Chapter 36

  THE PAINTED CORNER

  THE MORNING DAWNED clear and bright in San Francisco, a temporary break from the endless stream of clouds lined up across the Pacific. Waterlogged citizens poured into the streets, thankful for the respite, however brief. From the Marina Green to the Ferry Building, the city was alive with movement. Dog walkers, joggers, coffee drinkers, and commuters were all eager to take advantage of the temporary dry spell.

  Inside the redbrick building that housed the Green Vase, the niece prepared for her own outing—although of all the excursions being planned that day, she suspected hers was the only one that was mural-inspired.

  After digging through a cramped closet, she managed to extract a stroller with green nylon siding.

  Hooked to the stroller’s side was a triangular yellow tag with a black silhouette icon positioned beneath the words Cats on Board.

  It took a few minutes of struggling—and several instructional comments from Isabella—before the stroller was unfolded and snapped into its operational configuration.

  A gift from their then-aspiring mayor neighbor, the stroller had been used to transport Rupert and Isabella through several Northern California host cities for the Tour of California cycling race.

  The niece had been skeptical when Monty first presented her with the “green machine.” She hadn’t thought she’d be able to convince Isabella to voluntarily climb inside its mesh-covered passenger compartment.

  But after a thorough sniffing and inspection, Isabella had reluctantly complied. After a few trips in the stroller, the cat soon got over her concerns about being trapped inside.

  If she sat upright in the passenger compartment, she could see out through the top netting. With a clear view of the sidewalk ahead, she had become skilled in communicating directions back to the niece, who steered the contraption by pushing on a waist-high handlebar.

  Isabella had eventually given the stroller her stamp of approval. She generally enjoyed her stroller experiences—so long a
s her commands were understood and dutifully obeyed.

  • • •

  THE NIECE LOADED the reference book, her notes, and the photocopy of the mural into one of the nylon storage compartments built into the stroller’s side walls.

  Since its bike race debut, the modified carriage had been surprisingly useful in both transporting the cats and sneaking them into areas where they wouldn’t ordinarily have been permitted. Given the unexplained events that had transpired within the Green Vase the previous day, the niece didn’t like the idea of leaving the cats alone again.

  “I think I’d better take you guys with me,” she said with a wary glance around the showroom.

  She’d puzzled long and hard about what might have gone on in the apartment during her jog to Coit Tower. After a night’s fitful pondering, she’d concluded that her uncle must have been responsible for the “Follow the Murals” message painted on the kitchen floor—but she hadn’t been able to reconcile that theory with the mysterious sneakered footprints.

  Since moving into the apartment above the Green Vase, she’d encountered a lot of strange things. The invisible intruder ranked near the top of the list.

  In any event, she didn’t want to endure a repeat of the cat-painting disaster.

  The niece unzipped the stroller’s top cover and folded it to one side so that Isabella could leap into the passenger compartment. Then she scooped up Rupert and gently dropped him in next to his sister.

  For his part, Rupert didn’t mind the stroller. So long as he could snuggle into the blankets for a nap, he found the rides comfortable enough. From the confines of the stroller’s passenger compartment, he had slept through raucous bike races, Mark Twain impersonators, and squawking mother ducks.

  Today’s outing would offer something a little different.

  He had never ridden in the stroller while being trailed by a ghost.

  • • •

  THE NIECE DECIDED that the street sign depicted in City Life was her best starting point for trying to interpret the mural message that had been painted on her floor—and for figuring out why the murdered intern had collected the Coit Tower picture of her uncle.

  Setting off from the Green Vase, it was a short walk to the intersection of Washington and Montgomery. Propelled by its human-powered engine, the cat stroller arrived within minutes.

  Pausing at the near curb, the niece gripped the handlebar as she stared at the familiar landscape.

  The bottom tip of Columbus Avenue cut into the cross streets at a diagonal, creating a multipronged juncture—and a snarl for traffic. The interchange formed a meeting point for three distinct neighborhoods: North Beach, Chinatown, and the financial district.

  The surrounding businesses reflected the jumbled mix.

  An Irish pub with fliers advertising an upcoming European soccer match sat across from a chichi champagne bar frequented by stockbrokers and young lawyers. Across the lopsided intersection, a plastic sign emblazoned with Chinese characters advertised a jointly operated dry cleaners and Szechuan noodle palace.

  Towering above it all, in geometric concrete serenity, was the TransAmerica Pyramid building—along with the posted street sign featured in the City Life mural.

  After waiting for the light, the niece pushed the stroller toward the bottom of the intersection at the pyramid’s base.

  From the cat compartment, a commanding feline voice issued the charge—one that startled the ghostly spirit hovering near the stroller.

  “Merrrr-ow-ow!”

  • • •

  REACHING THE OPPOSITE side of the crosswalk, the niece stopped to look up at the pyramid. The modern-day financial center rested on a spot brimming with San Francisco history.

  The pyramid stood at the edge of San Francisco’s pre–Gold Rush shoreline. Truckloads of landfill had been used to flatten the space and make it suitable for building. All manner of seaborne relics lurked in the sandy depths below, including the remnants of a wrecked ship embedded in the foundation walls.

  While the pyramid’s signature shape was now universally associated with the San Francisco skyline, the building was only about forty years old. Back in the thirties when the City Life mural was conceived, the lot was occupied by another famous structure.

  The Montgomery Block, affectionately known as the “Monkey Block,” was a favorite gathering place for many of the city’s artists, including the writer Mark Twain.

  Upon this last realization, the niece tapped the stroller handle with confidence. One of her uncle’s favorite authors, Twain was also a founding member of the Bohemian Club.

  “Issy,” she called down to the stroller, “I think we’re on the right track.”

  • • •

  PULLING OUT THE New Deal art book from the stroller’s nylon pocket, the niece opened to the pages with the City Life spread. She positioned herself on the corner of Washington and Montgomery with the TransAmerica Pyramid to her back, so that she was in the same orientation as the mural’s painted street signs.

  In the mural’s depiction, the corner of the Pacific Stock Exchange building could be seen in the distance, a few blocks away from the marked intersection. One of the curved stone statues from the building’s front entrance protruded into the street, as if summoning the viewer to investigate.

  Recalling the details she’d read the previous evening, she flipped to the section of the text that discussed the New Deal artists’ influences and jumped to the header on Diego Rivera. One of Rivera’s earlier San Francisco works was located inside the Stock Exchange.

  The niece thumped her finger against the commission date. Diego’s Stock Exchange mural was completed just a few years prior to the WPA murals inside Coit Tower. The master’s work would have been foremost in the minds of Arnautoff and his crew.

  Holding the book in front of her chest, she shifted her attention to the modern-day perspective and looked up the diagonal offshoot of Columbus Avenue. The Exchange building wasn’t visible from this intersection. Too many high-rise office buildings blocked her direct line of sight.

  “But even if I could see through concrete and steel,” she murmured, “it wouldn’t be located at the angle presented in the mural.”

  After a moment’s contemplation, she repeated the painted message from her kitchen floor.

  “Follow the murals,” she murmured, slowly rotating as she compared the two images. “It’s as if the painting is intentionally skewed . . . ”

  Puzzling, she turned the mural’s layout 90 degrees to the left. The Stock Exchange and several other downtown landmarks suddenly fell into their proper alignment.

  “Follow the murals,” she repeated again, this time awestruck. She slipped the book back into the nylon pouch and pushed the stroller forward. “Let’s head to the Stock Exchange.”

  Rupert let out a snuffling snore as Isabella offered her expert guidance. Nose pushed up against the mesh cover of the passenger compartment, she issued an encouraging command.

  “Mrao.”

  • • •

  WITH THE NIECE rolling the carriage forward, Isabella shifted her gaze to a passing pedestrian—a transparent young man in high-top canvas sneakers.

  The cat winked at her ghostly friend as he jogged around the stroller, nodding her acknowledgment of his silent hand-waving directions.

  Chapter 37

  A FROLIC IN THE FOUNTAIN

  SETTING HER BEARINGS for the Pacific Stock Exchange, the niece rounded the corner of the TransAmerica Pyramid building.

  Having worked for several years in one of the financial district’s high-rise office buildings, she knew the downtown area well. And in the years since she’d left the accounting job for her uncle’s antique business, she had studied countless maps of San Francisco, particularly the streets that encompassed the former Barbary Coast.

  Pondering the layout in her head, the niece pushed the stroller past the pyramid’s southeast flank.

  “If we go about a block toward the water,” she said, thinking
aloud, “and then turn right, that should put us in front of the Stock Exchange.”

  Remaining vigilant inside the stroller, Isabella peered out at her surroundings. She piped a consenting chirp at the niece’s proposed route, but as the stroller reached the gate to the small park located immediately behind the Pyramid, she appeared to change her mind.

  “Wrao-ow.”

  “Let’s not get distracted,” the niece replied absentmindedly, still focused on navigating toward the Stock Exchange.

  The second instruction was more direct.

  “Mrao!”

  Stopping, the niece strummed her fingers against the stroller handle. Isabella’s indignant blue eyes stared up through the passenger compartment’s net cover.

  “Okay, we can take a short break by the fountain. I think I have a map in the stroller. I can check the route.”

  Seemingly satisfied, Isabella returned to a forward-facing position.

  She’d seen something that her human had missed.

  Spider’s transparent figure had loped through the park and was beckoning Isabella to come toward the fountain at its center.

  • • •

  MUTTERING UNDER HER breath about taking orders from a cat, the niece pushed the stroller through the open gates of Redwood Park.

  Sky-high redwoods ringed the half-acre green space, blocking out most of the adjacent office buildings. Frequented by workers from the downtown’s many financial institutions, the park was a popular spot for coffee breaks and sack lunches. For the time being, however, the area was empty.

  The niece parked the stroller by a bench positioned near the fountain and began searching the many pockets for the map.

  Isabella, meanwhile, focused her intensity on the fountain. Several spigots shot aerated spouts of water up from the center, an imitation of the surrounding redwoods. Around the fountain’s edges, a number of metal frogs posed in various leaping positions, their bodies wet from the center spray.

  The fountain’s frog theme was a tribute to Mark Twain, playing off the subject matter of one of his earliest writing successes, a short story involving a prized jumping frog.