Currently, the Beach Chalet housed two separate restaurants, one in its rear garden area and one on the second floor overlooking the beach and the petulant Pacific.
The main room on the first floor, however, was dedicated to a display of the building’s New Deal–era murals.
• • •
A TAXI-VAN CARRYING the niece and the cat-filled stroller pulled into the Beach Chalet parking lot and stopped adjacent to the front entrance. After paying the driver, the niece lifted the stroller out of the van’s sliding side door.
Battling the wind and rain, she reached into the passenger compartment to fluff up the blankets so that Rupert and Isabella would be less visible. Then she propped open the Chalet door and rolled the stroller through the entrance.
Just inside, a hostess stood behind a counter, taking reservations for tables in the upstairs restaurant. A passage to the ground-floor eating establishment led away from the rear of the room. A small gift shop occupied a narrow space at the north end.
The rest of the lobby was dedicated to the murals.
Avoiding the hostess, the niece pushed the stroller around the room’s long circumference, studying the colorful images plastered across the walls.
Her uncle, she thought, would have felt right at home here. From the selection of the artist to the way in which the local scenes were presented, the influence of the Bohemians was readily apparent.
The Chalet’s murals were all painted by Lucien Labaudt, a prominent member of the Bohemian Club—and a Coit Tower alumnus.
Quotes from noted Bay Area poets and writers framed the arches of the windows and inner doorways, one for each nautical direction. Bret Harte, George Sterling, Joaquin Miller, and Ina Coolbrith—each author was either a well-known Bohemian or had been closely associated with the group.
“I have a good feeling about this,” the niece whispered down toward the stroller. “I know I’ve said this before, but I think we’re on the right track.”
Isabella grudgingly concurred. Beside her, Rupert was more interested in the smells emanating from the two restaurants. His nose sniffed into overdrive, hoping to pick up the scent of fried chicken.
The niece stopped near the Chalet’s front entrance, her attention drawn to a mural depicting famed architect Arthur Brown Jr. standing in front of his seminal achievement, City Hall.
Brown was shown as a serious-looking businessman in a fedora, red-striped tie, and suit. In his hands, he held the blueprints for another of his noted works, Coit Tower. The scrolled plans had been unfurled just enough to reveal a sketch of the tower and its square base.
In front of the image of City Hall, a fountain shot up a single stream of water, which arced and fell in such a way as to appear that the entire spray was reversed—and coming out of the sketched tower’s fluted top end.
Either Labaudt hadn’t believed Brown’s protestations that the tower’s nozzle shape was merely a coincidence or he was poking fun at the stuffy architect, the niece thought with a smile.
Then she paused, struck by the realization that with the Coit Tower reference, her route had just come full circle.
Chapter 52
THE MURAL-ED MESSAGE
STANDING INSIDE THE Beach Chalet, staring at yet another wall of murals, the niece puzzled over the path she and the cats had taken through San Francisco over the last two days.
After receiving a mandate to “Follow the Murals” on the kitchen floor, they had headed to the downtown intersection highlighted in Coit Tower’s City Life mural. By shifting the mural to fit the real life orientation of the painted landmarks, the trio had been directed down Leidesdorff Alley to the Pacific Stock Exchange (home to one of Diego Rivera’s famous works). From there, they had scooted across Market to the Rincon Center Post Office (site of a mural display detailing the history of California), and had now arrived at the Beach Chalet.
Other than a commonality of New Deal art, the niece had little to link the locations, and she was at a loss to explain how any of her mural-gazing could possibly help find her missing uncle Oscar—or have anything to do with the murdered City Hall intern.
She glanced down at her feline assistants inside the stroller, hoping for some insight or clarification. Isabella gazed wordlessly up at her person, while Rupert, his eyes peeled for another package of fried chicken, merely licked his lips.
With a sigh of dogged determination, the niece continued her review of the Beach Chalet’s murals.
A few of the paintings captured urban San Francisco scenes such as Union Square, Chinatown, and the Embarcadero, but most of the wall space focused on outdoor settings. A picnic at Baker Beach took up one swath of the lobby’s rear wall. The other half was occupied by people at leisure or play in Golden Gate Park.
It was as she gazed at the second of these outdoor vistas that her spirits lifted.
Just above a couple feeding a squirrel at a park bench, she spied the curiously located Conservatory of Flowers.
She stared for a minute at the juxtaposition of the conservatory vis-à-vis two other structures in the far background, the De Young Museum tower and the gate for the Japanese Tea Gardens, trying to be sure.
Just like the landmarks in the City Life mural, this one was geographically out of place—and the building at the center of the mismatch had a close tie to her uncle’s most recent alias.
Near the end of his life, the miserly millionaire James Lick had purchased a glass-paneled conservatory for use on his San Jose estate. He died before the conservatory’s kit could be constructed; the parts were still wrapped up in shipping crates, unassembled, at his death. The packages were eventually donated to Golden Gate Park and formed the structural basis for one of the park’s oldest buildings, the Conservatory of Flowers.
“Follow the murals,” the niece said, breathless at the discovery. “Issy, it’s the flowers! The Conservatory of Flowers!”
Chapter 53
THE WHITE VAN
EAGER TO MOVE on to what she hoped would be their last destination, the niece parked the stroller in front of the Beach Chalet’s front windows and pulled out her cell phone. As she prepared to call the taxi driver who had dropped them off earlier, she glanced out at the parking lot with a shudder.
Beyond the protection of the building’s outer colonnade, the water came down in sheets. The expanse of ocean across the street was barely visible.
“Wow, it’s raining dogs and . . .”
At Isabella’s sharp look, the niece cut short the comment.
“Well, it’s really pouring outside.”
She checked her watch. She wanted to get to the Conservatory of Flowers as quickly as possible, but there wasn’t enough time to make that stop before Monty’s inauguration ceremony. They were due at City Hall within the hour.
She gritted her teeth in frustration. She had no desire to watch Monty wallow in his mayoral triumph.
“Maybe he wouldn’t notice if we didn’t show up,” she said, trying to convince herself of this unlikely possibility.
“Mrao,” Isabella chirped up from the stroller, a concise rejection of that notion.
“You’re right,” the niece conceded. “We’d never hear the end of it.”
Ruefully, she began punching the taxi driver’s number into her phone.
“Hello,” she said when he picked up on the other end. “We’re ready for you to . . . hold on, wait a minute. I’ll have to call you back.”
Through the rain, she’d spied the blurry image of a white cargo van at the far end of the parking lot.
There were likely hundreds, if not thousands, of similar vehicles driving around the Bay Area. Other than the occasional logo painted onto their sides, they all pretty much looked the same. There was something about this particular van, however, that struck the niece as familiar.
Despite the number of dents, scratches, and dings, the van looked remarkably similar to the one owned by her nosy neighbor.
She had last seen the van the night of the board of superv
isors meeting. Monty had driven the niece and her two cats to Mountain Lake in a futile quest to locate Clive and bring him back to the Academy of Sciences. The rescue mission had been aborted when the alligator discovered a dietary fondness for wet suit–clad interim mayors.
The van had disappeared the next day. Monty claimed it had been stolen, but the niece had always doubted that story.
She suspected it had gone on an extended loan—to the fleeing members of the Bohemian Club.
• • •
MINDFUL OF THE downpour they would encounter between the Beach Chalet’s front porch and the van’s parking space at the far end of the lot, the niece pulled out an extra nylon awning that fit over the stroller’s passenger compartment and attached it to the upper framing. The stroller’s nylon fabric was water resistant, and the niece had reinforced the cloth surface with a coating of water repellant spray. The combination of these measures, she reasoned, should keep the cats relatively dry.
“At least, you’ll be drier than me,” she said as she set off from the porch.
Pushing the stroller at top speed, the niece ran through the rain to the far end of the parking lot. The hood to her raincoat fell back as she peeked in through the driver’s side window.
A bobblehead figure of the Lieutenant Governor, fashioned during his term as mayor of San Francisco, had been affixed to the dashboard. That confirmed it—this was Monty’s van.
Cupping her hands, she pushed her face against the glass, trying to see through the front seating area to the rear cargo compartment.
Isabella meowed a warning as a blur of wild red hair suddenly popped into the niece’s view, causing her to jump away from the van.
Oblivious to the rain, Sam rolled down the window and cheerfully called out, “Need a ride? I’m on my way to City Hall.”
The Inauguration
Chapter 54
FRISKED
“WE’RE ONLY HERE for a few hours,” Sam said as he drove the white cargo van through San Francisco’s waterlogged streets. Rain drumrolled against the van’s metal roof and streamed down the front windshield.
“What’s going on?” the niece demanded. “Is Oscar in trouble? The police are looking for both of you.”
Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat before providing an evasive response. “We had to come back to fetch something.”
The niece frowned, perplexed by all of the secrecy. “I ran into Dilla at Coit Tower. She seemed to be giving me some sort of clue about Arnautoff’s City Life painting. When I got home, there was paint all over the kitchen and a message to ‘Follow the Murals.’ Since then, I’ve been running all over town looking at New Deal–era murals, trying to find a connection . . .”
Sam tapped the steering wheel, as if endorsing her efforts.
“Sounds like you’re on the right track,” he said encouragingly.
“For what?” she demanded. “What am I searching for?”
A gap-toothed grin spread across his freckled face.
“You’ll know when you find it.”
• • •
A FEW MINUTES later, Sam pulled to the curb on Van Ness, around the corner from City Hall, and flicked on his hazard lights. Given the inauguration traffic and the blocking local media trucks, this was as close as he could get to drop off the niece and the cats.
Sam was planning to sneak into City Hall on his own after he found a place to park. He still had his security pass from his ten years working as a janitor. He would observe the ceremony from a discreet location—then attend to the item that needed to be retrieved.
“That task should be taken care of by the end of today,” he said as the wipers swung back and forth across the windshield. “Then we’ll be on our way again.”
The niece zipped up her raincoat and glanced outside. The sky was still dumping buckets of rain on the city. The cats would stay mostly dry in their protected stroller, but she was going to get soaked.
“What do I do when I reach the end of this mural trail?” she asked, still frustrated by Sam’s response. “How is it going to help you and Oscar? Or are you going to keep running from the police?”
Sam gave her an assuring smile. “Trust me,” he said. “You’ll know.” Then he nodded toward the passenger door. “You’d better get going.”
With a quick wave good-bye, the niece jumped out and ran around to the side cargo door. She had no idea when she would see him—or her uncle—again.
She tried to put on a confident front, but internally, she echoed the concerned “Mrao” from Rupert as she pulled the hood of her rain jacket up over her head and soldiered off through the downpour.
• • •
CITY HALL’S PARTY planners had done their best to festoon the building with inauguration day splendor, but the storm had quickly ravaged the decorations. The wind had ripped the silk streamers from the arches over the front entranceways, and the sparkly bunting that had been strung across the lower eaves hung in sodden rags.
The building looked like a party girl after a wild night on the town, with snagged stockings and mascara running down her cheeks.
At least the interior had retained its dignity, the niece thought as she squeezed the stroller through one of the front doors and stepped out of the rain. Velvet trimming of navy blue and gold adorned the brass fixtures and wrapped around marble columns.
The niece steered the stroller toward the security line for VIPs and registered guests, queuing up behind a number of well-dressed politicians and socialites, all clad in formal attire.
As she stepped up to the scanner, the monitoring guard looked quizzically at her soggy tennis shoes and sopping wet hair. Then he directed his gaze to the two cats sitting in the stroller.
“Ma’am,” he said sternly, “we can’t let those cats in here.”
“Okay,” the niece said with a shrug, not the least bit disappointed. She could honestly tell Monty that they had tried to attend.
But as she swung the stroller toward the exit, a voice spoke up from the other side of the security tables.
“Wait a minute,” a supervising guard called out. “Are you the cat lady?”
Meekly, the niece nodded as everyone else in the crowded lobby stopped talking and turned to stare.
Her face turned red. She noticed reporter Hoxton Finn standing at the edge of the security area. With her luck, this little episode would make the humor segment on the evening news.
“I have a note on that,” the man continued loudly, as if he were enjoying the audience. “Do you have your passes?”
Reluctantly, the niece pulled the packet out of her jacket pocket and handed it to the guard. He made a show of reviewing the paperwork.
“You’re a friend of the interim mayor?” he asked, raising an inquiring eyebrow. He waved his pen at the stroller. “All of you are friends of Mayor Carmichael?”
The niece pushed her wet hair from her face and nodded. Over the surrounding whispers and giggles, she heard Hoxton Finn scribbling furiously in his notebook.
“And, uh, this is Rupert the cat and Isabella the cat?” he asked officiously, emphasizing their species identification.
Deciding to accept her fate, the niece took in a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. Looking the man in the eye, she replied with a terse affirmative.
“Yes, yes, they are,” she said forcefully. “Can we just move through the line here?” She paused, pursing her lips, before uttering a phrase she’d never fathomed she would use to her advantage. “Mayor Carmichael is expecting us.”
The supervisor backed off his mocking stance.
“I’m sorry. We’re just struggling to find the right protocol here, ma’am. We’re not used to screening, uh, felines.”
He stepped to the side of the stroller and motioned for the junior agent to move in.
“Do you mind if we do a quick search of each cat?” he asked smoothly.
Begrudgingly, the niece hooked a leash into Isabella’s harness and helped her out of the stroller’s mesh
-covered compartment.
The first guard knelt beside the cat, unsure of how to proceed. Isabella growled, ever so slightly, a low menacing warning. The man angled his head, inspecting her from either side, and then held his hands up, capitulating.
“All good on this one,” he reported, standing and quickly backing away.
A second guard had scooped up Rupert from the stroller.
“Wow, this one’s got a lot of hair!” he said, gently pressing his fingers against Rupert’s round stomach. Fluffy white clumps floated up into the room. The supervisor, standing nearby, reached for his handkerchief to smother a sneeze.
Rupert looked up at his person as the guard handed him back to her. His blue eyes crossed in confusion.
What just happened? he thought, shaking his head. I’ve been frisked!
Chapter 55
AN INAUSPICIOUS BEGINNING
A TRIO OF trumpets trilled a salute as the city’s new mayor pivoted at the top of the central marble staircase and began a regal descent.
The landing at the foot of the stairs had been set up to serve as the stage for the inauguration ceremonies. Temporary seating spread across the floor of the rotunda for the standing-room-only crowd.
Monty paused as he reached the bottom steps, beaming at the assembled audience.
The first row was taken up by the most important dignitaries, starting with the newly elected Lieutenant Governor, who was accompanied by the obligatory guests of his wife, baby, and administrative assistant. Alongside the Lieutenant Governor’s entourage sat the Previous Mayor, his bald head shining in the floodlights. Several government officials, US senators, and representatives filled in the rest of the premium space.
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