How to Paint a Cat (Cats and Curios Mystery) (10 page)

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.

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.

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.

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
.