How to Paint a Cat (Cats and Curios Mystery) (14 page)

AN INCRIMINATING IMAGE

HOXTON FINN SHUFFLED
into City Hall, still mulling his stop at the vacant fried chicken restaurant. His reporter’s instincts told him there had to be a link between the murdered intern’s piles of discarded takeout containers and the missing proprietor of the North Beach chicken joint—the man seen fleeing City Hall in the minutes after Spider’s murder.

Hox frowned with frustration.

He was missing something; he could feel it in his bones—or his left foot, to be precise. He winced as his shoe pinched against the nub of the amputated toe. Bending to adjust his laces, he muttered to himself.

“But why would the fried chicken guy kill one of his best customers?”

• • •

AS HOX KNELT
over his shoe, Humphrey and the rest of the news crew sped past.

It was a conspicuous group, the cameramen with their shoulder-mounted cameras and bulky lighting equipment, the producer with her multiple cell phones and clipboard, and the stylist fussing with his travel kit that he’d retrieved from the van when it parked outside City Hall.

Humphrey was a mobile one-man salon. His satchel-ed briefcase was filled with enough makeup, combs, and brushes to accommodate an entire high school cheerleading squad. Strapped around his waist, he wore a tool belt whose hooks and pockets had been modified to accommodate his styling equipment. One of the belt’s slots secured a portable hair dryer, allowing Humphrey to holster the hot air gun like a weapon.

The harried producer led the pack. A working mother of four, Constance Grynche ran a tight schedule. Connie, as she was known by most of her friends and colleagues, had recently reentered the workforce after taking several years off to raise her family. She was generally well liked in the newsroom, but being the newest member of the producing team, she had drawn the most difficult assignment: Hoxton Finn. No one wanted to put up with the grumpy veteran reporter.

They’d been working together for just over two months, but during that time, Hox had managed to push every one of the producer’s buttons. He’d frayed her last nerve and driven her half-mad—quite an accomplishment, given her extensive childrearing experience.

Connie had quite a few nicknames for Hox, but out loud she generally referred to him as the Demon Spawn.

Hox called her “the Grynch.”

• • •

HAVING FINISHED ADJUSTING
his shoe, Hox caught up to the news team on the far side of the rotunda. He heard Connie speaking into her private cell phone.

“Hon, you’re going to have to take the boys to their orthodontist appointments.” She shot Hox an accusing stare. “My shoot’s going to run a little later than I had planned, and then I have to get it through production for tonight’s broadcast.”

Ah, it’s the husband, Hox thought. Mister Grynch, a green-skinned troll with a penchant for stealing Christmas trees—or at least, that’s how the reporter envisioned him.

As Connie clicked off the phone, he sang out in a deep baritone that echoed across the marble-floored rotunda.

“He’s a mean one . . .”

“Can it, Hox.”

Hox grinned as Connie stomped up the stairs. If he managed to crack the Spider Jones case, she would have a career-making story.

Until then, she would just have to put up with him.

• • •

MIDWAY UP THE
central marble staircase, Hox slowed his pace and once more lagged behind the rest of the news team. By the time he reached the top of the steps, the group had already rounded the corner for the second-floor corridor leading to the mayor’s office suite.

Unconcerned, Hox let them proceed ahead. He stopped instead to stare at the ceremonial rotunda, the site of the murder that had consumed him for the past two months.

The marble floor showed no signs of the carnage that had taken place there. The surrounding columns had been wiped clean. Harvey Milk’s bust gleamed a polished bronze.

Hox shook his head. It didn’t seem right that so horrifying a scene could be completely erased.

He
thwacked
the file he’d been carrying against his left thigh. Something about that night’s sequence of events continued to trouble him, an anomaly or inconsistency that he couldn’t put his finger on.

But before he could rehash the scene again, Connie appeared at the edge of the ceremonial rotunda, beckoning sternly for the reporter to get a move on.

Resigning himself to the inevitability of the Monty interview, he plodded toward the hallway.

“Keep your hat on, Grynch. I’m coming!”

• • •

MINUTES LATER, HOX
followed the news crew through the entrance to the mayor’s office suite. He nodded to an elderly woman in a feathered hat sitting at the desk typically reserved for the mayor’s administrative assistant.

A temporary hire, Hox surmised, based on the woman’s outfit. In addition to the monstrous hat, she wore a blue sweater, green skirt, and matching striped stockings.

With the group’s arrival, the woman jumped up from her desk and ushered them toward the inner office space.

After a short knock, she pushed open a heavy wooden door and led them into the main room.

The interim mayor rested on a chair beside the floor-to-ceiling windows that ran along the room’s south wall. His back was turned toward the door, and a sketchpad spread across his knees. Hox couldn’t see the surface of the sketchpad, but Monty’s gaze remained fixed on the paper as he waved a charcoal pencil in the air.

“Make yourselves at home, fellows. Just let me know when you’re ready.”

The producer and cameraman bustled about, arranging chairs, adjusting the floor rug, and checking the ambient light. A series of expandable metal poles with retractable tripod feet were quickly set up around the perimeter. Supplemental lighting canisters mounted atop each of the temporary stands were arranged with their beams aimed at the seating area.

Hox skirted around all this activity, deftly avoiding Humphrey and his hair dryer, and headed for the window, where Monty had resumed work on his sketch.

The reporter leaned over Monty’s shoulder, at first only glancing at the image on the sketchpad. Then, he leaned in for closer scrutiny.

It appeared to be a portrait of sorts, set in a quaint antique-filled shop.

In the middle of the picture, a fluffy cat sprawled across a person’s lap. The cat was particularly well done, capturing the essence of its furry personality.

But it wasn’t the feline that had caught Hox’s attention.

He felt a sudden surge of suspicion as he shifted his gaze from the sketch to the artist.

The figure seated on the chair in the center of the drawing was Spider Jones.

THE INTERVIEW

SENSING HOX’S PRESENCE,
Monty jumped up from his chair. He flipped the top cover over the sketchpad, hiding the drawing from view as he turned to face the reporter.

“Hoxton Finn, it’s a pleasure,” he said, extending his free hand for a shake.

Still thrown by the sketched image of the murdered staffer, Hox found himself struck by a rare moment of indecision. After a brief hesitation, he clasped Monty’s outstretched hand.

“I didn’t realize you were a sketch artist, Mayor Carmichael.”

Monty’s head bobbed with the handshake. “Oh, it’s just a hobby. It helps me think.” Grinning, he repeated the reporter’s salutation. “Mayor Carmichael. Got a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

Hox stifled a snide reply. Pulling his hand free, he motioned toward the area that had been set up for the interview.

“Shall we get started?”

Connie ushered the two men into their seats and attached tiny microphones to their shirt collars. Humphrey buzzed about Hox’s head with his various styling tools, fiddling with the reporter’s hair, until he swatted him away. The cameraman hunched behind his rig and, raising his fingers over his head, counted down to the start.

Three, two, one . . .

“Mayor Carmichael,” Hox began. The formal title still made him cringe internally. “Thank you for granting us the exclusive for tonight’s broadcast. I believe this is your first interview since the appointment.”

“It’s my pleasure, Hoxton.”

“Can you give us an overview of your plans for the abbreviated term? What are your legislative priorities? What initiatives do you plan to tackle?”

“Well, Hox, that’s a good question. There are a number of items on my agenda. One of the first things I’d like to address . . .”

Hox flipped open his notebook, preparing to take notes as the interview progressed. But as he glanced down at the top sheet, he noticed a strange marking. Someone had drawn a large looping
O
on the paper.

The combination of the sketch of the murdered intern and the strange symbol in his notes threw the reporter completely off his game. As the dialogue went back and forth, Hox had difficulty keeping his focus on Monty’s longwinded responses. Normally, he would have cut in for more cross-examination, but he was too distracted to dissect the interim mayor’s answers.

The producer’s face grew increasingly concerned as Hox passed up several easy openings for critical follow-up, instead lobbing softball questions, which Monty easily deflected.

“Now, I’d like to bring up the matter of Mountain Lake and the albino alligator,” Hox said, glancing once more down at his notepad. “We’ve all seen the footage of you exiting the water in a wet suit and snorkel mask. What, exactly, were you doing there that evening?”

Monty nodded agreeably to the question, but there was a noticeable tightening around the corners of his mouth. He sucked in a deep breath and then meted out a response that Dilla had suggested to him before the news crew arrived.

“It’s simple, really. A minor misunderstanding that got blown way out of proportion. You see, I was just out for an evening swim.”

The producer leaned forward, anticipating a verbal punch as Hox stroked his chin.

“Of course.”

Connie threw her hands in the air, letting loose an audible
spfft
of disappointment.

Monty nearly fell off his chair in relief. His face broke into a wide smile, and the tension in his body instantly released.

With the next question, however, his concern returned.

“Let’s talk about your other hobbies,” Hox suggested, sensing the interview was nearing its end. “I understand you’re an amateur sketch artist.”

Monty’s long fingers began to fidget. He crossed one leg over the other, and then switched the order, nervously shifting his weight. “Uh, yes,” he finally replied, drawing out the answer, as if trying to give himself time to think.

Hox leaned forward in his chair, his signature interrogation move for extracting information. “And where do you get the inspiration for your drawings?”

Monty’s upper torso weaved back and forth. He glanced up at the ceiling and then down at his feet.

“Well, I suppose I like cats . . .”

Connie shook her head in disgust. None of this would make the cut for the evening broadcast. Twirling a finger in the air, she motioned for Hox to wrap things up.

“What else, Mayor?” he pushed, doggedly pursuing the line of questioning. “What other things do you include in your sketches?”

“We’re going to have to cut it off right there,” Connie interjected. “Thank you, Mayor, for your time.”

As the crew began packing up their gear, she whispered harshly into Hox’s ear, “Have you lost your marbles? You pass up the alligator debacle for a cheesy art discussion? What’s gotten into you?”

The reporter shrugged her off, giving only a cryptic response.

“Must be something about this office,” he said blithely. “Look what it did to the previous guy who worked here.”

• • •

OUTSIDE ON THE
balcony, Spider watched the news crew depart. Unlike the producer, he knew exactly why the reporter had questioned the interim mayor about his artistic abilities.

Sure enough, no sooner had the door shut behind the news team than Monty returned to the sketchpad and started on a fresh sheet, once more outlining the scene in the Green Vase showroom.

Spider stared intently at the paper, sending a focused beam of thought to the charcoal pencil, as his image began to appear at the center of the sketch.

BACTERIA BEAR

EARLIER THAT SAME
morning, the Lieutenant Governor steered his fuel-efficient compact down one of Sacramento’s straight boulevards as he neared the end of his morning commute. Leafy elms lined the route, transitioning to planted palm trees as he reached the outer boundaries of the State Capitol.

At nine forty-five
A.M.
sharp, the car pulled into the marked entrance for the underground parking structure. The driver flashed his badge to the posted security guard, who released the red and white barrier bar and waved him through to his designated parking spot.

The Lieutenant Governor had been in his new position for just under a week, but he was quickly learning the routine. With a relaxed smile, he killed the engine and stepped out of his ride.

The termination of his duties as San Francisco’s mayor had meant the loss of his personal driver and a cut in his annual salary. His new job provided far fewer perks and benefits, but he wasn’t complaining—unlike his wife, who had recently given birth to their first child.

He’d found he rather enjoyed the much lower profile, the flexible hours, and, most important, the Capitol Building’s frog-free interior.

• • •

THE LIEUTENANT GOVERNOR
didn’t have any appointments on his calendar that morning (or, for that matter, later that afternoon), so he decided to take a leisurely stroll through the Capitol grounds before checking in at his office.

He set off on a peaceful walk through the multi-acre park. Even in the middle of winter, there was still plenty of colorful foliage to enjoy. A few bright globes of ripening fruit nestled among the orange trees’ upper boughs. Several flowering bushes and red-leafed ferns added to the colorful display.

The Lieutenant Governor stopped several times to admire a recently pruned plant or a freshly sprouted patch of bulbs. He even paused to greet Herman, the park’s resident box turtle—a slow, nonthreatening, and blessedly nonamphibian creature.

Stretching his arms out over his head, he took in a deep cleansing breath of Sacramento air. He had started to let his hair down, literally. His once shellacked comb-back now flopped about his ears without constraint. After years of daily gel application, his scalp felt crisp and rejuvenated. He was considering letting his hair grow out even longer. Another six months, and he might be able to pull it into a ponytail.

“You look like a hippie,” he wife complained almost every morning.

He couldn’t disagree. His hair wasn’t the only aspect of his personal appearance that he had loosened up.

It had been weeks since he last whitened his teeth, and the enamel had returned to a more natural cream color. The light fuzz of a beard had begun to grow around his chin. He was hoping it would mature into a goatee.

Gone, too, was the stiff formalwear he had donned as mayor. A closet full of dark suits, pointed leather shoes, and narrow blue ties were left hanging in the closet of his San Francisco home. He had transitioned into far more casual khakis, knit shirts, and low-cut hiking boots.

His wife had disapproved of all these changes, but the last clothing item had drawn particularly sharp criticism.

“Why do you need hiking boots?” she’d protested the first day he wore them to work. “You’re not climbing any mountains there at the Capitol.”

“Sometimes I sneak into the cupola for a look around,” he’d replied, only half joking. “There’s a great view of the city from up there.”

“That’s not funny,” she’d said through gritted teeth.

• • •

GLANCING PROUDLY AT
his hiking shoes, the Lieutenant Governor proceeded to the Capitol entrance and queued up for the security line. It took a little more time to get through the scanners, but the comfort was well worth the minor inconvenience.

Once through to the other side, he ambled down the main hallway toward his office. He wasn’t in any hurry, so he stopped several times along the way to study the informative plaques that lined the wall.

Eventually, he reached the entrance to the governor’s office suite.

The doorway was manned by a state trooper, standing at attention next to a pairing of US and California flags and a life-sized brass statue of a bear.

The bear was configured in a natural stance, similar to the depiction on the state flag, astride all four feet as if prowling through the wilderness. It was a life-sized rendition, spanning about six feet across and four feet high.

The bear’s head was noticeably more polished than the rest of his body. Bacteria Bear, as the state troopers called him, received a loving pat from almost every curious child who ventured within arm’s reach. With the Capitol being a routine field trip destination for almost every one of the local schools, the bear received several hundred rubs a day.

Giving the bear an obligatory head pat, the Lieutenant Governor stopped for his daily chat with the state trooper. As they exchanged pleasantries, he found himself wondering, not for the first time, what went on behind the heavily barricaded door. He had yet to receive an invitation inside.

Before last November’s election, he’d been unable to discern exactly what a lieutenant governor’s job duties might entail. As it turned out, the matter was left largely to the discretion of the sitting governor, who had, in this instance, opted for a minimalist approach.

All he was required to do was show up each day and sign in. There were no contentious meetings with the press, no belligerent board of supervisors, and no nefarious frogs plotting to ambush him. He was virtually anonymous within the State Capitol’s corridors—it was an experience that he was starting to enjoy.

The Lieutenant Governor turned down a narrow opening in the main hallway to a locked door, painted the same flat white as the walls. It looked as if the door might lead to a storage closet, except that a heavy numerical lock had been mounted around the knob. A small sign posted over the threshold gave his name and title.

Yawning, he punched in the code. With a slight click, the lock released, and he pushed open the door.

“Morning, Mabel,” he said with a wide yawn.

Mabel sat at her desk, prim and proper, as always. She wore her typical outfit of a heathered gray skirt and a soft cotton sweater. Her feet were clad in sensible dress shoes fitted with a sturdy round heel, the same style she’d worn throughout her lengthy career as an administrative assistant.

“Good morning, sir,” she replied as he crossed the windowless room to the couch positioned against the far wall. “How was your commute?”

“Not too bad,” he said with a tired sigh. His wife had refused to move from their San Francisco apartment, so he was driving the ninety-mile distance to and fro each day. “I’ve started a new book on tape.”

The Lieutenant Governor caught a whiff of the lemony-sweet perfume that his assistant sprayed against the sides of her neck. She’d been using the same scent for years. Always predictable, that was his Mabel.

She’d been with him since the very beginning of his political career, going all the way back to when he started out as a lowly supervisor for San Francisco’s Marina district. She’d been a steady, reassuring force in his life. He trusted her with the most sensitive and important matters of both his personal and professional career.

Lately, of course, there hadn’t been much for Mabel to do, other than handle the mundane details of his new office. As she had during his tenure at San Francisco’s City Hall, Mabel took care of his constituent mail, organized his calendar, and managed his interns—the last of which there always seemed to be far more of than was actually needed.

The Lieutenant Governor let loose another yawn as he unfolded a blanket and stretched his tall frame out over the couch. His feet, still in the low-rise hiking shoes, hung off the end.

Interns, he thought as his eyelids began to flutter. The position was a transient one, with low pay and little recognition. They came and went with a high frequency, or so it seemed, often disappearing from one day to the next. It was a relief to be able to rely on Mabel for all that. Such a shame about that boy in San Francisco . . .

“Going to rest my eyes for a bit. The baby kept me up again,” he murmured before drifting off into his regular morning nap.

The light drone of a nasal snore filled the office as Mabel took out her knitting.

“As you wish, sir.”