How to Paint a Cat (Cats and Curios Mystery) (19 page)

THE STACKPOLE STATUES

THE NIECE REACHED
the end of Leidesdorff Alley, pushing a stroller filled with a despondent Rupert and an increasingly frustrated Isabella. Neither cat had forgiven their person for making the grievous error of passing the sandwich shop without stopping, but the niece showed no signs of turning back.

The narrow passage emptied out onto Pine Street, just a block and a half shy of Market, immediately in front of the Pacific Stock Exchange building.

The niece glanced back at Leidesdorff Alley, peering down its wiggling length to the gates of Redwood Park.

“This has to be it, Issy,” she said excitedly. “The street signs in the mural and whatever that was in the fountain directed us down Leidesdorff. We’re on the right track, I’m sure of it.”

Isabella warbled skeptical commentary from the passenger compartment, which the niece chose to ignore. Wedging the reference book beneath her arm, she waited for a break in traffic and then pushed the stroller across the street to the targeted landmark.

An impressive facade of white stone and concrete, the Exchange stood out amid the surrounding high-rise offices and banks. A wide line of steps led to a portico framed by Doric columns, but the property’s signature feature was the towering concrete statues positioned at either corner.

Designed by Ralph Stackpole, a Coit Tower muralist and a prominent member of the Bohemian Club, the sculpted blocks featured a relief-style grouping of human figures. The subjects had slightly swollen bodies, flat noses, and—particularly noticeable from the street level view—enormous toes.

The two statues were grouped by sex, with the male figures accessorized to highlight industrial themes and the female ones dressed to represent agriculture. It was the latter statue that had been poking around the corner in Arnautoff’s Coit Tower mural, the niece reflected as she pulled out the reference book and opened it to the two-page spread of
City Life
.

As the niece compared the real-life statue to the one in the book, a man in an expensive suit and tie jogged up the front steps, carrying a workout bag.

With the original stock exchange having evolved into a digital entity that was later subsumed in a merger, the historic building no longer housed market traders. It was now used as an exclusive exercise club for the wealthy and the well connected. Banners advertising fortified bottled water and toned physiques hung from the front eaves.

In addition to the exterior Stackpole statues, the private club had retained the Diego Rivera mural painted on one of the building’s second-floor walls. The Mexican master’s socialist-themed fresco was locked inside a members-only retreat, an odd contrast of message and materialism.

“Of course, this all begs a bigger question,” the niece murmured as she stared up at the female-themed Stackpole statue. “If we’re supposed to be following the murals, where do we go next?”

• • •

SPIDER STAGGERED DOWN
Leidesdorff Alley, struggling to catch up to the niece and her cat-filled stroller.

He wasn’t sure if it was the day’s exertions or an indication that his ephemeral existence was nearing its end, but he was rapidly losing strength. The appearances in the fountain and on the bench beside the Previous Mayor had drained his energy reserves.

Despite his fatigue, he couldn’t give up.

The niece’s mural hunt represented his only chance to bring his murderer to justice, but the process had just gone horribly awry.

She had completely missed the clue in the alley.

She had walked right past the
O
.

• • •

INSIDE THE STROLLER’S
passenger compartment, Isabella shook her head in disgust. Over the years, her person had taken countless wrong turns and had misconstrued all manner of obvious directions, but never had the cat seen the woman act so obtuse.

She watched with dismay as the niece climbed the front steps of the Exchange to get a better look at the female-oriented Stackpole statue.

“Maybe I’m supposed to get instructions from one of the stone figures,” the niece called out, squinting at the detail. “What is this smaller woman holding? A sunflower?”

• • •

SUMMONING HIS LAST
reserves, Spider crossed to the Exchange and mounted the stairs. He slid around the statue, positioning himself between the woman and the concrete block. His face skewed up with concentration, but he couldn’t generate the slightest shimmer of a reflection.

The only reaction he triggered was feline. Isabella began clawing at the stroller’s net cover. Even Rupert poked his head up to watch.

Meanwhile, the niece continued her observations. She slipped through the narrow space between the sculpted block and the nearest column and stared up at the figure carved into the block’s street-facing side.

Spider followed her around the ledge. He reached for her shoulder, tapping it with all his might, but the action had no effect.

“It looks like this one’s holding a bundle of wheat,” the niece said without much hope. “I feel like this is all wrong.” Shaking her head, she started to retrace her steps.

Spider’s eyes widened. He hadn’t counted on the woman making such a quick retreat. He tried to get out of the way, but she had moved too fast.

Isabella chirped out a warning. Rupert shut his eyes and ducked his head beneath the covers.

The niece plowed right through Spider’s vaporous form and out the other side, oblivious to his presence. Spider, on the other hand, took a flashing vision of flesh and bone, before crumpling to the ground as if he’d received a blow to the stomach.

By the time he managed to pick himself up, the niece had returned to the stroller.

“Follow the murals,” she said, pondering. “Maybe we should keep going in this same direction. There’s another set of New Deal–era murals in the Rincon Center. That’s a straight shot from here on the other side of Market.”

Spider threw up his hands in frustration.

Isabella offered her condolences. Her person wasn’t the easiest creature with which to communicate.

• • •

AN ELDERLY MAN
with short rounded shoulders stood at the edge of the alley watching the events transpire in front of the Pacific Stock Exchange.

As the niece set off toward the Rincon Center, accompanied by her stroller-bound felines and an exasperated ghost, Oscar thoughtfully stroked his chin.

Unlike the other observers, he thought the niece was proceeding on exactly the right track.

THE REGULAR PLACE

THE PREVIOUS MAYOR
sat on the bench by the frog fountain in Redwood Park, contemplating the great mysteries of the hereafter. He didn’t pretend to know how Spider’s spirit had managed to cross back into the land of the living, but he felt certain he knew the reason for the ghostly appearance.

A youthful death of such a sudden and unexpected nature demanded resolution. He’d felt that keenly—and he wasn’t the crime’s hapless victim.

Closing his eyes, he replayed their interaction in his mind. He envisioned Spider’s face, partially hidden by the baseball cap jammed down over his forehead.

“Who did this to you?” he had asked, wanting to know and yet fearful of the answer.

Then he saw the transparent image of the sneakered foot making the circular
O
shape on the ground.

The Previous Mayor opened his eyes. Frowning, he bent his head to stare down at the concrete. He must have misinterpreted the meaning.

He had an easier time believing in Spider’s ghost than he did in Oscar’s guilt for the horrific crime.

• • •

THE PREVIOUS MAYOR
stood up from the bench, straightening the brim of his bowler as he glanced one last time at the fountain. He was about to leave for Leidesdorff Alley to try to catch up to the niece when his cell phone rang.

“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.”