How to Paint a Cat (Cats and Curios Mystery) (2 page)

THE ARTISTIC ADVISER

“STOP FIDGETING!”

A cold drizzle soaked San Francisco, trickling down steep sidewalks and funneling through gutters and drains. The moisture had settled into every crack and crevice, sending a shiver through the hardiest of the city’s weatherworn residents.

But the owner of the Green Vase antique shop would rather have been anywhere else other than inside her nice warm store. She’d been trapped there for more than two hours, posing for her neighbor, Montgomery Carmichael, as he worked on a sketch that he intended to use as the basis of a painted portrait.

An area had been cleared in the center of the showroom, providing space for the artist and his equipment. He’d set up a full-sized easel on the wooden floor and propped a large sketchpad on its frame. A toolbox filled with an assortment of charcoal pencils and replacement leads lay open at his feet.

Monty’s busy hands rotated a flat-sided charcoal pencil as he scraped the stylus across the textured paper, adding depth and shading to the sketch. Every so often he looked up from the drawing and compared it to the real-life model seated just a few feet away.

The woman sat on the cushions of a leather recliner once used by the patients of a Gold Rush–era dentist. A display of gold teeth, rusty pliers, and other rudimentary dental equipment had been positioned to her left. Additional antiques were arrayed to her right and behind the chair, providing further background material for the painting.

The artist’s brow furrowed with concentration, reflecting a level of intensity far out of proportion to the simple sketch he’d initially described, and the woman wondered, not for the first time, what was really being drawn on the opposite side of the easel.

Monty had already blackened and rejected several pieces of paper over the course of the lengthy posing session, and she was quickly losing patience with the process.

This would be his final attempt—if for no other reason than to avert a mutiny.

A frustrated sigh weighed in over the pencil’s etching.

“Couldn’t you just take a photo and work from that?”

Monty snorted a rebuke. He tapped the pointed toe of his dress shoe against the floor; his thin lips tensed into a stern expression.

“As if I could use a two-dimensional image,” he muttered with a dismissive
pfft
. “I’m not scribbling on the side of a cereal box, you know.”

He pointed the charcoal pencil at the recliner and repeated his order.

“Stop fidgeting!”

• • •

RESIGNING HERSELF TO
a few more minutes of picture-posing torture, the woman took in a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. She shifted her weight ever so slightly, trying not to disturb the fluffy orange and white cat sprawled across her lap.

Rupert let out a wheezing snore as he burrowed his furry face into his person’s knees. The plump feline didn’t mind the extended sitting session. He could pose for hours—so long as it was in a sleeping position.

He rolled sideways, exposing the round bulge of his stomach. His mouth opened into a wide yawn as he stretched his front legs up and over his orange-tipped ears.

Groggily smacking his lips together, he raised himself into a sitting position. After a quizzical gaze at the back side of the easel, he threw his head and shoulders into a vibrating shake. Then he collapsed back onto the lap and immediately returned to a state of peaceful slumber.

As Rupert exhaled a wheezing snore, a tuft of white cat hair floated up from his body, slowly traveling toward his person’s face.

Puckering her lips, the woman blew out a steady stream of air, trying to divert the downy clump’s course, to no avail. As it rose higher and higher, drifting ever closer to her nose, the first hallmarks of a sneeze tickled her sinuses.

Her eyes began to water. Her nasal passages started to twitch.

“Ah . . . Ah . . . Ah-
choo
!”

The high-pitched sneeze brought a second reproachful glare from the artist. As Monty tutted his disapproval, a second cat of similar coloring but far sleeker physique peeked around the edge of the easel.

The cat perched on a round stool that typically resided behind the cashier counter. It had been moved to the center workspace to provide an elevated ledge where she could monitor Monty’s progress.

Isabella gazed keenly at the leather recliner. Her blue eyes swept from her brother’s snoozing heap to her person’s watering eyes. She made a series of sharp clicking sounds with her mouth; then she disappeared once more behind the wooden frame and tapped a padded paw against the paper.

“I agree, Issy,” Monty said as he resumed his sketching. “We need a little more detail in that quadrant over there.”

“How much longer is this going to take?” the woman asked wearily. “My feet are falling asleep.”

“It would go a lot faster if you would stop jiggling around,” Monty replied, his focus still trained on the sketchpad.

“I haven’t moved,” she protested indignantly.

A quick rebuttal came from the feline artistic supervisor hidden behind the easel.

“Mrao.”

THE TROUBLE WITH NEIGHBORS

MONTY POPPED HIS
head up over the easel and stared at his subject. His thin mouth twitched in critical assessment as he tapped the blunt end of the charcoal pencil against his chin.

“Try tilting your head up and a little to the right,” he instructed, skewing his face to squint with one eye.

“Why did I let you talk me into this?” the woman muttered before reluctantly complying.

Staring up at the ceiling of the Green Vase antique shop, she thought back to the conversation earlier that morning that had led to the portrait-posing marathon.

“A few minutes of your time,” Monty had falsely assured her. “That’s all I’m asking. Just a quick sketch. I’ll do the rest in my studio. You can sit comfortably on the recliner while I work. You won’t even notice I’m here.”

I should have known better, the woman thought ruefully. Monty’s schemes rarely concluded without some form of nuisance or bother.

She paused, reflecting on their previous misadventures. By Monty’s standards, this latest intrusion was only a minor inconvenience.

“I guess I should consider myself lucky,” she mused as she listened to him converse with Isabella on the opposite side of the easel.

“It could have been worse.”

• • •

THE DARK-HAIRED WOMAN
had plenty of experience dealing with the neurotic man sketching her portrait. For the last two years, Montgomery Carmichael had been a constant, pestering presence in her life—like a persistent weed that continually regrew despite all attempts to remove it.

From the moment she inherited the Green Vase antique shop from her uncle Oscar and moved into the apartment that occupied the two floors above its showroom, Monty had managed to insert himself into almost every aspect of her daily routine. His art studio on the opposite side of the street provided an excellent vantage point from which to observe her building, and he made frequent trips across the twenty-foot distance to chat, pry, or otherwise meddle in her affairs.

No wonder Oscar faked his own death to get out of this place, she thought with a grin.

Her wry expression quickly faded to a frown.

Even after all this time, it was difficult for her to reconcile the man she’d once known as her curmudgeonly uncle with the shadowy figure he had morphed into following his artfully crafted—and artificial—demise.

A gust of wind swept through Jackson Square’s misty tree-lined streets, smattering raindrops against the shop’s front windows. Rivulets ran down the glass, blurring the images on the opposite side—a match to the confused and conflicted emotions swirling through the niece’s head.

Her uncle’s many transformations and myriad disguises had allowed him to do more than just escape an irritating neighbor.

Using his talents, Oscar had delved deep into San Francisco’s colorful past, unearthing information about lives lived long ago—along with many valuable treasures the deceased had left behind. He had snooped through dusty attics, warehouses, bank vaults, and refuse heaps—anyplace where forgotten artifacts might lay hidden.

The niece glanced down at the shop’s wooden floor, thinking of the boxes and crates stashed in the basement below, a holding that represented the bulk of her uncle’s collection. There were books, photos, and newspaper clippings as well as broken dishes and rusty lamps. Hulking pieces of furniture stood draped in dusty drop cloths, their drawers filled with an array of tiny trinkets, knickknacks, and dime-store souvenirs.

To the untrained eye, it looked like a room filled with junk. Indeed, most of the items had been discarded by their previous owners, who were apparently unaware of the pieces’ underlying value.

The niece grimaced as she pictured the disorganized scene below. Her first instinct had been to rent a moving truck, load up all of the boxes and crates, and haul the mess to the dump. Two years later, the rationale behind much of her uncle’s vast collection was still a mystery to her. He meted out clues and guidance in discrete, often coded, morsels.

Oscar’s secretive methods—while frustrating to his niece—reflected more than just eccentricity.

In addition to the physical objects stored in the basement, her uncle had uncovered countless intangible secrets, many of them related to people in powerful positions of politics and industry.

Her uncle might still be running the Green Vase, the woman reflected, if not for this second aspect of his work.

The insights he had gained into the city’s inner workings had been an enticing lure for mischief. The temptation to tinker and manipulate had been too great. Few areas were off limits to the intrigues of Oscar and his crew of like-minded Bohemians. They had influenced the outcome of city referendums, controversial ordinances, and, of course, the selection of the pending interim mayor.

The niece felt a knot of worry tighten in the pit of her stomach.

It had been two months since she’d last heard from Oscar, and she was growing more and more concerned. She would gladly take one of his cryptic messages over this long stretch of silence.

She feared her uncle’s latest scheme might have landed him in more trouble than even he could outmaneuver.

THE IMPROBABLE SELECTION

“PULL YOUR SHOULDERS
back,” Monty barked, returning the niece’s attention to the showroom. “Your posture’s gone soft. You’re all slumped over.”

Isabella peeked around the easel to warble her concurrence.

The woman directed her glare at the artist.

“That’s enough, Monty. I don’t care what high-and-mighty position you’ve been appointed to. You’ve got five more minutes. Then I’m kicking you out.”

• • •

THE PORTRAIT—IF
indeed
Monty ever finished it—was intended to be a memento of his humble Jackson Square beginnings, the unlikely launching pad for his now burgeoning political career.

Monty planned to hang the painting in his new office suite at City Hall, where, in a few days’ time, he would be inaugurated as San Francisco’s next mayor.

Like most residents, Oscar’s niece still found it hard to believe that her wacky neighbor had been appointed to the city’s top governmental position. While the town had a long tradition of colorful, often eccentric leaders, Monty’s inexplicable rise to power represented one of the most bizarre episodes in recent memory.

It all began last November after the city’s sitting mayor was elected to the state office of lieutenant governor. The task of selecting his replacement fell to the San Francisco board of supervisors, a legislative body made up of representatives from each of the city’s eleven districts. The interim mayor would fill the vacancy for an abbreviated term until the next election cycle.

The board meeting had opened with no clear contenders. While many of the supervisors would have preferred to fill the mayoral position themselves, few were willing to support the nomination of a fellow board member for the slot. The contentious meeting dragged on for hours with no end in sight as numerous candidates were proposed and multiple votes taken. Not one of the nominees could garner the necessary six-vote majority.

The board members had reached a state of sheer exhaustion when Monty’s name was put forward.

The suggestion drew chuckles from the packed audience. Most thought it was a joke, a much-needed amusement to relieve the tension that had built up over the course of the lengthy meeting.

To the surprise of most observers, including the local political punditry, Monty was unanimously approved as the interim mayor.

• • •

THE LANKY ART
dealer with curly brown hair and an extensive collection of whimsical cuff links appeared to have few qualifications for the job. His only work experience entailed running his Jackson Square art studio and serving as the outgoing mayor’s personal life coach—a position that had been serially mocked in the editorial pages of the San Francisco newspaper.

The supervisors had declined to explain the rationale behind their peculiar mayoral choice. Most had immediately embarked on extended holiday vacations, effectively avoiding public questioning. The local news media, along with their assorted political consultants, were left scratching their heads.

How could a Machiavellian maneuver of this magnitude have slipped past their collective radar? How could they have been so effectively duped? Surely there must have been signs that they missed, some indication that the board members were secretly leaning toward this ridiculous selection?

A guilty blush reddened the faces of the city’s press corps, reflecting their inner shame at having failed to warn the citizenry of the supervisors’ impending decision.

Publically, of course, there were no apologies. The media pinned the blame squarely on the board members.

The day-after headlines predicted a future of gloom and doom. The following morning, a line of bold black print ran across the top of the newspaper’s front page:

SUPS SHOCK THE CITY—
PREPARE FOR MONTY-GEDDON!

• • •

TO BE FAIR,
in the days leading up to the vote, the city’s cadre of esteemed reporters had been distracted by a competing storyline, one far more compelling than the mundane selection of an interim mayor.

Like everyone else in the Bay Area, the media had been fixated on the theft of Clive, San Francisco’s celebrity albino alligator.

Less than a week before the supervisors’ historic meeting, the prized gator had been stolen from the aquarium at the California Academy of Sciences, an esteemed science museum in Golden Gate Park. Nefarious persons, as yet unknown, had removed Clive from his Swamp Exhibit in the middle of the night, leaving behind only a trail of dehydrated fish biscuits, the gator’s favorite snack, which had been used to lure him from his enclosure.

With no leads or letters for ransom, the situation seemed dire. Just when authorities began to fear that Clive had been chopped into albino-themed sushi and his rare hide tooled for designer leather handbags, the police received a tip. The alligator had been sighted in an unusual location—among the shoppers at San Francisco’s Union Square.

Clive was soon making appearances at random spots across the city: strolling along the sidewalk outside the South of Market ballpark, ambling among the buskers at Fisherman’s Wharf, and lounging on the bench seat of a Powell Street cable car.

There was something odd about the rogue alligator’s wanderings, other than the crowded places he chose to pop up. In addition to his apparent fondness for sightseeing, the renegade swamp creature began accessorizing his scaly white body with an assortment of scarves, hats, and false beards. The costumes grew more elaborate at each stop.

With the public captivated by the alligator’s shenanigans, the city’s news professionals found themselves in a heated competition to provide the best and most recent footage. As reporters ran themselves ragged trying to keep up with the elusive Clive, the comparatively mundane developments at City Hall fell by the wayside.

The alligator prank eventually culminated in Clive’s discovery at Mountain Lake, a small body of water on the south side of the Presidio. Other than yearning for his heated rock at the aquarium’s Swamp Exhibit, Clive was unharmed and in good spirits. He was found a mere forty-five minutes after the completion of the board of supervisors’ marathon mayoral selection meeting.

The coincidence of the two seemingly unrelated events—Monty’s appointment and Clive’s recapture—prompted numerous conspiracy theories.

Some thought the alligator chase might have been a ruse designed to divert attention away from the supervisors’ scurrilous behind-the-scenes negotiations. Or maybe the supervisors had been blackmailed into making their Monty decision, with Clive being held as alligator ransom to ensure their compliance.

Rumors that the interim mayor himself was complicit in an alligator-related plot began to circulate—speculations that were fueled by the publication of a cell phone video showing soon-to-be Mayor Carmichael in a wet suit and snorkel mask tromping through the reeds of Mountain Lake, tossing his flippers into the air as he fled the gator’s glowing white jaws.

• • •

THE NIECE EASED
herself forward in the leather recliner, causing the worn seat cushions to creak.

She had her own theories about the mysteries surrounding Monty’s improbable mayoral endorsement, but she kept them to herself. As for his involvement in the alligator antics, that much was a given. Monty had driven the niece and her two cats to Mountain Lake to assist him in the operation. She had witnessed the snorkel incident firsthand—although in the commotion surrounding Monty’s near alligator-annihilation, she’d failed to notice the hidden observer who had filmed the infamous cell phone footage.

Regardless, the niece reflected as she rotated her head sideways to ease a stiffness in her neck, once Monty was ensconced at City Hall, he would be spending a lot less time in his Jackson Square art studio. Likely, he would have to shutter his shop while he pursued his daily mayoral duties.

A mirage of Monty-free months stretched out across her future horizon. The prospect was almost too good to be true.

She might even start to miss her crazy neighbor, she concluded with a blissful smile—at least until the next election.

Suddenly, Monty slammed his charcoal pencil onto the easel’s bottom ledge, snapping the lead. Ripping off the top sheet from the sketchpad, he wadded it into a ball and threw it to the floor in disgust.

Then again, the niece thought with a sigh—probably not.

Isabella peered around the side of the easel. Twitching her whiskers, she gave her person a knowing look.

“Mrao.”