How to Paint a Cat (Cats and Curios Mystery) (20 page)

A HISTORY OF CALIFORNIA

STILL CONFIDENT IN
the accuracy of her route, the niece rolled the stroller across Market and headed in a zigzag fashion toward the shoreline. Two blocks south of the main thoroughfare, she reached the next stop on her mural-projected path of New Deal art, the Rincon Center.

Located near Mission Street’s lower end, the area was in much better shape than the neighborhood surrounding the newspaper’s offices, about a mile farther up.

Like much of downtown San Francisco, the landscape had changed dramatically following the onset of the Gold Rush. The now relatively flat streets had originally been part of Rincon Hill, an elevated region filled with prestigious homes.

Rincon Hill began to lose its volume (and prestige) in the late 1860s with the implementation of the Second Street Cut, a leveling effort meant to create a flatter route between Market Street and the southeast waterfront. Further leveling occurred in the early 1900s during the construction of the Bay Bridge. The bridge’s main downtown access ramps now cut through the old neighborhood.

The architecture transitioned with the changing use. The grand estates of the early years were gradually replaced by warehouses and industrial property. The late 1990s saw another evolution, with a wave of loft conversions and shiny new office buildings.

The former Rincon Post Office was swept up in this latest building trend. The once-small rectangular building was now but a tiny part of a commercial complex that took up an entire block. The facility housed a food court, a dim sum restaurant, several thousand feet of glitzy office space, a pair of apartment towers, and yes, even a post office—although the modern postal facility was located in the building’s new addition, not the original structure.

Preserved during the massive addition, the vintage post office now served as a gallery for the extensive set of New Deal murals painted on its walls.

• • •

“YOU’LL SEE,” THE
niece assured the stroller’s skeptical feline occupants. “We’re on the right course.” She muttered a less confident aside. “I can’t think of any other way to follow the murals.”

Isabella murmured a dubious response. Rupert merely shoved his head, ostrichlike, farther beneath the blankets.

After crossing with the light, the niece bumped the carriage up a few short steps to enter through the building’s older north side.

Streamlined Art Deco styling prevailed both outside and in the original post office space. A tile floor of muted green covered the length of the interior. Matching green walls, a combination of textured drywall and tile, rose toward a cream and yellow ceiling. The murals were painted just above eye level, at the intersection of the color change.

On the lookout for any mural-related clues, the niece rolled the stroller past a security desk where a female guard in uniform sat reading a book. The woman looked up only briefly; the feline cargo in the stroller’s passenger compartment slid by undetected. The post office was otherwise empty of pedestrian traffic.

Staring up at the walls, the niece piloted the stroller around the circumference of the room. Isabella peered up through the protective netting, quietly making her own observations. Even though the cat doubted the accuracy of her person’s intuition, there was much to observe inside the renovated post office.

The building contained twenty-seven murals, each one depicting a different scene from California history. Plaques positioned at regular intervals gave titles and brief descriptions of the works, all of which were painted by the artist Anton Refregier.

Another Russian emigrant, the niece mused, just like the creator of
City Life
.

As she moved from one mural to the next, she was once more struck by the sensation that she was retreading episodes from the past two years. Several of the places she’d visited during her Oscar-inspired treasure hunts were represented in the pictures.

One panel showed the Mission Dolores, where she and Monty had visited the grave of William Leidesdorff, while another depicted the Sonoma Bear Flag Revolt, the pivotal event that led to California’s independence from Mexico.

The murals continued a visual map through California history, featuring scenes from the Gold Rush, the Vigilance Committee, the territory’s controversial induction into statehood, and the 1906 earthquake.

“It all fits,” the niece said. “Everywhere we’ve been in the last two years, every bit of history we’ve researched, it’s all here.”

Isabella clicked out an unconvinced series of chirps.

Meanwhile, the niece couldn’t help noticing a second unifying theme across all of the paintings. Each of the human figures was drawn with a sharp, swooping nose, oversized with respect to the rest of the body’s features.

As she self-consciously cupped her hand over the center of her face, Rupert burrowed out from beneath the blankets. His tummy was rumbling again. It was time for his person to return them to the Green Vase—and to dish out a decent serving of non-diet cat food.

He looked crankily up at the niece and then shifted his gaze to the noses in the nearest mural.

“Mao-wow.”

Grimacing down at the stroller, the niece’s muffled voice replied.

“That’s not funny.”

THE FRIED CHICKEN DANCE

THE NIECE REACHED
the far end of the Rincon Post Office display area, but after closely studying all of the Refregier murals, she had little to show for her efforts.

Despite the numerous California landmarks she’d identified in the murals, she’d found no clear sign of her uncle or where to search next. Even she was about to concede defeat.

“It had seemed so promising,” she said, deflated.

Isabella looked up at her person and emitted a barely audible but clearly sarcastic “
Mrao
.”

With a sigh, the niece turned the stroller, preparing to leave. As she swung the stroller around, she noticed the security guard striding toward them.

The woman had a purposeful look about her, as if she had spotted questionable activity that needed to be investigated.

She’s seen the cats
, the niece thought, guilt blushing her cheeks.

“Time to go,” she whispered, steering the stroller toward the exit.

She was halfway across the room when the guard called out, “Is this yours, ma’am?”

The code violation that had caught the guard’s attention wasn’t the presence of cats in the display area. Frowning with disapproval, the guard pointed to an apparently discarded takeout container sitting on the floor beside a flat bench at the rear of the room.

“No,” the niece replied. But as she gave the stroller another shove toward the front door, there was a rustling inside the passenger compartment. Rupert’s head poked out of the covers, his pink nose prickling at a recently detected scent.

Looking over her shoulder, the niece watched as the guard opened the lid of the container—green with gold printing—and released the distinctive aroma of fried chicken.

She caught only a glimpse of the gold writing on the container’s lid, but a quick look was all she needed to identify the large looping
O
printed on the container’s top. It was her uncle’s handwriting.

“Oh, wait,” the niece called out. She smiled awkwardly. “Actually, that is mine.”

The guard began walking toward the niece, eying her suspiciously as she held out the carton. The woman’s eyes traveled down to the stroller, where Rupert had thrown himself into a full fried chicken frenzy.

The niece stepped in front of the stroller, trying to block the guard’s view into the passenger compartment, but it was impossible to mask the carriage’s spring-squeaking gyrations.

Handing the carton to the niece, the guard peered down into the stroller.

Isabella lifted her head regally while Rupert paused in his fried chicken celebrations long enough to give the guard his most innocent-looking blink. Then his tongue slipped out and licked his lips.
Slurp.

Putting her hands on her hips, the guard turned back to the niece.

“Are those cats?”

• • •

A FEW YARDS
away, a slight glimmer sparkled across the post office’s green floor tiles, the ghostly imprint from the rubber soles of a pair of high-top tennis shoes.

Spider had followed the niece through the rounds of the Rincon Post Office murals, all the while puzzling over her interest in the artwork. He could see no relevance to his murder—or the encrypted directions from the
City Life
mural. As far as he was concerned, she had drifted way off track. He gathered that the cats shared his view on the matter.

And so, he was perplexed by the discovery of the takeout carton, particularly the gold printing on its lid.

His ghostly form shuddered with apprehension as he peeked over the niece’s shoulder and stared at the letter scrawled across the container, a large looping
O
.

CINDERELLA

MONTGOMERY CARMICHAEL STRODE
briskly around the corner to Jackson Square, returning from a busy morning at City Hall.

Everything was in place for the next day’s inauguration ceremony. The schedule had been finalized, the decorations were going up both inside and outside the building, and rows of temporary seating were being deployed in the rotunda area at the bottom of the central staircase.

He had just one last item to take care of.

Tapping an envelope in his chest pocket, he stopped in front of the Green Vase and knocked on the door.

No answer.

“That’s funny,” he said. “She should be back from her morning run by now.”

Pressing his face against the glass, Monty peered inside the showroom. There was no sign of the niece or her cats.

He looked up toward the second-floor apartment.

“Rupert,” he called out. “I’ve got chicken!”

Still, there was no response.

“Hmm,” Monty grunted, curiously scanning the empty store. There was definitely no one home. He generally kept closer tabs on the goings on inside the Green Vase, but his new position at City Hall was already putting a damper on his snooping activities. “I wonder where they’ve run off to.”

Still puzzling over the whereabouts of the niece and her cats, he crossed the street to his art studio.

As he approached the glass-fronted building, his demeanor began to change. His fingers nervously fiddled with his cuff links, and a light sweat broke out across his forehead.

He cracked open the front door and cautiously poked his head inside. The space appeared to be empty. There was no sign of the—well, he refused to say or even think the word
ghost
. He preferred the term
pesky figment of his imagination
.

With a sigh of relief, he tossed his briefcase on the desk and pulled out his sketchpad. The pad’s top sheet was clean. He’d torn off the most recent drawing and thrown it in a bin at City Hall.

There would be no more images of dead people, he told himself firmly as he propped the sketchpad on the easel by his desk.

Monty made a slow circle through the studio, rolling his shoulders as he cleared his head. Other than the niggling appearances by the ghost, he was generally pleased with the week’s progress. Yesterday’s interview with Hoxton Finn had gone far better than expected, and by this time tomorrow, he would be officially sworn in as mayor.

Flipping on his phonograph, he set a record spinning on the turntable.

As music pumped out of the speakers, Monty began to dance around the studio, sliding his flat-soled dress shoes across the floor’s smooth surface in an elegant waltz. He held his arms out, as if they were wrapped around an imaginary partner.

He felt a bit like Cinderella on the night before her big ball. Nothing could spoil this moment. Nothing except . . .

“Nooooo,” he groaned as a shimmering image reflected in the studio’s wide front windows.

“I don’t see you,” he whimpered, clamping his hands over his face and squeezing his eyes tightly shut.

Blinded, he pivoted in place. Once he was safely facing the windowless back wall, he carefully lifted his fingers. Furtively scanning the rear studio space, he saw several paintings, a few cabinets filled with supplies, and a couple of easels—but no ghost.

Until the shimmering translucent figure of a young man in blue jeans, T-shirt, and high-top sneakers stepped from behind the nearest easel.

Monty blew out a sigh of frustration.

“Oh, man, you’re
killing
me.”

Spider crossed his arms over his chest. The toe of his left sneaker tapped a sarcastic response.

“Well, obviously,” Monty sputtered, gesturing at Spider’s translucent figure, “that was a poor choice of words.” His thin lips pursed into a petulant pout.

“But why are you bothering
me
?”

• • •

WHILE MONTY WAS
whirling around the studio, the niece and the cat-filled stroller arrived back at the Green Vase.

As the niece unpacked the stroller and Rupert finished off the last of the fried chicken, Isabella hopped onto the cashier counter to watch the activities taking place in the art studio across the street.

Between his off-tempo waltzing and his frustration with the intern’s ghost, nothing in what she observed changed her dim opinion of their gangly neighbor, who suddenly burst out of the art studio and began marching toward the Green Vase.

She tilted her head, reflecting.

This Spider fellow, however, was starting to grow on her.