How to Paint a Cat (Cats and Curios Mystery) (21 page)

VERY IMPORTANT GUESTS

“SO MUCH FOR
your diet,” the niece said as she lifted a contented Rupert from the stroller’s passenger compartment.

She set him gently on the wooden floor and gave him a slight nudge for momentum. Yawning, he waddled across the Green Vase showroom to the leather recliner, intent on a luxurious, chicken-induced nap.

The niece placed the empty fried chicken carton on the cashier counter. The box had been licked clean by the time they were halfway home from the Rincon Center. Now that the contents had been disposed of, the box was ready for a closer study.

“I’ll just put this thing away first,” she said, bending to the stroller.

Flicking a lever, she began to collapse the contraption into its folded position. Grunting and groaning, the niece wrangled with the unit until it was nearly flat. As she propped it against the nearest bookcase, she dusted her hands against the legs of her blue jeans.

“Now then,” she huffed, straightening her torso. “Let’s take a look at that b—”

She cut short the sentence at a familiar noise on the sidewalk. Her shoulders tightened, and her back stiffened.

Isabella issued a sharp
chirp
, but the warning came too late.

The niece shut her eyes, cursing herself for being so careless.

She’d forgotten to lock the door.

The hinges squeaked as the entrance swung open and a whirlwind of meddlesome snooping swept inside. Monty’s slick-soled dress shoes slapped against the showroom floor as he commenced his routine inspection.

Cringing, the niece turned to face her nosy neighbor.

“What do you have here?” he asked, scooping up the takeout carton from the front counter. His eyes widened as he lifted the lid and sniffed the greasy interior. Then, with a loud gasp, he slapped his hand over his chest.

“Oh my goodness,” he exclaimed. “It’s . . .”

Hands on her hips, the niece shook her head. Monty’s interference was the last thing her mural project needed.

This was not a good development.

• • •

“WHEN DO YOU
start the new job?” the niece asked, snatching the takeout container from Monty’s grasp.

Raising a suspicious eyebrow, he scrunched his thin lips, leaned inquisitively toward the niece, and tapped the box.

She rolled her eyes and slid the container behind her back.

After a thirty-second stare-down, Monty relented with a “we’ll revisit this later” look.

“That’s what I came to see you about,” he replied, changing tactics as he reached into his coat pocket. “The big inauguration is tomorrow, and I’ve got special front-row passes for you, Rupert, and Isabella.”

From her perch on the cashier counter, Isabella’s ears perked with interest.

“No,” the niece said, her programmed response to any Monty proposal.

“You should come,” he insisted. “There’ll be commemorative paper plates, fancy party streamers, hors d’oeuvres—and, of course, me.” He finished off the list with a flourishing gesture.

She walked around the cashier counter and slid the takeout container into a drawer.

“Nope.”

“I got special permission for you to bring the cats,” he added, a wheedling in his voice. “You wouldn’t want to deprive them of a once-in-a-lifetime experience like this.”

“They can watch it on TV.”

Monty tapped his chin, momentarily stymied. “It’s really important for me to have my Jackson Square friends present at the ceremony.” He moped for a second. Then he tapped the counter as if he’d received a sudden inspiration.

“If you can’t be there in person, I’ll have to settle for the next best thing. I’ll just finish up that portrait.” He spread his hands above the counter, illustrating a grand presentation. “Then I can display it on the stage they’ve set up in front of the central marble staircase. Everyone will see it . . .”

With his left hand, he formed a fist, poking his thumb in the air as if measuring the niece’s face. “I hope I can get the nose right this time.”

“Okay, okay,” she muttered. “We’ll be there.”

“Great,” Monty replied, turning for the door.

“And afterward,” he added, nodding toward the drawer behind the cashier counter, “we can discuss your fried chicken friend.”

THE VISITORS

BY LATE AFTERNOON,
San Francisco once more began to cloud over, the brief spurt of sunshine extinguished by the next storm moving in across the bay.

Dilla Eckles stepped out of a cab stopped on a steep street outside her Nob Hill residence. Having fulfilled her duties as Monty’s temporary receptionist, she was happy to be home. It had been an exhausting day, and she was ready for a hot tea and a little nap.

She cradled her feathered hat in her hands as she climbed the rickety stairs to the entrance. The plumes had started the day perky, but at this point, even they needed refreshing.

As she reached the top step, she glanced up at the house. It had been in her family for generations; she’d lived there her entire life.

By size and location, it was a multimillion-dollar property, but the four-story structure was in serious need of maintenance and repair. The hundred-year-old Victorian’s front facing featured rotting gables, broken trim, and several cracked windowpanes. From certain angles, the structure appeared to be dangerously leaning to one side.

“I guess we could both use some touching-up,” Dilla mused as she unlocked the door. As a matter of habit, her thumb rubbed against the knob’s brass surface, which was embossed with a three-petaled tulip, a relic from her numerous escapades with Uncle Oscar and his (now elderly) band of Bohemians.

“It’s a delicate process,” she thought, smiling to herself. “You don’t want the face-lift to damage the underlying character.”

• • •

STEPPING INSIDE THE
house, Dilla set her hat on a narrow side table in the foyer. She stood silently for a moment, listening.

The place was quiet, as expected.

She lived alone. Her son, Sam, had moved out over a year ago, and her current husband, John Wang—the most recent in a long line of husbands—lived with his daughter in a Chinatown apartment. His poor health necessitated their separate living arrangements; he was wheelchair-bound and would have never made it up the front stairs. She suspected the short distance apart had contributed to the longevity of their relationship. His was her most lasting marriage to date.

Dilla crossed into the living room, her gaze skimming over the scattered knickknacks and faded photos that filled the space. The keepsakes held the memories from a life filled with love—
many
loves—and endless adventures.

Such a shame to grow old
, she thought with a sigh. Stroking her curly gray hair, she turned to look out a window at the darkening sky above the bay.

As she contemplated the next round of rain, a sound emanated from the rear of the house.

It was the whistling
chop
of a knife.

Startled, she spun toward the kitchen doorway.

The building’s layout was typical of its era. Each room was separated and fully walled in. From her position in the living room, Dilla could only see a two-foot wedge inside the galley-style cooking area—but it was enough for her to make out the shadow of the intruder.

Chop.

She shuddered as another loud
whack
thumped against the kitchen counter.

Slowly, Dilla eased around the couch. Her trembling hand gripped its back edge for support. The floor creaked beneath her weight as she neared the kitchen threshold.

Chop.

Taking in a deep breath, she summoned her courage and called out with concern.

“Sam, is that you?”

There was a clattering noise; then a man with a loose wrinkled face stepped into the doorway. A frayed baseball cap covered his greasy black hair. An apron tied around his waist concealed most of his ripped overalls.

Dilla let out a sigh of relief as Harold Wombler wiped his hands on a paper towel. He gummed his dentures, sliding them in and out of his mouth, before replying, “Hello, Dilla.”

She brushed past him, her bustling confidence instantly restored.

“I thought you were off camping,” she said as she surveyed the scene on her kitchen counter.

A skinned and partially deconstructed chicken lay on the cutting board, next to a mixing bowl filled with flour. On the stove, a cast-iron skillet with a half inch of cooking oil sat waiting for the first battered pieces.

Harold rested a gnarled hand on his hip.

“Do I
look
like I’ve been camping?” he grunted. “I’ve been making sandwiches,” he grumbled. “Lots and lots of sandwiches . . .”

“Well, then,” she replied, frowning at the counter. “Where are the others? Surely you didn’t bring them back here.”

There was a short cough in the dining room attached to the opposite end of the kitchen’s galley.

Dilla scurried to the opening and rushed through.

Sam waved from his seat at the dining room table. At least, she thought it was Sam. She could hardly see his face behind the wild beard, and he looked as if he hadn’t showered in weeks.

“Hi, Mom,” he said sheepishly.

She issued a motherly smile and shifted her attention to the elderly man occupying the next seat over. A navy blue button-down shirt covered his short rounded shoulders. A few white strands had been combed over his balding scalp.

On the table in front of him, next to her favorite feathered-bird centerpiece, rested a bloodstained backpack.

THE SCENT OF DEATH

SPIDER SHUFFLED DOWN
Market Street, weaving in and out of San Francisco’s late-afternoon rush, carefully avoiding contact with any of the passing pedestrians.

So many people, he thought, all consumed with their busy lives, all of them marching, inexorably, toward its unknowable end . . . maybe tomorrow, maybe next week, maybe thirty years in the distance.

It was a wonder that the masses approached this terrifying reality with such calm detachment.

Would he have lived his life any differently, he wondered, if he had known how little time he’d been allotted? Could he have altered the course of his life’s short trajectory, or had he been destined to die at the top of that marble staircase, a grisly footnote in the history of City Hall?

Sulking at the gross inequity of the scheme, he stared sullenly at the passing faces, flush with life, ripe with possibility.

A jealous rage coursed through Spider’s empty figure. He felt robbed, shortchanged, and defrauded.

It was so utterly unfair.

• • •

SPIDER’S MOOD CONTINUED
to darken as he stomped down the concrete steps leading into the Powell BART station. With an effortless leap, he hopped over the turnstile, an invisible act of rebellion that drew no objections, raised no alarms.

A quick trot down the escalators took him to the cavernous platform area. The blackened concrete walls both amplified and suppressed sound, an odd effect that eerily mimicked his own surreal existence.

A southbound train pulled into the station. The doors slid open, and Spider stepped inside, dodging his fellow passengers, who were oblivious to his presence.

He took a seat as the doors closed and the train scooted out of the station. The electronic connection powering the transport hummed in his ears, dulling the harsh edge of his emotions.

He had logged countless hours in BART trains, particularly in the last year of his life during his daily commute between his family’s home in Walnut Creek and San Francisco’s City Hall.

It was all so familiar: the rounded walls of the train’s bullet-shaped compartment, the multicolored route map mounted by the door, the rows of plastic-framed seating, and the cloth upholstery, stained with the greasy residue from the backsides of hundreds of riders—just as icky in the afterlife as it had been to his living persona.

The train headed south, eventually surfacing from the tunnel to an aboveground rail. The conductor announced each stop along the way, but the weary words were, as always, unintelligible through the intercom. Spider watched the labels for each passing station until the train reached the one for Colma.

This is it
, he thought grimly as he exited the train.

Cemetery Central.

My final resting place.

• • •

LOCATED ABOUT TEN
miles south, just north of the airport, the municipality of Colma served as the main burial site for San Francisco and its environs. There were no active public cemeteries within San Francisco’s city limits. With space at such at a premium, even many older burial plots had been transferred down to Colma.

The tiny town boasted far more dead than living residents. The number of the former category had recently been increased by one.

Spider Jones.

• • •

SPIDER EXITED THE
BART station, crossed the commuter parking lot, and headed toward the iron gates that marked the nearest cemetery entrance.

The traffic from the 101 rumbled in the distance. Otherwise the area was ghostly quiet. He had expected to find other disembodied souls like himself wandering the grounds, but he was alone.

A misty fog settled in around the peninsula hills, obliterating the landscape, leaving only the studded maze of gravestones. The scent of death engulfed him.

Instinctively, Spider walked down the path to his recently covered plot. As he reached the marker, he stared down at the engraving, the block letters of his name, and the dates of his short life span.

His half-life existence was drawing to a close, and a renewed sense of urgency pulsed through his transparent being.

He had little time left to resolve his murder.

Just then, a white cat sauntered out from behind a nearby row of gravestones. It was a female Siamese mix, with flame-point coloring on her ears and tail.

She looked almost identical to the cat he’d encountered in the Green Vase antique shop—except that she shimmered in the same transparent manner as his own ghostly flesh.

• • •

ISABELLA SAT ON
the third floor of the Green Vase’s redbrick building, staring out the bedroom window at Jackson Square.

Her blue eyes sparkled like jewels as she traveled through her thoughts to the Colma cemetery, walked up to Spider’s ghostly feet, and rubbed her shoulder against his calf.

The comfort delivered, her spirit returned to San Francisco.

Padding softly across the wooden floor, she leaped silently onto the bed and curled up beside her brother next to her person’s feet.