How to Paint a Cat (Cats and Curios Mystery) (6 page)

A WHISPER IN THE RAIN

AS THE DOOR
swung shut behind Hoxton Finn, the latch to a window overlooking the street began to rattle ever so gently in its fittings. A few short jerks released the handle, and the pane cracked open.

Something less than substance, a whisper through the rain, entered through the two-inch gap and floated into the room.

The spirit circled the conference table, stopping at the far end to poke curiously through the trash can filled with discarded takeout containers.

A loud sniffing could be heard, accompanied by a strong intake of air. The moist vapors funneled together, as if pouring into an empty vessel, gradually tracing the faint outline of a young man wearing a baseball cap, blue jeans, and high-top canvas sneakers.

Spider Jones—or, at least, a spectral version of the former intern—bent wistfully over the half-empty food containers, slowly moving from one carton to the next. He lingered the longest over a square paper box holding the remnants of a spicy kung pao chicken dish that had been seasoned with extra garlic.

After an extensive smelling session, the spirit exhaled, breathing out a sigh of disappointment as the thin edges of his form faded to a blur.

Leaving the trash can, Spider turned his attention to the piles of documents spread across the table. He bent over the collected materials, shifting stacks of paper and fluttering loose pages as he perused the information.

His manner was one of diligent but pragmatic interest—until he reached a file labeled “Crime Scene Photos.”

Spider fiddled nervously with the brim of his cap; then his hand reached out for the file. His fingers wavered in the air, hesitating, before he flipped open the cover and began skimming through the contents.

There were numerous close-up shots of blood spatter and wide-angle views of the ceremonial rotunda taken from almost every possible vantage point. The pictures were shocking, both viewed individually and as a group; the exhaustive folio conveyed the carnage of the scene.

But it was the pictures of the victim that caused Spider to draw in a sharp breath, once more crystallizing the outline of his ghostly figure.

The body splayed across the marble floor was almost unrecognizable. His dark skin had turned an ashy gray; his glassy eyes stared out from a stiff, frozen face.

Subconsciously, Spider reached for his stomach as he studied the gaping knife wounds that had drained the life from his body. He recalled the force of the first stunning blow, ripping into his chest, and a shiver ran across his narrow shoulders.

As if energized by a renewed sense of urgency, he turned to a notepad containing the reporter’s handwritten notes. He focused intently on the scribbling, reading through page after page. But as he digested the material, the expression on his face grew increasingly dissatisfied.

There was something missing from the reporter’s notes, an important piece of critical information, an image that had been resonating at the forefront of Spider’s mind from the moment he appeared in Jackson Square earlier that morning.

Picking up the reporter’s pencil, Spider drew out a symbol on the notepaper—a scrawling letter
O
.

Then his translucent figure slowly dissipated, vanishing from sight.

There was a slight
woosh
of air as his spirit slipped through the open window and back into the rainy streets of San Francisco.

A NOSE IS A NOSE . . .

OSCAR’S NIECE STOOD
inside the third-floor bathroom of the apartment above the Green Vase, staring at her reflection in the mirror mounted over the sink.

In preparation for her daily jog, she had put on warm leggings and a long-sleeved mesh shirt. Her tangled brown hair was tied back in a ponytail, and she had just completed several lunging stretches, loosening her leg muscles.

Ever since the aborted portrait session, she had tried to resist the urge to look at her nose. She had purposely avoided making eye contact with any reflected image. No good could come of it, she’d told herself forcefully.

But as she’d passed the bathroom on her way downstairs, she’d caught a glimpse of her face in the glass. Despite her firm resolve, she couldn’t help stopping inside.

That was twenty minutes ago.

Rationally, she knew Monty’s earlier statements about facial features had nothing to do with her. The comments had been in reference to the murdered intern who had inexplicably taken her place in the picture.

Likely, Monty had never even noticed the bump on the middle of her nose. He tended to be rather self-absorbed. And despite his constant prying, he always seemed more interested in the cats than their owner.

That was fine with the niece. She would have been disturbed, she thought with a shudder, if he suddenly shifted his focus solely onto her.

Nevertheless, the comment had struck a nerve.

She tilted her head first one way, and then another, self-consciously examining her face. The connecting bridge of her eyeglass frames did a decent job of masking the lump in the cartilage. It was barely discernible from this angle.

Apprehensively, she removed the glasses and leaned closer toward the mirror.

It was a regular enough shape, she assured herself . . . perhaps a little off center. Not the ideal nose, but not grotesquely out of whack.

Pushing herself away from the sink, she slid her glasses back on, trying not to notice the upward lift as the frames settled on the bump.

So what if she had an odd-shaped nose, she thought indignantly. What did she care? And who was Monty to criticize—with that narrow chin and those goofy green eyes? She could tell
him
a thing or two about funny-looking facial features.

She paused and once more leaned toward the mirror, squinting at the reflected image.

“Hmm . . .”

• • •

ISABELLA SAT ON
the edge of the bathroom sink, watching the niece’s self-conscious nose analysis with curious fascination.

The cat had never experienced such insecurities. She had always been supremely confident in her appearance. After all, it was only fitting that the royal head of the household possessed a splendid beauty.

Isabella turned her gaze to the short fuzzy reflection in the mirror. She noted with approval the moist pink pad in the center of her pixielike face. The soft cushion was perfectly aligned, midway between her ice-blue eyes.

It must be difficult to be a human, she thought sympathetically, what with all that exposed skin. And those flattened ears, squashed up against the side of her head—no wonder the woman had a hard time understanding the cat’s complicated language. How could the niece hear anything with such malformed structures?

As for the nose . . . well, there was no getting around it. In the cat’s view, that was an inherently awkward appendage.

Isabella looked up at her person and prepared to issue her advice. Allowing for the fact that the niece was human and, consequently, would never be as beautiful as a cat, the guidance was tempered with a dose of practical realism.

The tone of the comment wasn’t nearly as comforting as the niece would have liked. In fact, it sounded somewhat dubious.

“Mrao.”

• • •

WITH A WIDE
yawn, Rupert took a seat on the bathroom floor beside his igloo-shaped litter box. His wobbly eyes crossed as he contemplated the intricacies of human versus feline nasal function and design, but he came up with nothing to contribute to the discussion. Being an experienced male member of the animal species, he wisely offered no opinion on the relative attractiveness of either nose shape.

All of this talk about noses was, however, making him hungry. Of course, the discussion of any topic was likely to make him hungry at ten thirty in the morning.

It had been more than three hours since breakfast, and he’d burned a lot of calories in the intervening period, what with his extensive picture posing, the long cuddling session in his person’s lap, and lastly, the activity that had consumed the greatest amount of energy, sleeping.

He poked his fluffy tail up into the air, kinking the tip slightly to the left, and began hopping down the stairs toward the kitchen.

It was a clear signal that he assumed his person would understand. At this point in their relationship, he reasoned, she should be well versed in the routine.

It was time for his morning snack.

• • •

MOMENTS LATER, RUPERT
reached the second floor and bounded into the kitchen, his stomach rumbling as he neared his food bowl.

His was a tempered enthusiasm, as he was only expecting dry cat food. For the last two months, he had tried to be accommodating and to not complain too much about the quality of the provisions. After all, it was impossible for his person to obtain the good stuff, what with Oscar gone and Lick’s fried chicken joint closed.

Fried chicken
, Rupert thought, swooning at the passing mention of his favorite dish. He paused, one paw hovering in the air, overwhelmed by the memory.

Those delectable pieces of meat were still the focal point of his dreams. He often woke to find drool dribbling down his chin. It had been a very disappointing Thanksgiving and Christmas for the poultry-obsessed cat.

Nevertheless, Rupert remained hopeful that the chicken chef and his collection of cast-iron skillets would soon reappear. Until then, he would have to make do with his regular gruel.

• • •

NOW EVEN HUNGRIER
than before, Rupert plopped in front of his empty food bowl and waited for his person to appear.

He cocked his head, listening for the sound of human footsteps following him down the stairs.

Nothing. The apartment was unusually quiet.

The niece must not have noticed him leaving the bathroom, Rupert thought. She had been awfully obsessed with her nose. Perhaps she’d missed his signal.

Or maybe she’d forgotten what time it was. He shook his head, a gesture of utter incomprehension. How could she not remember something as important as his morning snack?

Rupert opened his mouth and let loose a plaintive howl, one that sounded as if he hadn’t eaten for days and was rapidly nearing the end of his sad, pitiful life.

Then he paused and listened again.

Still nothing.

He peered up at the ceiling, perplexed. Summoning his vocal reserves, he took in a deep breath and repeated the request at an amplified volume, a call that clearly communicated he was a cat on the very edge of starvation.

There, he thought with relieved satisfaction as he heard the woman begin her descent. Finally, she got the message.

He looked up with anticipation as the niece entered the kitchen.

Her face bore an apologetic expression—appropriate, he reasoned, for someone who had been so derelict in her cat-attending duties.

“So, uh, Rupert,” the niece said as she approached the pantry where she kept the cat food. “I noticed you’ve put on some extra weight lately.”

Extra weight
, Rupert thought, looking frantically down at his plump stomach.
What extra weight? I don’t see any extra weight
.

The niece opened the pantry door and took out a plastic container, different than the one that held his regular dry food.

“You just finished off a bag of your old stuff, so I thought we might try some of this new brand to see if it helps you out . . .”

“
We
might try.” Rupert puzzled at the phrase as he switched his gaze back to his person.
What do you mean
we
?
Since when have you been eating my cat food?

“It’s a low-fat formulation,” she said informatively. “To help you with your diet.”

Diet?
The dreaded word echoed inside Rupert’s head. In the entire human vocabulary, there were few words more foul.

He watched suspiciously as the niece carried the plastic container to his bowl. Bending, she dribbled a small amount of the new food into the bottom of the dish.

Rupert dropped his head for a tentative sniff.

The brown particles carried a strange, off-putting smell.

Cautiously, he picked up a single kibble and gummed it in his mouth. After a brief taste, he spit it out onto the tile floor. Then he looked up at his person with disgust.

Skewing his face into a disdainful expression, he concentrated his contempt into a single retaliatory thought.

You really should do something about that nose of yours.

• • •

TRYING NOT TO
worry about Rupert’s negative reaction to the diet cat food, the niece laced up her running shoes, zipped her rain jacket, and headed to the first floor.

Isabella joined her person by the front door, supervising the last clothing preparations. From her perch on the cashier counter, she watched as the niece secured the lock and set off on her route.

The cat was about to return upstairs to investigate Rupert’s new cat food when she noticed a movement across the street.

She stared through the rainy window, thoughtfully contemplating as Spider Jones’s ghostly presence floated out of the art studio and jogged after the niece.