How to Paint a Cat (Cats and Curios Mystery) (8 page)

THE EXERCISE REGIMEN

RUPERT HUDDLED BENEATH
the living room couch, where he’d retreated following the earlier diet cat food fiasco. Dark and filled with dust bunnies, the furniture bunker was the perfect place to brood.

The aftertaste from the sample bite of diet cat food still lingered in his mouth. He smacked his lips, trying to rid his taste buds of the displeasing residue.

Oh yes
, Rupert thought bitterly.
I will have my revenge.
Wickedness went against his typically sweet nature, but there would be retribution for this dastardly deed.

His furry brain spun as he considered his options. There were many potential avenues for attack, but he had to plot his course carefully. Patience and cunning would certainly be required.

He spread himself into a full-length arc across the floor, his favorite thinking position. The distance from the tip of his fluffy tail to the paws of his outstretched front legs spanned almost four feet. His furry eyelids squeezed shut for a moment of intense concentration, as he imagined all sorts of maniacal schemes.

But he soon tired from the effort.

It was difficult to be devious on an empty stomach.

• • •

WADDLING FROM UNDER
the couch, Rupert blinked in the main room’s brighter light. As he took a seat next to the coffee table, he turned his gaze to the bulge of white fluff that poked out from his round middle.

Where did that come from?
he wondered with concern. There seemed to be a lot more of him than he remembered.

Maybe he
had
put on an ounce or two. Perhaps he could use a little exercise . . .

Slowly, he slid his body into an alert lion’s stance. The ruff of fur around his neck puffed out as he flexed his muscles and extended his nails. His orange ears swiveled mischievously. His tail began to swing back and forth, thumping loudly against the floor with each rotation.

He glanced furtively around the room, tracking the movements of an imaginary prey. He hunched forward, every fiber in his being ready for the attack.

Suddenly, he was off, scooting across the living room in a fuzzy white blur. Rugs slid out of place, lamps rocked in their fittings, and picture frames rattled against the walls.

After a kamikaze tour of the second-floor living quarters, he aimed his trajectory toward the stairwell at the corner of the kitchen. His rear legs powering him forward in leaps and bounds, he flew down the steps like a short-legged, pot-bellied gazelle.

Skidding through the turn at the bottom of the stairs, he continued his breakneck pace into the showroom. Claws scraping in spastic frenzy, he zoomed into and around obstacles, crashing into several table legs and the base of the recliner.

Isabella froze in an arched-back hiss, every hair extended in alarm as Rupert blitzed past her. But there was no slowing his crazed, chaotic sprint—until he reached a meager beam of sunlight that had broken through the clouds, casting its faint warmth on the showroom floor.

Screeching to a stop, his feet curled beneath him. He rolled sideways, perfectly positioning his body within the narrow beam, and fell instantly asleep.

Fighting off a snore, one eye popped open to admire his reflection in the window. In his opinion, his fluffy round figure looked perfectly svelte.

There
, Rupert thought proudly.
That should do it.

Diet cat food.
He sniffed derisively as he drifted off into his favorite fried chicken dream.

• • •

UNAWARE OF THE
feline exercise routine that had just taken place inside the Green Vase, the niece continued her morning jog. She rounded the corner of Jackson and Montgomery, picking up speed as she turned toward the Italian neighborhood of North Beach.

It was a regular busy day on Columbus Avenue. A steady stream of Muni buses rumbled through traffic, their brakes squeaking at every intersection and passenger stop.

The niece powered through the packed sidewalk, threading between a pair of well-dressed women in fitted jackets and knee-high boots. Her ponytail swinging, she dodged around an elderly Asian couple bundled up in heavy parka jackets.

The winter’s wet air captured the scents of the coffee shops and bakeries that lined the street. The decadent aroma of chocolate-stuffed croissants just out of the oven mixed with the hissing steam of brewing espresso beans and cinnamon-sweet cider.

As the niece passed one of the many pasta joints preparing for the day’s meal service, a pulse of roasted garlic flooded the sidewalk.

Maybe I’ll stop for lunch on my way back
, she thought wistfully.

She turned her head toward the storefront—and stopped short at the sight of her reflection in the window.

This time, it wasn’t her nose that caught her attention.

A feathery gray glow in the shape of a man appeared to be running along behind her.

A nearby bus blasted its horn, and the niece jumped, instinctively turning her gaze toward the street. When she looked back at her reflection, the vaporous figure had vanished.

Shaking her head, she resumed her jog.

“Probably just the glare from the bus’s white siding,” she murmured, trying to reassure herself.

And yet, as she jogged past the empty diner that had once housed Lick’s Homestyle Chicken, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being followed.

THE DOCENT

THE DRIPPING MIST
thickened to a light rain as the niece reached the end of the Columbus Avenue restaurants. She turned into Washington Square and circled the park’s lower perimeter, a spray of droplets quickly coating her eyeglasses.

“I would have been better off leaving these at home,” she said, whipping the frames from her face and tucking them in her shirt pocket.

Without the specs, her nose felt naked—the bump particularly so. Beyond that, her vision was severely compromised. The second issue was of little concern. She knew the scene by heart.

A Catholic church framed the park’s upper half; its cream and gold facade of delicate dual spires pointed emphatically at the sky. Down below, the playful shrieks of several uniformed schoolchildren could be heard inside a gated courtyard, evidence that the students were enjoying their recess break.

Beneath the protection of the trees that lined the park’s outer edges, several Asian women practiced their morning tai chi. Oblivious to the increasing rain, or perhaps calmed by its rhythm, they swung their arms in slow synchronized motions, their palms pushing against invisible barriers of resistance.

Near the park’s grassy center, a damp dog walker stood holding the leash of a pokey pug. The dog nosed the ground, curiously sniffing as its owner checked his watch, looked skyward at the darkening clouds, and pleaded for his pet to hurry.

Above it all, Coit Tower’s nozzle-shaped cylinder rose like a beacon. Perched at the peak of Telegraph Hill, the quirky landmark was one of San Francisco’s most beloved fixtures—and the turnaround point for the niece’s run.

• • •

LEAVING WASHINGTON SQUARE,
the niece veered into the quiet residential neighborhood surrounding Coit Tower and its encircling green space, Pioneer Park.

There were a dozen or more ways to climb Telegraph Hill. Street signs marked a route for vehicular traffic that gradually wound up the steep incline, first in turns at square-cornered intersections, then, within the grounds of Pioneer Park, in a curling spiral to the peak.

With only a limited number of parking spaces at the overlook, the line of cars often stretched all the way around the circular road. Tourists would sit for hours, waiting for one of the cherished parking spots to open up.

It was far easier to hike up the hill.

The niece left Washington Square, still jogging, albeit at a slower pace, and began the climb. As the streets steepened, the curbside parking switched from parallel to perpendicular alignment. The sidewalk itself transitioned to a pitched groove and, eventually, graded steps.

Pastel-colored apartment buildings made up most of the residential housing. Like much of San Francisco, the architecture ranged from Mission-style stucco to Edwardian stick, and pretty much everything in between—the unifying factor being the adapted use of bulging bay windows to draw in as much natural light as possible.

Few modern day residents could afford the luxury of a Telegraph Hill apartment. What had started out in the Gold Rush era as undesirable squatters’ land (due to the landscape’s extreme slope) was now one of the most sought-after locations in the city. On a midweek day such as this, the rent-paying apartment dwellers were all at work, earning their keep.

As the niece chugged up the sidewalk, she glanced at the fog that had begun to drop down over the hill, graying the sky and blurring the edges of the nearby buildings.

The place was eerily silent.

There was no one around . . . no one except for an unseen presence, which constantly caused her to look over her shoulder.

• • •

TRYING TO SHAKE
off the creepiness, the niece cut around to the bay side of the hill and started up one of the many sets of wooden stairs that scaled its near-vertical face. Her feet pumped from one step to the next as she hit the steepest portion of the climb.

Every inch in elevation increased the span of the view, a sweeping panorama of the waterfront, the bay, and the isolated fortress of Alcatraz. But the vista was lost in the haze that had seeped over the city, and the niece kept her limited vision focused on the slickening steps.

Flight after flight of stairs passed through the exclusive neighborhood. Spared the fire sparked by the 1906 earthquake that engulfed much of San Francisco, the hillside contained several tiny wooden cottages that were built in the mid-1800s. The homey structures, with their shaker siding and overgrown gardens, stood side by side with contemporary town house–style mansions. Both properties were valued in the multimillions—and both clung precariously to the side of the cliff, as if the slightest quake might send them tumbling all the way to the Embarcadero.

Panting and nearly out of breath, the niece reached the summit of the last set of stairs and stepped over the curb onto the asphalt path leading to Coit Tower’s front drive. A chattering swarm of green parrots swooped through the mist as she walked the remaining hundred yards to the monument’s entrance.

The center of the small parking lot was manned by a bronze statue of Christopher Columbus. Depicted with an (unlikely) tall, brawny physique, the tarnished green figure looked across the bay toward the Golden Gate, a place the explorer might possibly have heard of, but certainly never ventured.

Despite being soaked from the rain, the niece was ready for a drink. She reached beneath her rain jacket for a zippered pocket sewn into the waistband of her leggings, pulled out a dollar, and headed for the tower’s front lobby to buy a bottle of water from the convenience store inside.

A series of stone steps led up to the tower’s square base and an entrance marked by a concrete casting of a phoenix. The bird’s symbol of rebirth through flames had been enthusiastically adopted by fire-prone San Francisco, a city accustomed in its early days to the constant threat of flame-born disaster.

The niece passed beneath the phoenix as she weaved through a small crowd gathered around the main door, waiting for a docent tour to begin.

Slipping past the throng, she proceeded into the convenience store, a round room centered at the tower’s core. Bypassing the souvenirs and trinkets packed into the shop’s minimal square footage, the niece grabbed a bottle from a tiny refrigeration unit. After a quick stop at the cashier stand, she carried her purchase out of the store’s rear door and into a hallway that ringed the inner edge of the tower’s ground level.

Behind her, a window of plated glass opened up the east-facing wall. The rest of the hallway’s vertical space was completely covered with painted murals.

With an apologetic glance at a sign forbidding food and beverage in the mural area, the niece discreetly unscrewed the lid and took a long sip.

Given the noise in the front foyer, it appeared that the docent for the morning tour had arrived. A woman’s voice echoed through the hallway.

“Crowd around, ladies and gentlemen, and we’ll get this thing started. Congratulations are in order for everyone who made the trek up Telegraph Hill. As some of you may already know, the hill is named for the signal station positioned here back in the Gold Rush days. This was, in fact, the site of the first West Coast telegraph.”

The niece nearly choked on a gulp of water. She recognized the voice at once. It belonged to one of her uncle’s comrades, the first of his crew to surface in over two months.

After a difficult swallow, her eyes widened with intrigue. She tiptoed toward the edge of the group and whispered softly, “What’s Dilla doing here?”

• • •

A SHORT DISTANCE
away, Spider’s soggy spirit staggered over the top step of a Telegraph Hill staircase and onto Coit Tower’s asphalt drive. His barely visible disturbance in the pattern of raindrops bent over, gasping for breath—or whatever substance it was that energized his supernatural being.

With unaccustomed fatigue, Spider shook his head. The brown-haired woman had smoked him on the steep steps. Before his untimely demise, he routinely rode his bike straight up San Francisco’s most daunting hills, but his ghostly persona wasn’t in nearly as good a shape as his human form had been.

Righting himself, he lifted his baseball cap to wipe his forehead. He then focused on the concrete structure at the end of the drive.

Coit Tower.

He suspected he knew what Oscar’s niece was doing there.

The run, he reasoned, was just a ruse. She was taking the same path he had followed during his research in the weeks before his death.