How to Paint a Cat (Cats and Curios Mystery) (9 page)

A FEATHERED LADY

INSIDE COIT TOWER,
the niece pulled out her glasses, wiped off the lenses with her shirttail, and tried to see over the heads of the tour group gathered by the front entrance. Still lacking a direct line of sight, she pushed herself up onto her tiptoes as the docent launched into a brief discussion of the landmark’s history.

“Now, you’ve all observed the tower’s overall shape. It’s visible from a good many vantage points throughout the city. If you were to ask the casual observer, ‘What shape is Coit Tower?’ nine out of ten would tell you, without hesitation, that it looks like a fire hose.”

The niece spied a clump of peacock feathers bobbing back and forth in the middle of the crowd. The blue and green plumes stuck straight into the air, part of an elaborate arrangement affixed to the docent’s hat.

She couldn’t see the face beneath the elaborate headgear, but Dilla Eckles was the only person she knew who would wear such an eccentric accessory.

The niece edged closer to the tour group as the docent continued her monologue. Dilla was also one of the few people who might be able to tell her where her uncle had been hiding out and when he might plan to reappear.

“The fire hose shape seems like a logical conclusion,” Dilla continued. “After all, the tower was built with funds from the estate of Lillie Hitchcock Coit, a woman who had a great fondness for firefighters. When Lillie was a young child, she was saved from a raging house fire by one of the city’s volunteer fire departments. From that day forward, she became an enthusiastic supporter of the local firefighting heroes. She cheered their units whenever she saw them go by, and she eventually became the official mascot for fire truck number five.”

The niece shuffled to one side, finally gaining a view of the woman beneath the heavily plumed hat. Her ears hadn’t led her astray. It was definitely one of her uncle’s coconspirators.

What was Dilla doing working as a park service docent, the niece wondered.

And then a second thought crossed her mind: she’d been taking the same running route for the last several weeks.

Was their meeting here at the tower a coincidence or was this one of her secretive uncle’s attempts to communicate?

• • •

THE NIECE WATCHED
Dilla corral the tour group in the foyer, gathering them around her so that they didn’t miss any of her spiel.

A bubbly woman with a wild flair for fashion, Dilla was easily the most unusual character in any given room. She put the
e
in eccentric.

In addition to the feathered hat, today Dilla’s plump, pear-shaped figure was clad in a bright blue sweater, green velvet skirt, and matching horizontal-striped stockings—a relatively tame outfit, by her standards. In the two years since they’d first met, the niece had seen Dilla in far more elaborate get-ups.

A lifelong resident of San Francisco, Dilla’s family tree was as colorful and varied as her wardrobe. She’d been married multiples times—the niece had never managed to obtain an accurate count on the total number of ex-husbands. And she had married on both sides of the law: one of her exes was locked up at San Quentin, while her current spouse was a retired policeman.

Dilla’s offspring, too, tended to polar opposites.

Her daughter, Miranda Richards, was a high-powered San Francisco attorney, whom Oscar had appointed as the executor of his estate.

The mere thought of Miranda’s prickly personality and acrid perfume made the niece cringe. She was unsure whether Miranda knew that Oscar wasn’t really dead, but the niece wasn’t about to voluntarily relay that information.

Dilla’s son, on the other hand, was a far gentler if often misunderstood soul, who had inherited more of his mother’s quirky nature. Sam Eckles had worked for many years as a janitor at City Hall before finding his true calling as an amphibian consultant to the California Academy of Sciences. Known in biologists’ circles as the Frog Whisperer, Sam had disappeared along with Oscar the night the missing albino alligator was discovered at Mountain Lake—the same night the intern was slain at City Hall.

The niece’s hand tightened around the water bottle as she recalled that both Sam and Oscar (or at least, the James Lick version of Oscar) were wanted for questioning in the Spider Jones murder.

Straightening her shoulders with resolve, she took another step toward the docent.

If anyone could shed light on the situation, it was Dilla.

• • •

DILLA TRAINED HER
attention on the assortment of locals and out-of-town visitors who made up the tour group. She appeared not to notice the newcomer peeking around the far side of the crowd.

“Given Lillie Coit’s love of firefighters and the tower’s obvious nozzle shape, you might think the tower design was intended to emulate a fire hose. But you’d be wrong.”

A spectator standing next to Dilla took a feather to the face as she turned and motioned for the group to move into the entranceway.

“Arthur Brown Jr., the architect of this and many other famous buildings and landmarks across San Francisco, swore to his dying breath that any resemblance between Coit Tower and a fire hose was pure coincidence. He insisted the fluted shape was, instead, a well-recognized Art Deco motif, and that it had absolutely nothing to do with firemen, fire hoses, or . . .”

Dilla took a wide step out the door. Cocking one eye, she looked pointedly up at the phoenix mounted over the tower entrance. “Or any other fire-related symbols.”

Returning to the foyer, Dilla’s gaze met that of the niece.

The feather-topped woman gave the sweaty jogger a broad wink, as if she’d been expecting her arrival all along.

MISMATCHED MONUMENTS

THE NIECE FOLLOWED
Dilla’s tour group through the hallway that circled Coit Tower’s base, puzzling over the fortuitousness of having stumbled across one of her uncle’s close colleagues during her daily run. She was growing more and more convinced that the meeting was not a coincidence.

But if Dilla’s role as docent was an improvised performance, she showed no signs of it. She resumed her monologue with ease. Other than the conspiring wink, she made no indication that she’d recognized the niece or had expected to run into her during the day’s tour.

“All of the fresco murals here in Coit Tower were painted under the New Deal Public Works program enacted during the Great Depression. The program was designed to provide short-term employment for out-of-work artists. Twenty-seven primary artists were given wall space within the tower, and each one brought several assistants. You can imagine that this hallway got a little cramped when they were all packed in here. No one believed that so many artists could work together productively and without conflict.”

She swept her hands through the air, gesturing at the murals. “Not only did they manage to get along, but they painted in such harmony that most visitors believe that all these pieces were done by the same person.”

Mingling with the rest of the tour group, the niece scanned the colorful images plastered across the walls.

The murals depicted panoramic scenes from the 1930s, capturing Californians in various aspects of their regular life. There were agricultural landscapes featuring farmers tending their livestock, picking oranges, drying apricots, and processing grapes into wine. Industrial settings focused on engineers supervising the construction of dams and railroads, workers manning assembly lines, and welders forging metal. In the Sierra Mountains, prospectors panned for gold, and in laboratories, scientists pursued intellectual breakthroughs. Lastly, there were city scenes, showcasing examples of San Franciscans going about their daily routines.

Dilla gave the tour group a few minutes to study the murals before moving on with her dialogue.

“The Works program proved so successful that it was expanded to public buildings across the country. Additional New Deal murals were contracted in San Francisco, the most prominent being in the Rincon Post Office down by the Embarcadero and the Beach Chalet in Golden Gate Park.”

With her overview of the murals completed, Dilla began highlighting some of the paintings’ specific features.

“Now, I said that the artists all worked in harmony. That’s true. But these were creative, independent types, so as you might expect, there was plenty of back-and-forth, good-natured pranking.”

She drew the crowd to a farm scene painted adjacent to one of the hallway corners. “The painters needed models for the figures they depicted in the murals, so they took inspiration from what was readily available: themselves and the other artists.”

She pointed at a farmer standing in a barn next to a cow.

“You see on the wall here, the man who’s been tasked with cleaning the animals? That’s one of the artists—not the one who painted this mural. Note that he’s shown hosing down the cow’s rear end.” She grinned at the crowd. “The painter thought that was funny.”

After highlighting a few more mural jokes, Dilla shifted to a different type of visual allusion.

“Some of the subtextual meanings were far more serious or controversial in nature. If you look at this library scene, you’ll see an example. A number of the artists apprenticed under Diego Rivera—a famous Mexican muralist who was also a well-known Communist. The painters were influenced by Diego’s political views as well as his artistic techniques. Now, focus on the bookshelf there on the left. One of the artists is depicted reaching for a book. It’s
Das Capital
by Karl Marx.”

After everyone had a chance to inspect the various books painted into the library scene, Dilla guided the tour group toward a painted wall across from one of the plate glass windows. A bench anchored to the tile floor in the middle of the hallway provided a comfortable viewing spot out the window to the Bay Bridge and, on the inward-facing angle, the colorful mural, which depicted a San Francisco street scene.

“There were other messages conveyed through the murals . . .” Dilla began, when a member of the tour group piped up with a question.

“Excuse me, ma’am. How did you get interested in these murals, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Dilla acknowledged the speaker. “I worked on a renovation project here a few years back. The interior is exposed to a great deal of moisture from the air, and the paintings need constant attention. They’re always looking for volunteers.”

Her gray eyes twinkled mischievously. “A close friend got me involved. He brought me in and showed me around. He knew everything about the history of the place and the artists who worked here.”

She nodded at the San Francisco street scene and then turned to look directly at the niece.

“He was particularly fascinated with this mural.”

• • •

DILLA RAISED HER
hand above her feathered hat and dangled a key ring in the air.

“I’ve got a treat for you,” she said, ushering the tour group toward the tower’s front entrance. “I have special permission to let you into the stairwell today. There are several additional murals inside that are closed off to the general public. Step along right this way.”

As the group filtered around the corner and up the staircase, the niece stayed behind to inspect the cityscape that Dilla had so adroitly referenced.

Brass railings had been posted throughout the hallway to keep the viewing public a safe distance from the walls. Small plaques affixed to the rail gave the title of each mural and the principal artist.

The cityscape was titled
City Life
by Victor Arnautoff.

The niece took a seat on the bench and stared at the brightly colored painting. Spanning two huge quadrants on either side of the rear entrance to the trinket shop, it was one of the largest murals in the Coit Tower collection. The mesmerizing tableau was filled with dozens of busy San Franciscans, countless moving pieces frozen mid-action.

According to the information on the railing placard, Arnautoff had painted himself into the piece. Using the placard’s description, the niece was able to spot the artist near the center of the mural, next to the trinket shop door.

Arnautoff’s self-portrait depicted a man with broad imposing shoulders, a strong jaw, and closely cropped hair. He wore a thick camel jacket and a jauntily tilted fedora hat. While his figure stood facing toward the left, his head was turned to look straight out into the hallway. He had a crafty, cagy stare that was almost unsettling to the viewer.

“It feels like he’s trying to tell me something,” the niece said. “I just wish I knew what it was.”

Sliding her gaze to the left, she picked out a signpost marking the intersection of Washington and Montgomery.

That would put the mural’s viewpoint at the lower end of Columbus Avenue, she reasoned, mapping the location in her head. She’d passed by the intersection at the beginning of her run.

The niece frowned, perplexed. Something was off.

She broadened her view, seeking additional markers.

On the mural’s right-hand span, a second street sign pointed toward the Oakland auto ferry. That service had been rendered obsolete by the construction of the Bay Bridge, and she wasn’t sure where in downtown San Francisco the car ferry had originally docked.

Puzzled, she returned her gaze to the mural’s left-hand panel. Across the upper horizon, she recognized the square shape of the national bank building and the sculpted pillars that fronted the Pacific Stock Exchange. Toward the center, in the space over the convenience store entrance, she found City Hall’s ornate dome and the Asian Art Museum. On the mural’s upper right, another museum, the Legion of Honor, resided on a hilltop.

“That’s not right,” the niece murmured, shaking her head. “There’s no way you could see this view from that intersection.”

She shifted her focus to the many human figures spread across the wide scene.

In the upper middle, policemen and firefighters attended to the victim of a traffic accident, while a fire truck, marked engine number five, raced down what appeared to be Columbus’s diagonal roadway.

Closer to the front of the mural, a postman removed letters from the storage cabinet of a US Mail drop box. In another mini-scene, a suited man was held up by a robber who had slipped in behind his back and pulled a gun. A few feet away, a policeman stood at a call box, apparently unaware of the nearby crime. Dockworkers unloaded boxes of produce, and businessmen milled about a newspaper stand perusing the latest headlines.

And there, in the middle of it all, was Arnautoff, overtly eying her.

The niece rotated her head one way, and then the other. The details were myriad and incredibly distracting. She stood from the bench, leaning forward and back, her brow furrowed as she studied the full sweep of the scene. Then she blocked out the people at the front of the mural and concentrated on the landmarks across the top.

“City Hall, the Legion of Honor, the Pacific Stock Exchange, they’re not in the right orientation,” she finally concluded, placing her hands on her hips.

“They’re in the wrong place.”

• • •

AS THE NIECE
stood in the empty hallway, pondering the mural’s geographic anomalies, an eerie sensation swept over her. It was similar to her earlier experience during the start of her hike up Telegraph Hill.

She was not alone.

Someone—other than the painted Arnautoff—was watching her.

She spun around, quickly scanning the curved corridor. She peeked into the souvenir shop, but even the attendant manning the cash register had left his post. Turning, she looked out the window, craning to see around the side of the building, certain that someone must be hiding in the bushes.

Nothing.

Anxious, she eased back down onto the bench, trying to calm her nerves.

Then she watched, stunned, as a set of wet footprints—in the distinctive tread of rubber-soled high-top sneakers—appeared across the tile floor and tracked toward the tower’s exit.