How to Paint a Cat (Cats and Curios Mystery) (28 page)

A PECULIAR HOBBY

IT WAS A
new experience for Mabel, killing out in the open in such a public space. There was an operatic quality to the act, a drama that she hadn’t expected.

Over the years, she had disposed of many an intern, but never in so brazen a manner. She typically chose quiet, out-of-the-way locations, places where the bodies could discreetly decay without discovery. No one had ever questioned the disappearance of her victims. The interns were a disposable lot, their sudden absence readily explained away.

It was a hobby of sorts, like knitting.

But this time was different. Killing out of necessity, spontaneously and without her regular meticulous planning, had been both terrifying and invigorating.

Never had she taken so many risks or left so many loose ends dangling.

First, there was the matter of witnesses.

No sooner had Spider sputtered his last breath than Mabel heard a sound from the far side of the ceremonial rotunda.

Scampering into the darkness, she’d watched from the shadows as Sam and Oscar rushed up to the dead body. Oscar pressed two fingers against the young man’s neck, but the expression on his face indicated he didn’t find a pulse.

Then he turned to the backpack. Carefully stepping around the pools of blood, he crouched over the pack, unzipped its main compartment, and thumbed through the contents. With a nod to Sam, he picked up the pack and the two disappeared into a side hallway. Moments later, Mabel saw them race out the front lobby.

The pair vanished the next day, leaving town, or so she’d heard, for a remote campsite in the Sonoma woods. It was maddening, her frustration at being unable to eliminate these potentially incriminating bystanders.

She should have taken care of them that night in the rotunda, she’d told herself over and over since the event. She’d been thrown by their sudden appearance and hadn’t had time to think.

The janitor who’d given Spider the note to meet in the ceremonial rotunda had been simple enough to negate, but Oscar and Sam had proved far more elusive targets.

She smiled down at her purse. She would hunt them down. They were still on her list.

• • •

MABEL’S NEXT PRESSING
issue was the murder weapon.

She’d only meant to hide the sharp-edged knitting needles under the mayor’s desk for a short while, but the movers had shown up for his belongings early the next day. With so many people milling about, there’d been no opportunity for her to sneak in unobserved.

She’d hoped the desk would be transported to the new office in Sacramento, but unfortunately, it was part of the room’s permanent furniture.

The package with the bloody knitting needles had remained taped beneath the mayor’s desk, waiting for a moment of safe retrieval—one that never came.

For the last two months, Mabel had been a nervous wreck. Any day now, someone might stumble across the package. Or it might never be discovered. There was no way for her to know.

In a way, the phone call alerting her to the police presence in the mayor’s office suite had been a relief. The wait was over. She’d had plenty of time to prepare her backup plan. All that was left was the implementation.

Sirens wailed in the background as Mabel stood from her desk, slipped her purse over her arm, turned off the light, and locked the door.

Her sensible-heeled shoes tapped smartly across the pavement as she walked out of the Capitol Building and disappeared into the misty Sacramento night.

It would be her last sighting for several months.

A LONG TIME COMING

BACK IN SAN
F
RANCISCO
,
a beat-up van rumbled onto the Golden Gate Bridge, heading west toward Sausalito. The lone human occupant was the van’s driver, redheaded Sam Eckles. In the passenger seat sat two domesticated frogs, both admiring the scenic view.

After a careful perusal and purging of any Oscar-or tunnel-related documents, the box from the ventilation shaft and its remaining contents had been dropped off with an anonymous letter at the police department. The submitted files related to a number of Bay Area residents who had gone missing over a ten-year period—each one had once worked as an intern for the present Lieutenant Governor.

As the van reached the end of the bridge, Sam glanced over his shoulder at the rear cargo area.

There on the metal floor rode several paper bags filled with the shredded remains of the purged documents as well as the contents of Spider’s backpack.

The documents Spider had planned to share with the Previous Mayor had related solely to the man who had once run the Green Vase antique shop, the secret tunnel entrance beneath that building, and the curious map the intern had discovered in one of Coit Tower’s New Deal–era murals.

Spider’s missing persons project had been a work in progress, no more than a passing curiosity. He hadn’t been able to determine if the past interns were missing or just un-locatable.

He certainly hadn’t suspected Mabel of being a murderess.

• • •

AFTER SEVERAL HOURS
covering the chaotic scene at City Hall, Hoxton Finn returned to the third-floor conference room inside the newspaper’s Mission Street office.

With a wide sweeping motion, he cleared all of the files and documents off the table. He was ready to reorganize and restart his investigation from scratch.

This time, his analytical skills would be keenly focused on the Lieutenant Governor’s fleeing administrative assistant, the mysterious Uncle Oscar (aka James Lick), and the brown-haired woman now running the Green Vase antique shop.

• • •

INSIDE A RUN-DOWN
Victorian in San Francisco’s Nob Hill neighborhood, a motley group gathered in a galley-style kitchen, discussing how best to cope with their leader’s unforeseen illness.

The hushed whispers carried through to the living room, where the invalid lay on the couch, pale and fragile, his breathing labored.

“He needs to see a doctor,” Dilla insisted, wringing her hands.

“But not one in San Francisco,” Harold cautioned. “They’d have to report him.”

No longer the prime suspects in the intern’s murder, Oscar and Sam were both still wanted for questioning. The Bohemians had reached a general consensus that a police interview might expose too many sensitive lines of inquiry. Sam was en route to a Sausalito houseboat, where he could hole up for several weeks, but Oscar was unfit for travel.

A grizzled voice spoke from the couch.

“I’m not going anywhere. Not to a doctor. Not to the police station. And not out of town.”

Turning toward the doorway, the kitchen crowd squeezed through to the living room as the invalid propped himself up on the couch cushions.

“This”—he said with a cough—“has been a long time coming.”

Dilla rushed around to plump up the pillows. “Don’t you think we should get you to a hospital?” she urged in a motherly voice.

“I’m done with doctors, Dilla,” he replied, resolution in his feeble voice. “And I’m done running. San Francisco is my home. I won’t be leaving it again.”

Oscar placed his hands on his chest, indicating that the matter was settled.

He rested his head back on the cushions, reflecting on the niece and her mural journey through the images from their past adventures. It had been a pleasant way to reminisce, despite the grim matter of revealing Spider’s murderer.

Then he gathered his breath.

“Whatever time I have left, I’ll spend it here in the city.” He gummed his dentures, thoughtfully sliding them around in his mouth before adding, “I think this is where we’ll find Mabel.”

UNBURDENED

THE NEXT DAY,
the Previous Mayor climbed aboard the BART train in San Francisco and rode the main line about ten miles south. He sat silently on the bench seat, wearing his very best suit and tie paired with his favorite two-toned leather wing tips. He wanted to look his best, as a sign of respect for his departed friend.

He carried with him a simple arrangement of flowers, a spring mix, the pastel colors a sign of hope and renewal.

Exiting the train at the Colma station, the PM slowly walked through the commuter parking lot toward the acres of the surrounding cemetery.

The sun glinted off the polished headstones, row upon row of engraved names, dates, and endearments.

Checking a map he’d found online, the PM followed an asphalt path into the maze of graves until he located the one he’d come to visit. Standing at the foot of the plot, he removed his hat and placed the flowers in front of a grave labeled:

Spider Jones, beloved son and brother

As he stared down at the fresh grass, the PM felt an overwhelming sense of peace. He smiled with the knowledge that Spider had finally handed over the worries of this world and departed, unburdened, for the next.

Then he spied an object resting beneath a nearby tree, next to the edge of the main path.

Curious, the PM crossed to the trunk and bent to find a discarded skateboard. He picked it up, his smile deepening with warmth.

Setting the wheels on the asphalt, he placed one wing tip on top of the board and tentatively shifted his weight onto the rolling platform.

Balancing precariously, he began wobbling slowly toward the parking lot.

HOW TO PAINT A CAT

A WEEK TO
the day after her first portrait-posing experience, the niece found herself back in the Green Vase showroom, seated once more on the leather dentist recliner, staring at the rear side of an easel. Rupert dozed happily on her lap as the charcoal pencil scraped against the textured paper.

“What do you think, Issy?” Monty asked, stepping back from the easel and tapping the tip of the charcoal stick against his chin.

The cat studied the image, tilting her head first one way and then another. After a careful analysis, she waved a paw in the air and issued her assessment.

“Mrao.”

“I agree,” Monty replied. “It’s time for you to get into the picture.”

Hopping down from the stool beside the easel, Isabella joined her person and brother on the recliner.

She assumed her pose, her piercing blue eyes staring at the artist as he began, once more, to scribble on the sketchpad.

“So, I’ve got an opening at City Hall,” Monty said, his face hidden behind the easel. “I need to find a receptionist for the mayor’s office.”

“How about Dilla?” the niece replied. She inched to one side, trying not to crowd Isabella off the recliner’s seat.

“Not available,” Monty said. “She’s gone up to Sacramento to fill in at the Lieutenant Governor’s office. Mabel gave notice the other day.” He made a dismissive gesture with the pencil. “Walked out just like that.”

The niece stroked Rupert’s furry chest, reflecting. Mabel had vanished shortly after the discovery of the bloody knitting needles in the package taped beneath the mayor’s desk. She’d last been seen leaving the Capitol Building in Sacramento, but at this point, the niece reasoned, she could be anywhere.

“I have another candidate in mind.” Monty popped his head over the top of the easel and pumped his eyebrows at the niece. “I thought
you
might be interested.”

“No.” The niece meted out her reflexive response.

With an exaggerated shrug, Monty returned to the sketch.

“Whatever you say.” Then he looked up with a wink. “But according to Dilla, your uncle suggested you would be an excellent candidate.”

Cringing, the niece tried to imagine herself at Monty’s beck and call, all the while sitting at the desk once used by Spider’s murderer.

“I think I might be sick,” she murmured to herself.

But then she reconsidered.

What better way to figure out where Mabel might be hiding than to study the place where the woman had spent the last several years? Perhaps a few short weeks might be worthwhile, so long as Monty was given strict guidelines as to the limits of her participation.

She wondered how many days she could serve as the interim mayor’s assistant before herself turning to homicide.

Monty resumed his charcoal scraping.

“You know, one of my very first art lessons was how to paint a cat . . .”