How to Paint a Cat (Cats and Curios Mystery) (12 page)

THE ALLIGATOR WRESTLER

FROM THE BACKSEAT
of his taxi, Montgomery Carmichael watched the sun break through the clouds, shining bright rays across San Francisco’s sodden hills.

Like the weather, his mood had dramatically improved since the temper tantrum he’d thrown a few hours earlier.

His artistic frustration at the difficult sketch had lifted, seemingly mid-stomp. He’d swept up the shards of broken wood from the destroyed picture frame, tidied the studio, and retreated to the upstairs apartment to change for his afternoon interview at City Hall—his first since receiving the interim mayor appointment.

Checking his look in the car’s rearview mirror, Monty tugged at the corners of the emerald green bowtie secured around his neck. Then he gently pulled back the sleeves of his jacket so he could straighten his gold cuff links. Forged in the shape of leaping frogs, they were his favorite pair—a bona fide good luck charm.

On the car seat next to him lay a new sketchpad, still wrapped in its protective shrink-wrap, and a small toolbox of art supplies that he’d scooped up on his way out the studio door.

A broad grin beamed across his narrow face.

Tapping the sketchpad’s flat surface, he made a confident announcement.

“I’m ready to give that drawing another go.”

The driver glanced quizzically over his shoulder and then grunted a noncommittal response. Monty’s next statement, however, drew a more concerned look.

“I’ve wiped the image of that dead kid completely from my mind.”

• • •

MINUTES LATER, MONTY
marched cheerfully up City Hall’s front steps. Even carrying the two-by-four-foot sketchpad and the artist’s toolbox, he still managed to greet every person he passed—whether they recognized him as the interim mayor or not.

“Good morning, folks,” he called out to a group of Japanese tourists exiting an enormous tour bus. “Welcome to San Francisco.”

Passing a couple in wedding gear headed inside for their civil ceremony, he sang out another enthusiastic, “Good morning!” Nodding at the woman’s dress, he added, “And congratulations!”

Inside the main doors, Monty approached the security checkpoint and lined up behind the president of the board of supervisors. After handing his packages over to one of the guards for inspection, he tapped the supervisor on the shoulder and said gleefully, “Supervisor Hernandez, it’s great to see you.”

The supervisor jumped as if he’d been zapped by an electric shock. He glanced warily around, hoping that no one had seen him in such close proximity to the controversial new mayor.

“Mornin’, sir,” he whispered with a limp finger wave before hurrying off.

Unfazed, Monty swaggered through the security scanner, retrieved his packages from a donut-munching guard on the opposite side, and proceeded through the front foyer to the bank of elevators.

Cocking his arm, he used his elbow to push the elevator call button. As he waited for one of the doors to open, he tapped out a tune with the toes of his dress shoes, grooving his hips back and forth in time with his self-made music.

He was living the dream, and no one could convince him otherwise.

Mayor Monty
—the phrase still sent chills down his spine.

The foot tapping slowly subsided as he thought back to the night it all happened, the magical evening when he became the interim mayor.

He remembered the scene like it was yesterday. If he closed his eyes, he could bring it all back: the foggy chill of Mountain Lake, the mud seeping up between his toes, the full-body wet suit chafing at his thighs—and the hungry
chomp
of an albino alligator snapping at his rubber-coated posterior.

Yes, Monty thought with another blissful smile, it was a fabulous night.

• • •

MONTY HAD NOT
been among the crowds watching the board of supervisors deliberate the interim mayor selection. He had avoided City Hall altogether that evening.

He was, instead, several miles away, hard at work on the people’s business—that is, returning Clive the albino alligator to his rightful place at the California Academy of Sciences. Acting on a tip he’d received from the proprietor of James Lick’s Homestyle Chicken, Monty had driven with his neighbor and her two cats to Mountain Lake, intent on implementing an alligator rescue.

He had just parked his van in the secluded lot beside the lake when news of the board’s decision was broadcast over the radio. The announcement was met with supportive cheers and congratulations from his colleagues, both female and feline alike—or at least, that’s how he remembered it.

Flush with the triumph of his mayoral success, Monty jumped from the driver’s seat and, protecting his modesty by hiding behind the van’s back door, changed into a wet suit, snorkel mask, and flippers. Suited up, he charged valiantly into the murky water, splashing fearlessly through the marshy reeds, intent on wrestling the cagy beast out of the lake and into the van’s rear cargo space.

It was a hard-fought battle, one that severely tested his mettle. Bravely, he faced the creature’s vicious jaws, swiping claws, and wild swinging tail. There were moments when death or mortal injury appeared imminent, but the man who would be mayor would not give up.

In the end, he was victorious. He was about to load the pesky gator into the van when the police arrived on the scene.

Monty blinked his eyes, returning his vision to the flat facing of the elevator door.

At least, that’s how he remembered it.

• • •

DING
.

The elevator door opened, revealing a well-dressed man in a trench coat, tailored suit, and two-toned leather wing tips.

“Good morning, Mayor,” the Previous Mayor intoned, placing a gloved hand on Monty’s slim shoulder as he walked past.

The gesture represented, quite possibly, one of the most magical moments of Monty’s life.

He nearly fell over himself trying to return the greeting.

“Hello, Mr. Mayor . . . Mr. Honorable Mayor . . . Mr. Honorable . . . Sir!”

ASK THE ALLIGATOR

STILL BEAMING OVER
the brotherhood he now shared with the Previous Mayor, Monty squeezed into the elevator carrying his sketchpad and toolbox.

“Two, please,” he said to the woman who joined him inside.

As the carriage rumbled its way toward City Hall’s second floor, he reflected on the excitement—and drama—of the two months since his miraculous appointment.

Even he had to admit it hadn’t been all smooth sailing.

The morning after the board meeting, cell phone video surfaced showing the wet suit–clad interim mayor being chased out of Mountain Lake by the city’s missing albino alligator.

In Monty’s opinion, the video footage had been unfairly edited. The clip highlighted an unfortunate moment in his battle with the gator where the beast had temporarily gained the upper hand. It failed to include his brave march into the water. Moreover, the harsh light of the cell phone’s flash feature had cast an unflattering glow on his already gaunt figure.

The video quickly went viral across the city. In coffee shops and Internet cafes, top-floor boardrooms and basement cubicles, it seemed everyone was streaming the thirty-second spot.

But the worst was yet to come.

The press quickly gathered outside Monty’s art studio, demanding an explanation for the events depicted in the video. Quiet Jackson Square hadn’t seen such a ruckus since the Barbary Coast days. News vans lined the street, their antennas extended in every direction. Reporters and their crews, armed with lighting equipment, microphones, and massive shoulder-held cameras crammed onto every available inch of sidewalk outside Monty’s glass-walled studio.

When he finally emerged to give his carefully prepared statement, he was greeted with a barrage of rapid-fire questions.

Who had tipped him off to the location of the stolen alligator?

Was he involved in the gator’s theft from its Swamp Exhibit in Golden Gate Park?

Had he leveraged Clive’s hidden location to gain votes from the board of supervisors?

What was he doing running around at night in a wet suit and flippers?

Monty had finally hollered out over the crowd, “You’ll have to ask the alligator!”

Then he stepped back inside the studio and locked the door.

• • •

WITH A SHUDDER,
Monty shelved the memory. The elevator creaked to a stop on the second floor. He stepped out into the lobby and crossed to the entrance of the mayor’s office suite.

Thankfully, the intrigue involving the murdered City Hall staffer had quickly swamped the coverage of both the cell phone video and Monty’s panicked response to the reporters outside his studio.

He expected that the issue might be raised during today’s interview with Hoxton Finn, but he felt that this time, he was better prepared. He planned to attribute the Mountain Lake episode to his previous life-coaching duties for the outgoing mayor. Any follow-up questions as to what life coaching could possibly have to do with wet suit alligator wrangling he would deflect with an assertion of executive privilege.

If that didn’t work, he’d send a signal to Dilla. She had agreed to fill in as his administrative assistant for the afternoon. Should the interview become too confrontational, she was prepared to trigger the building’s fire alarm.

Feeling confident and self-assured, Monty strode briskly into the mayoral office suite. Except for a massive wooden desk and a few armchairs, the area had been emptied of the previous occupant’s belongings. Monty wouldn’t officially move in until the day of his inauguration, but he had obtained clearance to use the facilities for the afternoon’s interview.

He had about fifteen minutes to kill before the news crew was scheduled to arrive, so he unwrapped the sketchpad and laid it on the wide surface of the office’s wooden desk. Opening the toolbox, he selected a charcoal pencil.

Then he began, once more, to draw the scene from the Green Vase antique shop, starting with Rupert’s fluffy orange and white heap asleep on the dentist’s recliner.

As his pencil scraped across the textured paper, he forced all thoughts of wily alligators and the murdered Spider Jones from his mind.

MESSAGE RECEIVED

THE NIECE JOGGED
around the last corner of her return route, slowing to a walk as she approached the entrance to the Green Vase antique shop.

She unzipped her rain jacket and wiped her sweaty brow. Once the rain stopped and the sun came out, she had quickly overheated.

With a few deep lunges, she stretched her legs, carefully pulling on the muscles in her calves.

She had all but convinced herself that she’d imagined the footprints in the mural hallway at Coit Tower. Probably some sort of endorphin-induced delusion, she told herself, preferring to make up a condition rather than consider the alternatives.

The “Closed” sign hanging from the inner doorknob fluttered as she pushed open the door and stepped inside.

“Hello, kitty-cats,” she hollered, loud enough to be heard in the upstairs apartment. She bent to remove her soggy running shoes and socks. “I’m back.”

It wasn’t until she straightened and began wiping her glasses on a tissue from the cashier counter that she noticed the set of red paw prints dotted across the wooden floor.

“What happened?” she gasped, fearing the paint was blood. “Rupert! Issy!”

As the niece scrambled to follow the prints across the showroom, two healthy, uninjured cats raced down the stairs, both of them covered in globs of red paint. The pair had paint on their paws and splotches across their backs. Isabella sported a perfect Q-tip of paint on the tip end of her tail, while Rupert bore a red stripe down his forehead.

“What did you two get into?” the niece demanded, although her immense relief drowned out any sternness in her voice. “Where did all this paint come from?” She suppressed a laugh at Rupert’s comical facial expression. “And how did you get it all over yourselves?”

Isabella looked informatively up at her person. She made a series of vigorous chirps and clicking sounds, an apparent explanation of the circumstances that led to her paint-spotted condition. The lengthy commentary finally terminated in an opinionated
“Mrao
,
mrao.”

Rupert sat on the floor next to his sister, listening to her story. He tilted his head sideways, as if confirming Isabella’s version of events.

The niece put her hands on her hips.

“I’m not understanding any of this.”

Rolling over, Rupert sprawled his plump body across the floor at his person’s feet. After a wide yawn, he let out a cat food–smelling burp.

• • •

ON THE HUNT
for the source of the red paint, the niece tracked the red paw prints to the rear of the showroom. The trail clearly led up the stairs to the second floor.

“Stay here,” the niece ordered firmly. She bent down toward Isabella, who had followed her to the edge of the steps.

“And don’t try to lick off any of that paint.”

Isabella gave her person a disgruntled look.

“Merrao-a-wao,”
she warbled.

From the center of the showroom, Rupert wheezed out a loud snore.

“Enjoy the nap,” the niece muttered under her breath. “You’re headed for a bath, mister.”

• • •

THE NIECE SOON
reached the kitchen, the epicenter of the cats’ painting activity. The place was a mess, with spatters of red paint slung throughout the room.

A near-empty can of water-based latex lay upended on the tile floor amid a pool of its previous contents. Curious cats had obviously skidded through the dumped liquid, creating paw-shaped streaks. With paint coating their paws, they had then made the rounds of the kitchen table, the counters, and even the stovetop.

She sighed, envisioning the upcoming cleanup task.

Gingerly, she stepped through the maze of wet paint blots to the empty can, hoping its label might contain instructions on how to remove the sticky substance. She didn’t have long before the stuff would start to dry.

As she made her way across the room, she glanced beneath the table at the cats’ food bowls. The containers were empty except for a few giblets of cat food—the regular formulation, not the diet replacement she’d put out before she left for her run.

“How did the cats get into the pantry?” she murmured, before posing an even more troubling question. “And how did they get the bag down from the top shelf and pour the food into their bowls?”

She was halfway to the pantry when she noticed red lettering on the far side of the floor.

The paint here seemed dryer than the rest, and the markings had been left with a paintbrush. Human hands, not feline paws, had created these images.

With a wary look over her shoulder, she knelt to examine the writing. The cat-related chaos had blurred some of the words, but she could still make out the message.

Follow the murals
, she pondered. Then she studied the letter
O
scrawled beneath. “Uncle Oscar?” she called out, before catching her breath.

Among the paw prints at the far corner of the room, she spied smudges from a pair of rubber-soled sneakers—the same imprint she’d seen earlier at Coit Tower.

Someone else was in the kitchen with her, and it wasn’t her uncle. She couldn’t see the intruder, but she could sense his presence.

“Who’s there?” she whispered hoarsely.

Jumping to her feet, she spun around, her eyes searching the room, but there was no one to be seen.

“You must be invisible,” she said, incredulous at the idea.

Grabbing a broom, she began waving it through the air. Before she could flush out the mysterious painter, a knock thumped against the downstairs door.

The niece watched, awestruck, as sneaker-sized footprints scampered across the kitchen and down the steps to the first floor.