How to Paint a Cat (Cats and Curios Mystery) (26 page)

BEHIND THE LIME TREE

THE NIECE SCANNED
the conservatory’s Aquatic Plants room, searching for any sign of her next clue. Her uncle had sent her here for a reason; Sam had confirmed as much in the van ride earlier that day.

Somewhere amid all these plants and flowers, she hoped to find the end of the mural trail—along with information that would explain why her uncle’s photograph had been found in the murdered intern’s research files, why Oscar and Sam had been seen fleeing the scene of the crime, and, most important, how she could clear them both as suspects.

“Right now, I just don’t see it,” she said, pivoting in place. She shook her head at the endless rows of greenery and sighed. “Maybe Oscar wants me to take up gardening.”

Isabella warbled a dubious response as the niece gazed out over the room, taking a brief inventory of the plant collection.

A lily pond occupied the bulk of the floor space in this wing. It was the anchor for much of the surrounding plant life. Elephant ears, several varieties of ferns, and a tuberous tree bent over the murky water.

Carnivorous pitcher-shaped plants dangled from an artificial canopy suspended from the ceiling. The elaborate ruby-red vessels were rimmed with menacing spines, ready to trap and consume any flies—or fingers—that drifted too close.

Rounding out the mix were a number of exotic orchids. Each plant produced a delicate frill of velvety petals, which surrounded a protruding stamen. The niece was fascinated by the complex color schemes and intricate designs, but she hadn’t traveled to the conservatory to stare at flowers.

So far, nothing she’d come across shed any light on her uncle or where she was to proceed next. It was time to explore the rest of the building.

Maybe she’d have better luck in the other wing.

• • •

RUPERT HEAVED A
sigh of relief as the trio reentered the conservatory’s center domed room.

He was not a fan of equator-strength heat and humidity—or, for that matter, extended searches for Uncle Oscar’s hidden clues, particularly those that involved riding around all day in the cat stroller.

As the niece steered the carriage through the rear portion of the main room, Rupert joined his sister, pressing his nose against the stroller’s net cover. From his feline perspective, the surrounding trees and foliage looked like a fabulously designed litter box . . .

Hold on
, Rupert thought.
Who’s that?

He pushed his head as far up as the netting would allow, trying to be sure. Yes, there on the other side of the trees was the man from City Hall who had held him after his fried chicken snack.

Rupert nudged his sister, who had also noticed the spy.

Isabella’s blue eyes narrowed with concern.

Why is Hoxton Finn hiding behind a lime tree?

• • •

UNAWARE SHE WAS
being followed by the reporter and the stylist, the niece continued her search into the conservatory’s west wing.

She glanced worriedly at a map she’d picked up at the front entrance. So far, she’d covered over half of the collection, but other than the obvious Lick connection to the overall structure, nothing had stood out as a clue or provided her with further directions. The Labaudt mural at the Beach Chalet had seemed like a clear signal to head to this location, but there were no murals at the conservatory, no New Deal paintings to observe.

“A less persistent person would have given up on this by now,” she mused as she pushed the stroller through yet another moist room populated by dense foliage.

She listened for cat commentary from the carriage, but Isabella appeared distracted by something in the building’s domed center.

After a quick glance over her shoulder, the niece returned her gaze forward. The dull roar of children’s voices sounded from the next room over.

She soon reached a gift shop filled with plastic trinkets and toys, all of them related in some way to flowers, the environment, or conservation. Several children had gathered inside the store to inspect the merchandise, but a far greater number were amassed in the adjoining space, the conservatory’s last glass section.

The area contained temporary displays that rotated every four or five months. The current theme featured the Barbary Coast, the San Francisco neighborhood once popular with the wild and raucous Forty-Niners—and a region that encompassed modern-day Jackson Square.

A miniature train circled through the landscaped room, passing by several dollhouse-style buildings fashioned after Gold Rush–era landmarks.

The niece guided the stroller around a pack of excited children, surveying the display. Suddenly, she knew they had found the right place.

“Issy,” she said, nearly breathless with excitement. “This is it.”

THE BARBARY COAST

THE NIECE MOVED
from station to station along the toy train’s route, nudging the stroller through the crowd of boisterous children.

Isabella stretched her head upward, trying to see the displays. She would have been noticed by the surrounding youngsters—had they not been so enthralled with the train and an artificial keg of dynamite that ignited with a massive
boom
every two to three minutes.

Meanwhile, Rupert was nowhere to be seen. After the first fake explosion, he dove beneath the blankets and stayed hidden for the duration of the stroller’s tour of the train room.

The niece ignored all of these distractions. She was too focused on the Barbary Coast exhibit to be diverted.

At every turn in the tracks, she found mementos from the past two years. Just like her experiences in Leidesdorff Alley and again at the Rincon Center Post Office, she felt as if she were walking through a timeline, revisiting all of the historical places and events she had investigated since moving into her uncle’s antique shop.

She found a miniature replica of San Francisco’s Mission Dolores and, a few feet away, the Palace Hotel. Yet another scale model represented the Montgomery Building, aka Mark Twain’s Monkey Block.

Amazed at the intricate details, the niece moved to the next Barbary Coast–themed train station. In the middle of a block of redbrick structures reminiscent of Jackson Square stood a miniature of the one that housed the Green Vase. The resemblance was unmistakable, too specific to be a coincidence. Crenellated iron columns framed a line of tiny windows, each one imprinted with the image of a slender green vase. Peeking through the second-story blinds were two tiny white faces with orange-tipped ears and tails.

“Look, Isabella,” the niece whispered. “It’s you and Rupert!”

The noise level in the room had gradually subsided during the niece’s tour. The majority of the children had filed out, summoned by their parents for the next stop in the day’s educational outing.

As the area emptied, Isabella called out a sharp
“Mrao,”
seeking to draw her person’s attention to a freestanding structure in the middle of the room.

Fake brick siding surrounded a photo-booth-sized jail cell. Fronting each corner of the little square building was a hitching post with a black-iron horse head mounted to its top.

“I’ve seen those before,” the niece murmured as Isabella let loose a stream of feline chatter. The cat made the connection seconds before her person.

“Leidesdorff Alley,” the woman exclaimed as the recollection hit her. “The horse heads are identical to the ones in Leidesdorff Alley . . .” She sighed with exhaustion. “Outside the sandwich shop where Rupert wanted to stop for fried chicken.”

Wearily, she grabbed the stroller handle and headed for the exit.

THE LANGUAGE OF CATS

HUMPHREY TRACKED THE
niece through the conservatory to the toy store, trying to look like any other flower-appreciating visitor inside the glass-walled building that day.

So far, the stylist had little to show for his efforts. He feared the tirade that would erupt if he had nothing to report, but he wasn’t altogether convinced of Hox’s theory. The fried chicken aficionado as assassin idea seemed a bit far-fetched.

Humphrey paused at a rack of flower-themed refrigerator magnets.

“Maybe I’ll buy Hox one of these as a peace offering.”

Glancing over the rack, he saw the brown-haired woman move into the next room, but he held off an immediate pursuit.

I’d stick out like a sore thumb in the middle of all those kids
, he reasoned.

The next fake
boom
from the powder keg, along with the commensurate shrieking of the surrounding children, convinced him he’d made the right decision.

Humphrey waited until the parents began siphoning their offspring back through the toy store; then he slipped inside the Gold Rush exhibit. Pretending to be as interested in the miniature train setup as the niece and carefully keeping his distance from the stroller, he gradually made his way around the circumference of the room.

After watching the niece stop beside the jailhouse photo booth, Humphrey dropped to his knees and crawled across the floor. Assisted by yet another
boom
, he crept inside the little structure and peeked out its grated window.

The female cat chirped up at her person, releasing a stream of feline commentary. The woman appeared to find the cryptic cat language informative, although for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out how.

The chug of the passing toy train masked whatever comment the niece made in response, but the cat seemed to have understood the message—the cat, in fact, seemed to understand English far better than any other animal Humphrey had ever encountered. The knowledgeable feline ducked down into the carriage, bracing for sudden movement as the niece grabbed the stroller handle and barreled toward the door.

Humphrey quickly climbed out of the photo booth. He regained his footing and looked through the glass walls to the center room beyond the toy store—just in time to see Hox dive behind a banana leaf.

Oblivious to the fallen reporter, the woman sped through the central domed area and headed for the exit.

• • •

“WHERE’S SHE GOING?”
Hox demanded as soon as he pulled himself out of the foliage.

“Don’t know.” Humphrey shrugged. He reached up to Hox’s head and removed a stray fern leaf.

Hox staggered down the walkway, trying to keep the woman in sight. “What did she see in there?”

“Don’t know,” Humphrey replied, trotting to keep up as he slipped his arms through the sleeves of his jacket.

Hox threw his hands up in exasperation. “Did you get
any
useful information?”

“How about a flower magnet for your refrigerator?” Humphrey said hopefully, offering his purchase.

Hox turned to glare at the stylist. “I don’t know why I even brought you along.”

Humphrey grinned impishly.

“To keep that dashing hairstyle in place.”

• • •

SPIDER LEFT THE
reporter and his hapless sidekick to bicker their way back to the news van. They would have to scramble, but he suspected they would figure out a way to follow the niece to her next destination.

He retrieved his skateboard from the tunnel and set off down the park’s curving main road. Now that the niece was headed toward her final destination, he had another stop to make.

Unlike the stylist, he had understood every word of the conversation between the woman and the cat.

He knew exactly where they were going.

The sandwich shop in Leidesdorff Alley—it was the place he’d been hoping she would find all along—and the location of the looping letter
O
.

MAYOR MONTY

WITH THE POST-INAUGURATION
meet-and-greet finally winding down, Monty climbed City Hall’s central marble staircase to the second floor.

He turned at the top of the steps and gave one last wave to the few bystanders below: a huddle of Japanese tourists who had arrived for the late-afternoon docent tour and the janitorial crew who had begun packing up the folding chairs, the navy and gold bunting, and the decorative rugs.

Neither group returned Monty’s wave, but he didn’t appear to notice. He paraded along the second-floor hallway that looked out over the rotunda, proudly surveying his new domain. Then he swept into the mayor’s office suite, aglow from the platitudes and applause of the swearing-in ceremony.

He strode a preening circle around the plush red-carpeted office, admiring the furnishings. A few pieces of his new furniture had already been delivered. He would have the place completely decorated within a week.

He’d been in the room dozens of times before, both as the last mayor’s life coach and more recently for his pre-inauguration interview. Still, the office felt altogether different now that he was actually mayor.

“Who would’ve thunk it?” he asked, stopping in front of a mirror mounted on the wall beside the massive wooden desk. “Me—the mayor?”

But his glorious expression froze at the ghostly image lurking behind his in the reflection.

“No!” he said sternly. “No, no, no.” Spinning around, he shook a bony finger at the apparition. “I forbid you from this office. You’re banished. I’m the mayor now. It’s all official—they swore me in downstairs today. That should mean something.” He leaned forward sternly. “Don’t you ghosts have a code of conduct?”

Spider watched with bemusement, a half smile on his translucent face. Then he moved closer to Monty so that their noses were nearly touching and silently mouthed the word
Boo
.

Letting loose a high-pitched shriek, Monty raced across the room. He dove for the door, but Spider nimbly cut him off.

“Ahhhh!” Monty hollered, his panic increasing. His storklike legs goose-stepped over a short coffee table and carried him to the balcony. His fingers rattled the handle to the glass door, trying to release it.

Spider sidled up beside him and threaded his head between Monty and the glass.

“Ahhhh!” Monty screeched again, stumbling over the thick carpet as he scrambled away from the window.

There was only one escape left, one sheltered location. Spider smiled as Monty dove beneath the desk’s center console and pulled the chair behind him, an effort to keep the ghost from following.

The apparition faded as Monty’s muffled voice sounded through the desk’s wood paneling.

“Hey, what’s this?”

Monty peered up at the interior facing. A package had been taped to the underside of the desk. With effort, he pried it off. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he studied the package’s outer layer, a plastic shopping bag printed with the label of an unknown grocery store.

“What’s this doing in here?” he said with disgust.

For environmental reasons, plastic bags had been banned from the city for several years. Eventually, the associated social stigma had become a more effective deterrent than the prohibiting legislation. No self-respecting San Franciscan would be caught carrying his groceries in a Bay-polluting, sea lion–choking, disposable plastic bag.

But curiosity soon overwhelmed disdain. Opening the bag, Monty removed an inner package: a cloth-wrapped bundle secured with strapping tape.

He retrieved a pair of scissors from the middle desk drawer and used them to cut through the tape.

Setting the scissors on the floor, Monty gingerly lifted the top layer of sheeting—to reveal a sharp bloody object.

“Jiminy jumping Jehosaphat!”