How to Paint a Cat (Cats and Curios Mystery) by Rebecca M. Hale Page A
Authors: Rebecca M. Hale
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stomach.
What extra weight? I don’t see any extra weight
.
The niece opened the pantry door and took out a plastic container, different than the one that held his regular dry food.
“You just finished off a bag of your old stuff, so I thought we might try some of this new brand to see if it helps you out . . .”
“
We
might try.” Rupert puzzled at the phrase as he switched his gaze back to his person.
What do you mean
we
?
Since when have you been eating my cat food?
“It’s a low-fat formulation,” she said informatively. “To help you with your diet.”
Diet?
The dreaded word echoed inside Rupert’s head. In the entire human vocabulary, there were few words more foul.
He watched suspiciously as the niece carried the plastic container to his bowl. Bending, she dribbled a small amount of the new food into the bottom of the dish.
Rupert dropped his head for a tentative sniff.
The brown particles carried a strange, off-putting smell.
Cautiously, he picked up a single kibble and gummed it in his mouth. After a brief taste, he spit it out onto the tile floor. Then he looked up at his person with disgust.
Skewing his face into a disdainful expression, he concentrated his contempt into a single retaliatory thought.
You really should do something about that nose of yours.
• • •
TRYING NOT TO worry about Rupert’s negative reaction to the diet cat food, the niece laced up her running shoes, zipped her rain jacket, and headed to the first floor.
Isabella joined her person by the front door, supervising the last clothing preparations. From her perch on the cashier counter, she watched as the niece secured the lock and set off on her route.
The cat was about to return upstairs to investigate Rupert’s new cat food when she noticed a movement across the street.
She stared through the rainy window, thoughtfully contemplating as Spider Jones’s ghostly presence floated out of the art studio and jogged after the niece.
The Previous Mayor
Chapter 12
REGRETS
A BLUE AND black taxi pulled up outside San Francisco’s City Hall, disgorging a dark-skinned man in a trench coat, tailored suit, and two-toned leather wing tips. As the city’s Previous Mayor climbed out onto the curb, he placed a gloved hand over the felt bowler balanced on his head, anchoring the hat from a sudden gust of rain.
Out of elected office for almost a decade, the Previous Mayor still exerted powerful leverage within local political circles. He was an obligatory invite to any public ceremonies, a sought-after guest for dinner parties, and a must-have attendee at new restaurant openings.
Standing on the sidewalk, he glanced up at the second-floor balcony to the mayor’s office suite. In a few days’ time, he would officially become the
previous
Previous Mayor. He thought of the monogram-based code language used by Oscar and his underground Bohemians, who referred to him as the PM.
They would have to give him another
P
, he thought wryly.
• • •
THE PM SHIFTED his grip from his hat to the handrail as he mounted the short flight of steps leading to City Hall’s front entrance.
The passing years had taken their toll, and the regular assortment of aches and pains had begun to accumulate. His gait wasn’t as spry as it once was, and there was a slight shake in his right hand that he noticed—and tried to ignore—when he buttoned his jacket or lifted a cocktail glass.
None of these physical frailties, however, had impeded his daily life as much as the murder of the young City Hall intern.
In the months since the tragic event, the Previous Mayor had dramatically curtailed his public appearances. He had been noticeably absent at December’s raft of holiday festivities. Even the city’s glamorous New Year’s Eve celebrations had failed to draw him out.
He had put his weekly op-ed column for the local newspaper on temporary hiatus, and it had been weeks since he’d dined at his honorary table in his favorite French
What extra weight? I don’t see any extra weight
.
The niece opened the pantry door and took out a plastic container, different than the one that held his regular dry food.
“You just finished off a bag of your old stuff, so I thought we might try some of this new brand to see if it helps you out . . .”
“
We
might try.” Rupert puzzled at the phrase as he switched his gaze back to his person.
What do you mean
we
?
Since when have you been eating my cat food?
“It’s a low-fat formulation,” she said informatively. “To help you with your diet.”
Diet?
The dreaded word echoed inside Rupert’s head. In the entire human vocabulary, there were few words more foul.
He watched suspiciously as the niece carried the plastic container to his bowl. Bending, she dribbled a small amount of the new food into the bottom of the dish.
Rupert dropped his head for a tentative sniff.
The brown particles carried a strange, off-putting smell.
Cautiously, he picked up a single kibble and gummed it in his mouth. After a brief taste, he spit it out onto the tile floor. Then he looked up at his person with disgust.
Skewing his face into a disdainful expression, he concentrated his contempt into a single retaliatory thought.
You really should do something about that nose of yours.
• • •
TRYING NOT TO worry about Rupert’s negative reaction to the diet cat food, the niece laced up her running shoes, zipped her rain jacket, and headed to the first floor.
Isabella joined her person by the front door, supervising the last clothing preparations. From her perch on the cashier counter, she watched as the niece secured the lock and set off on her route.
The cat was about to return upstairs to investigate Rupert’s new cat food when she noticed a movement across the street.
She stared through the rainy window, thoughtfully contemplating as Spider Jones’s ghostly presence floated out of the art studio and jogged after the niece.
The Previous Mayor
Chapter 12
REGRETS
A BLUE AND black taxi pulled up outside San Francisco’s City Hall, disgorging a dark-skinned man in a trench coat, tailored suit, and two-toned leather wing tips. As the city’s Previous Mayor climbed out onto the curb, he placed a gloved hand over the felt bowler balanced on his head, anchoring the hat from a sudden gust of rain.
Out of elected office for almost a decade, the Previous Mayor still exerted powerful leverage within local political circles. He was an obligatory invite to any public ceremonies, a sought-after guest for dinner parties, and a must-have attendee at new restaurant openings.
Standing on the sidewalk, he glanced up at the second-floor balcony to the mayor’s office suite. In a few days’ time, he would officially become the
previous
Previous Mayor. He thought of the monogram-based code language used by Oscar and his underground Bohemians, who referred to him as the PM.
They would have to give him another
P
, he thought wryly.
• • •
THE PM SHIFTED his grip from his hat to the handrail as he mounted the short flight of steps leading to City Hall’s front entrance.
The passing years had taken their toll, and the regular assortment of aches and pains had begun to accumulate. His gait wasn’t as spry as it once was, and there was a slight shake in his right hand that he noticed—and tried to ignore—when he buttoned his jacket or lifted a cocktail glass.
None of these physical frailties, however, had impeded his daily life as much as the murder of the young City Hall intern.
In the months since the tragic event, the Previous Mayor had dramatically curtailed his public appearances. He had been noticeably absent at December’s raft of holiday festivities. Even the city’s glamorous New Year’s Eve celebrations had failed to draw him out.
He had put his weekly op-ed column for the local newspaper on temporary hiatus, and it had been weeks since he’d dined at his honorary table in his favorite French
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