Free How to Paint a Cat (Cats and Curios Mystery) by Rebecca M. Hale Page A

facade of delicate dual spires pointed emphatically at the sky. Down below, the playful shrieks of several uniformed schoolchildren could be heard inside a gated courtyard, evidence that the students were enjoying their recess break.
    Beneath the protection of the trees that lined the park’s outer edges, several Asian women practiced their morning tai chi. Oblivious to the increasing rain, or perhaps calmed by its rhythm, they swung their arms in slow synchronized motions, their palms pushing against invisible barriers of resistance.
    Near the park’s grassy center, a damp dog walker stood holding the leash of a pokey pug. The dog nosed the ground, curiously sniffing as its owner checked his watch, looked skyward at the darkening clouds, and pleaded for his pet to hurry.
    Above it all, Coit Tower’s nozzle-shaped cylinder rose like a beacon. Perched at the peak of Telegraph Hill, the quirky landmark was one of San Francisco’s most beloved fixtures—and the turnaround point for the niece’s run.
    • • •
    LEAVING WASHINGTON SQUARE, the niece veered into the quiet residential neighborhood surrounding Coit Tower and its encircling green space, Pioneer Park.
    There were a dozen or more ways to climb Telegraph Hill. Street signs marked a route for vehicular traffic that gradually wound up the steep incline, first in turns at square-cornered intersections, then, within the grounds of Pioneer Park, in a curling spiral to the peak.
    With only a limited number of parking spaces at the overlook, the line of cars often stretched all the way around the circular road. Tourists would sit for hours, waiting for one of the cherished parking spots to open up.
    It was far easier to hike up the hill.
    The niece left Washington Square, still jogging, albeit at a slower pace, and began the climb. As the streets steepened, the curbside parking switched from parallel to perpendicular alignment. The sidewalk itself transitioned to a pitched groove and, eventually, graded steps.
    Pastel-colored apartment buildings made up most of the residential housing. Like much of San Francisco, the architecture ranged from Mission-style stucco to Edwardian stick, and pretty much everything in between—the unifying factor being the adapted use of bulging bay windows to draw in as much natural light as possible.
    Few modern day residents could afford the luxury of a Telegraph Hill apartment. What had started out in the Gold Rush era as undesirable squatters’ land (due to the landscape’s extreme slope) was now one of the most sought-after locations in the city. On a midweek day such as this, the rent-paying apartment dwellers were all at work, earning their keep.
    As the niece chugged up the sidewalk, she glanced at the fog that had begun to drop down over the hill, graying the sky and blurring the edges of the nearby buildings.
    The place was eerily silent.
    There was no one around . . . no one except for an unseen presence, which constantly caused her to look over her shoulder.
    • • •
    TRYING TO SHAKE off the creepiness, the niece cut around to the bay side of the hill and started up one of the many sets of wooden stairs that scaled its near-vertical face. Her feet pumped from one step to the next as she hit the steepest portion of the climb.
    Every inch in elevation increased the span of the view, a sweeping panorama of the waterfront, the bay, and the isolated fortress of Alcatraz. But the vista was lost in the haze that had seeped over the city, and the niece kept her limited vision focused on the slickening steps.
    Flight after flight of stairs passed through the exclusive neighborhood. Spared the fire sparked by the 1906 earthquake that engulfed much of San Francisco, the hillside contained several tiny wooden cottages that were built in the mid-1800s. The homey structures, with their shaker siding and overgrown gardens, stood side by side with contemporary town house–style mansions. Both properties were valued in the