The Cats that Surfed the Web

by Golden, Karen

“I heard you’re from New York. This death that occurred in your basement—”

  Katherine interrupted, “I lived in Brooklyn for most of my life. I’ve lived in Manhattan for the last few years, but never—I repeat—never have I found a dead body in my basement.”

  “Out here we have an organization known as the Welcome Patrol. I’m sorry that your welcoming had to be so unpleasant.”

  Katherine nodded. “Waugh,” Scout called loudly from the upstairs guest room. Katherine could hear the Siamese trotting back and forth on the floor above.

  The detective looked up. “Is that your baby crying?”

  “She’s sort of a baby. She’s my cat. Actually, she’s a Siamese and she’s very vocal,” Katherine explained.

  The detective smiled. “I need to ask you the names of the people who, to your knowledge, have been in this house today. The chief told me that you’ve kept Orvenia Colfax’s small staff. Cokey Cokenberger is your handyman, and Patricia Marston is your yard and garden person. I know that Cokey did some work for you yesterday.”

  “How do you know that?” Katherine asked curiously.

  “You see, Ms. Kendall . . .”

  “Please call me Katherine,” she said.

  Detective Martin continued, “When Cokey saw your house lit up like a Christmas tree, he walked over to check things out. I talked to him a few minutes ago.”

  “Okay. Sorry, please go on. Would you like to sit in the parlor?”

  “No, this is fine,” the detective said, sitting down. She opened up her laptop computer. “I like to keep up with technology,” she said, “So, if you don’t mind my typing your answers, we can begin.”

  Katherine drew up a chair and sat next to her; Colleen came into the room from the kitchen, but remained standing.

  “Has Patricia Marston been here today?” Detective Martin asked.

  “No, I haven’t seen her, but according to my attorney, Mark Dunn, Patricia brought over some baked goods on Sunday before we arrived.”

  “So, no one other than your friend and you were home today?”

  “We weren’t home today. We left this morning to go to the city and didn’t get home until later.”

  “And when was that?”

  Colleen interjected, “It was getting dark. We hurriedly unloaded the car, and then we went to the movie.”

  “Here in town?”

  “Yes.”

  “When you went to the theater, did you leave any of the exterior doors open?”

  “I checked the doors on the first floor, but I didn’t check the walk-out basement door,” Katherine answered.

  “And why was that?” the detective asked.

  “Well, because my friend and I were down there yesterday afternoon and made sure it was locked. Cokey Cokenberger had done some work for me and left by that door. Colleen and I wanted to make sure he had turned the lock in the knob when he went home,” Katherine explained.

  “When you left the house to go to the movie, which door did you use?”

  “We went out that way,” Katherine said, pointing to the side carport door.

  “Okay, so you went to see a movie. What time did you leave the theater?” the detective asked.

  “Nine something,” Katherine said. Colleen nodded in agreement.

  “Chief London mentioned you had vandals in your bedroom. What do you think they were looking for?”

  “I don’t have a clue. There isn’t anything of interest in there. I had unpacked my suitcases—just clothing and some of my cats’ stuff.”

  “Was anything stolen?”

  “No,” Katherine answered.

  “Do you have any idea where your cats were when the bedroom was ransacked? Mr. Cokenberger told me that yesterday one of your cats overturned heavy flowerpots; do you think your cat could also rummage through a room?”

  Katherine shook her head. “No, I don’t think it’s possible,” she said.

  “One time my tiger tabbies—you see, I have two—thought they were racing in the Indy 500 and knocked my computer off the desk,” Detective Martin continued.

  Katherine thought for a moment and then dismissed the idea. “I know my cats aren’t capable of pulling clothes off hangers and piling them in the middle of the floor, or flinging a heavy mattress off the bed.”

  “The chief said when he initially searched the house, your bedroom door was locked. Can I assume you had locked the cats inside?”

  “Well, no,” Katherine said. “When Colleen and I returned from the movie and came inside the house, my cats were downstairs, which was strange because before we left, Colleen had shut them in my bedroom. But I didn’t lock them in there. I just assumed the chief had let them out when he checked the room.”

  “If only cats could talk,” the detective offered. “Sometimes these old doors have skeleton keys you can use to lock them from the outside.”

  Katherine shrugged and said, “I think the vandal, or whoever, heard the chief coming up the stairs, hid in my bedroom and locked the door. The chief said he heard my cats; they knew a stranger was in the room and they wanted out. When the chief left, the vandal made his way out of the room and shut the door behind him, which is how I found it.”

  “You seem to be reliving it,” Detective Martin observed suspiciously.

  “What can I say? I watch a lot of CSI reruns. But I’m telling you, this jerk was upstairs when the chief was here, sneaked down the back stairs, which feeds into the kitchen, and then turned the corner and exited via my office door, which by the way, was bolt-locked when I left for the movie, yet was unlocked when Officer Glover later found it,” Katherine said breathlessly.

  “Actually we think your vandal was one or possibly two locals who have done this kind of thing before. Within the last month, there have been three break-ins with a similar type of vandalism, where nothing is stolen, but the house’s contents are turned upside-down. You’re lucky you called the police when you did.”

  “May I ask what their motive is?”

  “Fun and games . . . who knows?” the detective said. “I’m about ready to wrap it up here, but I want to ask you one more question. Who has keys to your house?”

  “Just me. Before I arrived on Sunday, my attorney had the locks changed.”

  “Are you sure?” Detective Martin asked firmly.

  “Yes, why do you ask?”

  “Is there any reason Vivian Marston would have a key to your house?”

  “If she had one, it would be the older key for the locks before they were changed.”

  “I’ll put it this way. The key the chief found on your basement floor fits the new locks.”

  “And the plot thickens,” Katherine muttered under her breath.

  “After we processed the key for prints, I tried it on three of your exterior doors. And guess what? Not only does it fit, but it works. Now, I’ll ask you again, did you give a duplicate of your new set of keys to anyone else?”

  “Absolutely not,” Katherine said, defensively. “You need to talk to Cokey Cokenberger. He’s the one who changed the locks. Maybe he didn’t read the memo that said no one but me was to have a key.”

  “I’ll talk to him. Well, that’s about the extent of it,” Detective Martin said, snapping her laptop shut. “I’ll call you if I have any more questions,” she said. “And if you think of anything else, call me at this number.” She handed Katherine a business card.

  “Sure,” Katherine said.

  “Waugh,” Scout protested upstairs.

  “Better see to your cat,” the detective said, leaving. “Oh, yes. I locked your basement outside door, but I suggest you go through the house and double check the locks.” She closed the side door, which squeaked on its hinges behind her.

  Katherine sighed and said to Colleen, “I’m glad that’s over.”

  “She seems friendly enough, but she’s definitely suspicious of you.”

  “Great, that is just great. You were awfully quiet,” Katherine noted.

  “I was ju
st trying to figure out why she kept asking questions about the key. She needs to be talking to Mr. Handy Dandy man. It doesn’t make sense that he would give the new key to the housekeeper when she’s in a coma at the convalescent home,” Colleen said skeptically.

  “I don’t know how that poor woman got into this house,” Katherine sighed. “Maybe Cokey misunderstood Mark’s instructions and made a copy for Vivian, her daughter, and himself,” she said, frustrated.

  “Maybe this and maybe that, Katz? She had to get in the house somehow. But what about Scout’s behavior? I’m not a cat person, but do cats normally act like that?”

  “I have never seen her do it before. I think that bizarre hopping around like a Halloween cat was something she was trained to do by the magician years ago. But, Colleen, she never bit me before.”

  “Katz, why didn’t you tell her about the electricity being deliberately turned off?”

  “Because she made that comment that I was reliving it, like I did it. Besides, it doesn’t make any sense. None of this makes any sense.”

  “Well, it certainly does to me,” Colleen said tartly. “Someone murdered poor Mrs. Marston.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Have you forgotten the bag with the foot sticking out from under it? You cannot convince me that a woman on her death bed covered herself up with a plastic bag and then died by the water heater, of all places.”

  “You don’t need to convince me,” Katherine said, pulling a heavy Eastlake chair and barricading the dining room door. “Something is not right here.”

  “I’m sorry, Katz. It’s been a terrible day. Let’s do what the detective said. Let’s lock up and get some sleep. I’ll help you make up your bed.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Katherine said wearily.

  Chapter Eight

  A thin ray of sunlight filtered through the leaded glass transom over the tall window of the guest room. Katherine shifted uncomfortably on the lumpy mattress. She adjusted the feather pillow and lay back down. She admired the gold-edged ceiling medallion and the rose-colored glass of the chandelier. She heard a slight noise from the top of the massive, ornate headboard. Her eyes followed the sound to its source, atop the broad triangular pediment on the headboard’s peak. “Abby,” she said, surprised. “How did you get up there?”

  “Chirp,” Abby replied, as she launched herself from the pediment and soared, with limbs akimbo, five feet onto the mattress below. “Chir-r-r-r-p,” she trilled and began to purr. Katherine petted her.

  “You little rascal,” Katherine said, moving her closer and kissing her. She scanned the room for the other cats. “Lilac,” she called.

  There was a slight movement inside the heavy velvet curtains—the Scottish lace panel moved to one side—and a Siamese head popped out, “Me-yowl.” She was sitting on the top rail of the window’s bottom sash.

  “Why can’t you be an ordinary cat and sit on the windowsill?”

  Lilac turned, dug her front claws into the lace panel curtain, dropped her rear feet off the top of the window sash, and swung her body down to hang, like Tarzan, from the curtain.

  “Lilac, no. You’ll tear it,” Katherine scolded.

  Lilac twisted her body from the outside of the curtain to the inside, descended unevenly to the bottom windowsill for a fraction of a second, and with renewed confidence sprang effortlessly from the sill onto the bed. She immediately started to wash Abigail’s ears.

  Iris was sitting on the antique dresser, leaning over and watching Scout on the floor. Scout was making tiny waugh noises in rapid succession and was busy digging for something under the bed.

  “Stop that, Scout,” Katherine said sleepily. “I want to go back to sleep.”

  Katherine heard something fall beneath. “What was that?” she asked, sitting bolt upright. She peered over the side of the bed and observed Scout’s rump and tail. She was wedged halfway under the side rail. Her thumping tail was flipping like a pendulum in acute feline concentration. “Get out of there,” Katherine demanded.

  Scout backed out clutching a small, leather-bound book in her jaws. Her brown mask was covered with cobwebs.

  “Put that down,” Katherine ordered.

  “Waugh,” Scout said, dropping it. Scout sneezed and then made smacking noises with her tongue.

  Katherine hastened out of bed and picked up Scout. She brushed the cobwebs off her face, then took a look inside Scout’s mouth to make sure she hadn’t swallowed anything. She set her down. “You can’t taste a book by its cover.” Scout ran over to the water dish and began lapping up water.

  Katherine picked up the book and started to read the title out loud: “What to Do,” and stopped abruptly, “in Cases of Poisoning.”

  There was a loud knock on the door. Iris growled. Lilac and Abigail laid their ears back and stood to attention. Scout raced to the door—a droplet of water on her nose—ready to fling out. “Katz, are you okay?” Colleen said on the other side.

  Katherine opened the door. “You won’t believe what Scout just found under the bed.”

  “Looks like an old book,” Colleen said, then sneezed.

  Katherine opened the torn binding. “It’s ancient, all right. It was published in 1897.”

  “How about a bit of breakfast?” Colleen asked, starting to leave.

  “Wait a second,” Katherine exclaimed. “The section on arsenic is underlined.”

  “What’s this book about?”

  “Poisoning.”

  “Who do you think it belonged to? Is there a name inside?”

  Katherine flipped through several pages. “None that I can see.”

  “It’s a strange book to be under the bed. Who stayed in this room?”

  “When Mark first took me through the house, he said this was the main guest room. After my great aunt died, Vivian Marston slept here.”

  “Some guest room,” Colleen said in awe. “The stuff in here has to be priceless. It’s almost like you could take everything in here and move it to one of those period rooms at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Just look at the headboard with the gargoyle carved on it—”

  “Cherub,” Katherine corrected.

  “I bet that bed has been in the same spot since 1897. It’s too big and heavy to move anywhere else. Katz, the book could belong to anybody. What’s the name of the book?”

  “What to do in Cases of Poisoning by William Murrell.”

  Colleen’s eyes got big. She said, “Maybe the housekeeper found out your great aunt was going to cut her out of the will, so she studied this book to figure out how to kill the old lady.”

  “You’ve been reading too much Agatha Christie.”

  “Waugh,” Scout cried insistently. She had returned to the room and had placed one paw on Katherine’s foot. “Waugh,” she begged.

  Katherine put the book on the dresser, then picked up Scout. “The book seems to be a medical book on what to do if someone is poisoned, not a guide on how to murder someone. And, besides, my great aunt didn’t cut her out of the will.”

  “Do you realize every time I come up with an idea, Scout gets all bent out of shape?” Colleen sniffed.

  “Pay no mind to Scout. She’s probably hungry,” Katherine chuckled. “Allow me to get this straight. You think Vivian Marston poisoned my great aunt so she’d inherit everything? Mark said my great aunt’s will created a $200,000 trust for her. That’s a nice pocket of change for a housekeeper, don’t ya think?”

  “Poor woman doesn’t collect a dime because she ends up dying in your basement,” Colleen noted. “On second thought, on television they exhume bodies and check for poisoning,” Colleen offered.

  “Waugh.” Scout leaped from Katherine’s arms and landed on the bed.

  “Arsenic is a regulated substance. How would Vivian Marston get a hold of it? Besides, my great aunt died of a massive coronary. I’ve watched enough TV to know that dying of arsenic poisoning is a cruel, prolonged process.”

  “Oh, well,” Colleen shrugged
. “It was just something that popped into my head. My theory is that the housekeeper went daft, overexerted herself walking over here, then died of a heart attack. I’m sure the coroner will determine she died of natural causes.”

  “For our sake, I hope so,” Katherine agreed. “Do you think it’s possible that Vivian, in some sort of delirium, tore up my bedroom?”

  “Waugh. Waugh,” Scout said, butting her head into Katherine’s leg.

  “I don’t think so, Katz. I wouldn’t have the strength to create such a disaster. And the housekeeper in her state couldn’t have done it, either.”

  “Maybe that’s how she overexerted herself,” Katherine continued.

  “But what was she searching for?”

  “I don’t have a clue.”

  “‘Tis a mystery. By the way, did you ever read the entire will?”

  “No, Mark never sent me the rest of it. I’m going to request a hard copy.”

  “That’s a bit odd. Maybe there’s something in there he doesn’t want you to see,” Colleen said suspiciously.

  “Oh, he just forgot.”

  “I can’t help but wonder who else benefited from the will besides you.”

  “All I know is that a $200,000 trust was set up for Vivian, but I don’t know the details. Last night, Mark mentioned to the chief that my great aunt’s estate or the trust was paying Mrs. Marston’s medical expenses.”

  “Waugh,” Scout demanded, nipping Katherine’s leg.

  “Ouch,” she cried. “Bad cat.”

  “Maybe Scout is on to something.”

  “Yeah, my leg.”

  “Look, look behind you,” Colleen said excitedly, pointing to the dresser.

  Scout had leaped up onto the marble top and was clutching the poison book in her teeth. Her sapphire blue eyes were crossed, and she seemed to be in some sort of feline state of euphoria.

  “Gimme that,” Katherine demanded.

  Scout dropped the book and shot off of the dresser. She rounded the corner and bounded loudly down the hall.

  “Come back here!”

  “Katz, that’s it. Vivian Marston was looking for the book but she was searching in the wrong room,” Colleen exclaimed. “Scout should be helping the police.”