Karen Anne Golden - The Cats That 02 - The Cats that Chased the Storm

by Karen Anne Golden

  Katherine thought for a moment, “I may have mentioned it to my friend, Colleen.”

  “Is she here? Can I talk to her.”

  “No, she went back to New York a few days after Gary DeSutter was murdered. Last February.”

  “Zip your lip then. I’m going to share this information with Chief London. If I find out anything, I’ll let you know.”

  Detective Martin put on her jacket, grabbed her laptop, and left.

  When Katherine locked the front door, she was surprised to see Iris in the foyer. “How did you get out of your room?”

  “Yowl,” Iris said, glancing over at Scout.

  “Waugh,” Scout said guiltily.

  “Didn’t take you long to figure out the doorknob,” she said, picking up the guilty Siamese. “I think my magic cat needs a treat.” Katherine carried Scout into the kitchen and set her on the counter.

  At the mention of “treat,” Lilac, Abby and Iris raced into the room and began caterwauling loudly.

  “Not so loud. You’ll break the sound barrier,” Katherine said gently. Searching through the box, she found the tuna cat treats. Handing each cat several kibbles, she said, “Compliments of Jake Cokenberger.” Then Katherine thought, I sure hope he put a wine opener in there. This talk about Prohibition has made me want a glass of wine.

  Chapter Nine

  Before leaving the bungalow, Katherine instructed the cats to be good. “I left my laptop on, so be sure to surf me up a cute guy, preferably one who likes cats,” she explained. She decided to walk downtown to Mark’s office instead of driving. The fresh air and exercise would do her good. Turning onto Lincoln Street, she was saddened at the number of old maples that had fallen during the tornado. Lovingly planted by the homeowners in the 1890s, she thought.

  Next to the pink mansion, parked in front of the yellow brick house, was a locksmith’s van and Mark’s green Honda. Katherine bounded up the front steps and knocked on the door. Mark stepped out.

  “Hey, Katz! I was just getting ready to drive to the office. Want a lift?”

  “Why is the locksmith here?” she asked.

  “The basement door to the tunnel had to be replaced, in case someone tries to jump down the hole by your house, then break into this one.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “See what?” he asked, confused.

  “If you don’t mind, I’m sure it won’t take long, but I’d like to see the basement, and the original door.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Come on in.”

  Katherine walked through a small foyer and then into a large room with flowered wallpaper on it. “Oh, my God. This wallpaper is hideous,” she gasped.

  “Exactly! Every single room has this stuff. We’ve got several bids in to have this place gutted. No one will buy it looking like this!”

  “I hope Margie Cokenberger is one of them. She tries to keep the original details. I love all of this woodwork. It’s a shame it was painted. When was the house built?”

  “1920 or 1925. I don’t remember. Here’s the door to the basement. Watch your step. Ladies first,” he motioned.

  “It smells really moldy,” she said, carefully descending one step at a time.

  “Water damage over the years,” he noted.

  The locksmith called from the far end of the basement. “I’m finishing up.”

  Katherine and Mark joined him. Katherine observed a new gray, steel-reinforced door with a brass bolt lock.

  “Where’s the original door?” she asked, looking around.

  “Right there,” Mark said, pointing. Leaning against the wall was the speakeasy door with a rusted front grille.

  The locksmith noted, “That’s the original lockset. Built to last. I’d keep it if I were you.”

  “Yes,” Katherine answered, “I would like to keep it and the door. Maybe Cokey or Margie can restore it.”

  “I have no problem with that,” Mark said. “I’ll let Cokey know.”

  Katherine smiled.

  “I’m good to go,” the locksmith announced, collecting his tools.

  “So as you can see, this is one moldy, empty basement,” Mark said. “After Mrs. Clay died, I hired a crew to dispose of the junk down here.”

  “I hope it wasn’t historic stuff.”

  “Of course not,” he said, slightly annoyed. “I let the historical society look through it. Some of the stuff was sold on eBay, some of it donated to charity, and the rest of it was hauled off to the Erie dump. Mrs. Clay’s main occupation in life was to attend every garage or yard sale, buy stuff, and pile it down here. After she passed away, when I came down here, it was like King Tut’s tomb!”

  “Okay, I’ve seen enough,” Katherine said, glancing around a final time.

  The locksmith said to Mark, “I’ll send you the invoice.”

  The three climbed the stairs and left the house. Mark locked the front door.

  “Hop in,” he said, pointing at his car.

  Katherine answered, “Sure, why not.”

  They rode in silence to Mark’s office building. He showed her inside. She took a seat by the window while he sat behind his desk. “How’s Abby?” he began.

  “Abby has nine lives; so I figure she’s got seven to go. She’s doing fine. When I picked her up at the vet school, she was a little unsure of me, but I think that was because of the hair gel the beautician used. You know the kind that smells good to humans, but stinks to cats.”

  Mark smiled. “It looks nice.”

  There was a tense moment of silence, then Katherine said, “Thank you for the wine. I should have called you. We could have shared it together.”

  “Small gesture on my part to say I’m sorry, and I truly am.”

  “Apology accepted,” Katherine smiled. For the first time, she noticed a framed photograph of a young woman on Mark’s credenza. Pointing at the picture, she asked, “Is that Candy?”

  Mark looked shocked. “How did you know her name?”

  “Chief London told me – just in passing. I’m very sorry.”

  “It’s ancient history, now what brings you here today?” he asked, abruptly changing the subject.

  “Okay, I’ll just cut to the chase,” she said. “I’m speaking to you as my attorney, so everything we talk about will be in the strictest confidence.”

  “Of course.”

  “I spoke to Detective Martin last night.” She quickly filled Mark in on the conversation, even the part about Beatrice Baker and the gold coins. “It’s a 1929 Indian head two-and-a-half dollar. The skeleton in the tunnel was grasping a handful of the same coins. On the market, they are worth about three hundred bucks a coin, if in good condition.”

  “How can you be sure Beatrice had the same ones? Did you examine the coins?” Mark asked skeptically.

  “No, she snatched them away from me before I could get a really good look.”

  Mark had a guilty look on his face, then said, “Before we get any further. . .Orvenia gave out those coins to members of the Historical Society. Want to see mine?” he said, reaching in his pocket. “It’s my lucky charm. Now that I know the value of it, I better put it in safekeeping.” He put the coin back in his pocket.

  “What if there are more of those coins, say perhaps, hidden in my house? What if I found them? Would they be considered part of my great aunt’s estate?”

  “Actually, under state law, they would. The estate would have to pay taxes on it. Did you find some?” Mark asked eagerly.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Well, that’s surprising,” he said, amused, “Considering the fact you’re a money magnet.”

  “I have a gut feeling that Beatrice thinks there’s money hidden in my house. I think she’s the one who vandalized my bedroom before Gary died. Maybe it wasn’t a bunch of local thugs, as the chief had said.”

  “Tell me what you’re not telling me,” Mark insisted.

  “I know you’re the first to shoot down my theories, but if Abby dies and I’m out
of the picture, then the town’s share is sixty percent. Does that include a cut for the Erie Historical Society?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, it does,” Mark agreed.

  “And now Beatrice is in charge of the Society,” Katherine added. “Is it possible Carol or Beatrice deliberately put a poisonous substance in the damn floral arrangement they brought to the pink mansion to welcome me to Erie?”

  “This part I didn’t know. Earlier you said the floral arrangement came from Erie Florist.”

  “It did,” Katherine confirmed. “Carol was the one who ordered and delivered it. But Beatrice was there at my house when Carol handed it to me.”

  Mark shook his head, “That’s so outlandish. It’s just unreasonable to suspect either one of them of doing such a thing.”

  “Well, when they abruptly left my house that day, they were outside by their cars arguing about something. I could tell by their body language. I think Beatrice had something to do with Carol’s fatal crash,” Katherine said.

  “I hate to burst your bubble, but Chief London said Carol was traveling at a high speed. Have you ever driven behind Biddy? She needs a slow-moving vehicle sign to be safe on the road.”

  “We do know, Mark, that there were paint marks on Carol’s back fender. Maybe the chief should go check out her car.”

  “What would be her motive?” he asked, then reflected, “I do remember Carol telling me that Orvenia told her there was buried treasure in the pink mansion. She promised Carol that if she found it, she could keep it.”

  “That’s a damn good motive. Maybe Beatrice was promised this, too.”

  “Orvenia was a manipulator. She promised practically everyone in Erie a piece of the Colfax pie. I think she enjoyed every minute of making up these wild stories.”

  “What did she promise you?”

  “Nothing,” he said, shaking his head. “Besides if I accepted a gift from the estate, I’d have to do a lot of explaining to the Disciplinary Commission. However, I did advise her to refrain from telling others about hidden money. You never know what criminal in Erie would believe her and break into the house.”

  Realizing that Mark was not going to accept her Beatrice theory, Katherine shifted to a different topic. “Maybe you’re right. Is there any way I can dip into the estate funds before final distribution?”

  “How much do you need?”

  “I don’t need money, but there are a few charitable donations I’d like to make as soon as possible.”

  “What did you have in mind?” He began nervously fiddling with his ink pen.

  “Dr. Sonny needs a sonogram machine. Abby would have been home sooner if he’d had one. Also, the library needs to get with the digital age and send their microfilm reader to the museum. There are companies that can do the conversion before the microfilm deteriorates. That’s all I can think of for now.”

  “I’ll talk to the bank and get back to you.”

  Katherine got up, “Okay, thanks for your time. Hope I’ll be hearing from you soon.”

  “Need a lift back home?” he asked, getting up.

  “No, I’m good. It’s a nice morning. I’ll just walk home. Bye, now,” she said, leaving.

  Heading out the law office door, Katherine thought, Why do I feel I can’t trust him anymore?

  * * *

  Katherine was halfway to the Erie library, when Jake drove up in the Jeep. “Where you headed?” he asked.

  “Hi,” she said, smiling. “I’m going to the library.”

  “So am I. Want to join me?”

  “Yes, why not?” Opening the door, she grabbed the bar and pulled herself in.

  Jake put the Jeep in gear and drove to the library. He parked a block away. “Beautiful day,” he observed.

  “Can we sit for a minute?” Katherine suggested.

  “Sure,” he said. “What’s up?”

  “I want to show you something.” Katherine reached in her bag and extracted the journal. One of my cats found this several days ago. She’s attracted to the chemicals used in processing book covers. I just started reading it.” She handed it to Jake, who carefully began sifting through the faded pages.

  Jake said ardently, “Do you know what this is?”

  “I kind of do,” she said.

  “It’s a log of deliveries. It’s written in code. I’ve seen this code before in my research. Who did it belong too?”

  “Look at the front cover,” she advised.

  “Initials ‘W.E.C.,’” Jake read out loud, then said, “William Colfax.”

  “Can you tell what the deliveries were?”

  “Illegal alcohol. Booze,” he declared. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but your great uncle was a bootlegger.”

  Katherine nodded. “I guess we’ll have to update the Who’s Who book,” she offered. “His daughter’s name is written on several pages – Amanda Colfax. She died before my great aunt married William. I think Amanda’s mother is cited, too – Ethel. I need to see if I can find any records regarding Amanda and her mother.”

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “Where do you see Ethel?”

  She took the book and showed him.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d think that was a reference to ethanol. That’s what booze is made of. But Ethel is the name of a rural cemetery several miles from here.”

  “Do you know where it is?” Katherine asked breathlessly.

  He glanced down, and then sadly looked up, catching Katherine’s eyes. “That’s where my wife is buried.”

  Katherine touched his hand. “I didn’t know.”

  “I’m surprised Margie or Cokey didn’t tell you. My wife died last fall. She battled cancer for a year, then passed away last September. She wanted to be buried in the Ethel cemetery because the scenery is so beautiful.” Bouncing back to a lighter mood, he said, “Don’t worry about me. I’m getting along just fine.”

  “Can you take me there some time?”

  “Sure, that can be arranged. So, are you ready to head in the library?” he asked, starting to get out of the Jeep.

  “No, wait. I need to talk to you about something else,” she said. Then she proceeded to do exactly what Detective Martin told her not to do: she spilled the beans about her suspicions toward Beatrice. “Can you keep this secret?” she asked.

  “I think I can,” he answered, winking.

  “That day in the library, you seemed so fond of her.”

  “Fond of Beatrice?” he said, rolling his eyes. “Excuse the English, but we ain’t friends. Biddy is a beeotch. I don’t like the way she treats her employees. And her husband Frank is a drunk. He’s always getting into fights at the bar.”

  Katherine quickly sketched out her theory regarding Carol Lombard’s accident. She mentioned Beatrice’s visit to the house, and how gold coins fell out of her change purse. She also talked about Beatrice’s over-exuberance in obtaining Orvenia’s documents under the auspices of the Erie museum.

  “This is quite a long shot. Why would you suspect Beatrice?”

  “‘There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact’,” Katherine said with a feigned British accent.

  “Arthur Conan Doyle, right?”

  Katherine nodded. She didn’t tell him about Scout’s Halloween dance when Beatrice’s name was mentioned, or the other fang-marked clues, but said instead, “Before Carol left my house – minutes before she died – we loaded two boxes of my great aunt’s stuff in her car. After the wreck, Chief London said they weren’t in her vehicle. I think Carol drove the boxes over to Beatrice’s, then attempted to drive to the city. I think Beatrice followed her and drove her off the road.”

  “I wouldn’t think Beatrice capable of that, but Frank might be. He’s gotten in trouble with the law many times. He’s already had one DUI conviction. Maybe we should drop by the station and see if the chief is available,” he suggested.

  “I kind of wanted to set Beatrice up. I don’t think the chief would want to be a party to it, because he might
feel she’d claim it was entrapment.”

  “What on earth do you have in mind?” he asked, puzzled.

  “Let’s go in the library. We’ll sit at a table close to the front desk. If Beatrice is there, we can talk just loud enough so she can hear.”

  “What will we say?”

  “I’ll say I’ve found a journal belonging to William Colfax that suggests where the gold is hidden. You’ll ask me more details. I’ll say it’s in pink mansion’s attic. We leave and then camp out in the attic. If she takes the bait, she’ll break in the house and look for the money herself.”

  “What if her nutcase husband comes along?” Jake asked uneasily.

  “That’s where you come in,” Katherine said, patting his arm. “You can tackle him and I’ll take on Beatrice.”

  “Not so sure about this plan, Katz. Sounds dangerous to me. What if he’s armed?”

  “You mean packing a gun?” Katherine said, surprised.

  “Everyone has a gun in this town!”

  Suddenly discouraged, she said, “I didn’t think of that.”

  “Let’s talk to Chief London.”

  “Okay, I guess,” Katherine said reluctantly.

  Jake fired up the Jeep and drove to the Erie police station. Chief London wasn’t there, but Katherine was able to catch him on his cell phone. When she told the chief the plan, she didn’t have to put him on speaker because his voice was so loud, it blasted out and filled the room.

  “You want to do what?” the chief squawked. “That’s the most cockamamie thing I’ve ever heard of.”

  Jake stood nearby and shrugged his shoulders.

  “Where are you?” the chief shouted.

  “The police station,” Katherine answered warily. She regretted calling the chief in the first place.

  “Stay where you are. I’ll be there in a few seconds.”

  “Wow, I think my eardrums have burst,” Katherine complained, sitting down on a hard vinyl seat. Jake found a chair next to her.

  Jake laughed and said, “He sounded like a hysterical parrot.”