The Cats that Surfed the Web (13 page)

“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 just 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 i
t, 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.”

Katherine rolled her eyes and said, “Scout is a known drug addict. I’ve caught her licking the processing fluid off old photographs, slurping the tops of household cleanser cans, and once, she ate a fabric softener sheet.”

“I’ve never heard of a junkie cat.”

“Most likely there’s a chemical in the book binding that Scout wants to get high on,” Katherine said, opening the top drawer and putting the book inside. “You know what really unnerves me?”

“What, that your cat needs to enter a drug rehab center?”

“No, that my inner sanctum has been violated. I’m desperate to know who ransacked my room, and I don’t believe for a moment that a bunch of local hooligans did it.”

“I’ve got another notion in my head, that perhaps this house has a poltergeist,” Colleen ventured.

“Oh, please. You don’t really think this house is haunted?”

“Well, now,” Colleen said, with her hands on her hips. “Considering the fact my ghost meter has been smashed into smithereens, I can’t very well find out.”

“And, I
am
so sorry about that,” Katherine said.

“Something happened last night. Actually, in the middle of the night, because it woke me up from a dead sleep,” Colleen began. “It sounded like something was scratching on my door.”

“It couldn’t have been the cats because they were with me all night.”

“I know. That’s why I didn’t get up and answer it.”

“Maybe it was a tree limb outside, or something rattling on the street.”

“I looked,” Colleen said. “Katz, come here.” She directed Katherine to the back hallway window. “Look out. There isn’t a tree to be seen, and the street is in front of the house.”

“I didn’t hear anything.”

“Of course not. You’re legally dead when you sleep.”

“But if there is something odd, the cats always wake me up.”

“Maybe this time they didn’t.”

“I bet you’re going to tell me that the ghost of Vivian Marston tapped on your door last night.”

“The saints preserve us,” Colleen said theatrically, covering her ears. “It’s not right to speak about the newly departed.”

“The saints preserve us,” Katherine imitated, covering her ears. “Five seconds ago, you thought I should dig up my great aunt.”

“Waugh,” Scout wailed.

In the guest room, one of the cats began coughing and gagging.

Katherine darted back into the room and found Abigail hunched over on the Renaissance bed. “Abby?”

“What’s wrong?” Colleen said, rushing in behind her.

Abigail continued retching and then threw up a large beige hairball. She glanced at Katherine as if she didn’t understand what had happened. Katherine picked her up and said, “Does your tummy hurt, sweetheart?” Abigail squeezed her eyes.

“Is she going to be okay?” Colleen said, hovering nearby. “Oh, the saints preserve us.”

“Preserve us agai
n
 . . 
.
Now what’s wrong?”

“Look at my best cable knit sweater,” Colleen said, holding up last night’s cat nest, which now bore a large, gaping hole in the neck. “The little terror tried to eat my sweater.”

“Chirp,” Abigail hiccupped guiltily. The Abyssinian squirmed free of Katherine’s grasp, jumped off the bed, and scampered down the hall.

Katherine stooped down and re-examined the hairball. “It’s wool,” she said.

“So?” Colleen said, eyes blazing.

“Abigail must have a wool fetish.”

“A what?”

“Pica is an unnatural craving for non-food substances. I’ve read that Siamese sometimes develop a liking for wool, but I didn’t know other cats did, as well.”

Iris growled.

“What’s the matter?”

The front door bell rang loudly. Katherine put on her robe and raced down the stairs, as the bell clanged a second time. “Okay, already. I’m coming.” She rushed to the door and opened it.

“Interstate Shipping,” said a man dressed in an olive green uniform, stamping his feet to rid them of slush.

“Yes?” Katherine asked, observing the panel truck parked on the street.

“Are you Ms. Kendall?”

“Yes. Yes. Are you delivering my boxes from New York?”

He looked down at his notebook and nodded. “I need you to sign on these lines.” He handed her a plastic pen.

Katherine signed and handed the notebook back to him.

“They’re a total of twenty boxes. Is there a way to wedge open this door?”

“I’ll let you in and out. I have cats.”

He rushed back to his truck.

“Who is it?” Colleen called over the upstairs handrail.

“Some guy delivering my boxes, in the dead of winter, not wearing a coat.”