The Cats that Surfed the Web (4 page)

To Katherine’s right, a great staircase was carpeted with the same red oriental carpeting. Brass rods held the carpet in place against each riser. Katherine’s eyes followed the stairs to each landing. Where the handrail met a newel post, there was a carved acorn ornament. At each of the staircase’s three turns, the newel post’s acorn was carved slightly smaller than the one at the previous landing.

The first landing had an oblong window with a floral-garland pattern in rose-colored stained glass. The winter-morning light filtered through the glass and scattered rose-colored shades of light on the parquet floor. A maroon crystal chandelier hung from a satin-covered chain. Its dim light cast curious waves and sunbursts of color on the gold-textured ceiling.

Mark joined her in the room. “Orvenia called this room the atrium. What do you think so far?” he said.

“It’s like I just went back in time,” Katherine replied.

They continued the tour of the house. Mark escorted Katherine into the gold-damask-wallpapered parlor, where flames blazed in the fireplace.

“What a grand fireplace,” she commented. “But why is the mirror so high?”

“Mirrors were placed high to increase the illumination of the gas-light fixtures.”

“Let’s see,” Katherine began to muse. “If we move the ceramic vases from the two sconces, I can see Lilac and Abigail perched on each—sitting back on their haunches like two mismatched bookends. Iris would be sitting in front of the fireplace, basking in the glow of the warm fire.”

“What about the magic cat? What would she be doing?”

“She’d stroll in for a moment, groom the top of Iris’s head, and then resume her house patrolling,” she said. “By the way, who’s minding the fire?” Katherine asked.

“Oh, that’s not a wood-burning fireplace. It’s a gas log. You turn it on and off with a switch,” he explained.

“Good to know,” she answered.

“Mrs. Marston should be down in a minute. She’s temporarily living in the house; she has full reign of the upstairs,” Mark said.

“The entire floor?” Katherine asked.

“No, just two of the rooms and a bathroom toward the back of the house. There are three other bedrooms besides those she occupies. A set of stairs in the back lead to the first-floor kitchen from Mrs. Marston’s section.”

“There’s something that doesn’t make any sense to me. Why doesn’t Mrs. Marston take care of Abigail?”

“She’s been suffering from migraine headaches. I’ve hired a temporary housekeeper to replace her while she’s been ill.”

“How long has that been?”

“Just a few weeks. Mrs. Marston has agreed to stay on here until we can find the individual who’ll move into this house. I’m hoping that person will be you,” Mark said, beaming. “Mrs. Marston wishes to move back into her apartment soon. You see, your great aunt set up a trust for her in the amount of two hundred thousand dollars,” he said. He whispered, “I think she’s anxious to have access to that money.”

Katherine momentarily looked shocked, then said, “Will I meet her today?”

As if on cue, Katherine heard a creak from the floorboards of the nearby stairs. She stepped back into the atrium and saw a woman in her mid-sixties descend the stairs.

“Hello,” the woman greeted. “You must Katherine.”

“Yes, and you must be Mrs. Marston.”

“Vivian,” the woman corrected. “Mrs. Colfax called me Viv. I hope you had a pleasant flight. The weather forecast predicts twelve inches of snow tomorrow. I hope that doesn’t hinder your getting about and seeing our fine town.”

“Twelve inches,” Katherine worried. “I hope I don’t get snowed in here. I have a very important meeting on Monday.”

“I wouldn’t fret. The town is quite efficient about clearing the streets,” Mrs. Marston replied.

“The main highways are rarely closed,” Mark added.

“My daughter Patricia will be here soon. I want you to meet her.”

“She was at the restaurant last night, and Katherine met her then,” he said.

“She seems very bright. You must be very proud,” Katherine commented.

“She’s very smart in school. She’s also very talented in the garden. Mrs. Colfax loved her herb garden. Sometimes my daughter would bake the most lovely black walnut cake. Your great aunt adored it. As a matter-of-fact, I do, too. She baked one last night. Would you care for some? When Patricia comes, I’ll ask her to make us some tea,” she offered.

“No, that’s not necessary, Vivian,” Mark said. “We’re going to have coffee later.”

“It was so nice meeting you, Ms. Kendall, and seeing you again, Mr. Dunn. If you’ll excuse me, I must return upstairs. I haven’t been feeling very well lately.”

“Shall I help you upstairs?” Mark asked.

“If you don’t mind. I’ve been getting dizzy spells, and I don’t like the idea of falling down these stairs.” She forced a laugh.

He rushed to her side and took her arm. They slowly ascended the stairs.

Katherine said good-bye, then slid open one of the pocket doors in the atrium. It opened to a living room crammed full of Victorian furniture. A rosewood sofa and matching loveseat were upholstered in mauve velvet. Nearby were gentleman’s and lady’s chairs covered in pink brocade. There were several ornately carved, walnut Rococo parlor tables; a few of the tables had marble tops. In one corner, a tall, walnut Renaissance Revival étagère had six shelves holding a collection of
Lladro
Mother and Child
figurines. To the right of the fireplace was a huge portrait. Mark came into the room and stood beside her.

“Is that William?” she asked.

“Yes. William Colfax III.”

“Handsome man. No wonder my great aunt married him.”

“So you fancy dark-haired men with blue eyes,” Mark said, and then laughed. “I’d say your great uncle was in his thirties when this portrait was painted.”

“So in reality, my great aunt fell in love with a man with snow-white hair and blue eyes.”

“You stand corrected.”

“Is Mrs. Marston going to be okay?”

“I think so.”

“Has she gone to a doctor?”

“No, she is quite stubborn. I’m hoping her daughter will persuade her to at least see a physician and possibly have some tests done.”

“Thanks for rescuing me from the walnut cake.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m allergic to walnuts.”

At the end of the long, narrow room, a door opened and a man in his late forties walked in. He was wearing a Yankees cap. He tipped his cap and said, “I just wanted to make you feel at home.”

Katherine smiled. “You must be Mr. Cokenberger?”

He extended his hand. “Cokey,” he said.

Mark said, “Cokey has single-handedly done most of the restoration on this house.”

“That’s quite impressive,” Katherine said.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Cokey said to Katherine. “I worked for Mrs. Colfax for the past seven years. She was a great lady.”

“Are you going to be working much longer in the basement?” Mark asked him.

“At least another week tuck pointing. The interior wall bricks in the turret area have to be re-pointed from the floor up.”

“What’s tuck pointing?” she asked.

“It means you remove the crumbling mortar between the bricks, then put in new. It takes a lot of time,” the handyman answered.

“Do you live in Erie?” Katherine said, making small talk.

Cokey nodded. “I live a few streets over on Alexander Street. I have a key to the basement-level entrance at the back of the house. I come and go. I fix things, run errands, change light bulbs. Sometimes I’d drive Mrs. Colfax into the city and wait while she shopped. We’d stop at one of her favorite restaurants and have lunch.”

“One more question,” she said. “Has this house been rewired? I have a lot of computer equipment, and I wouldn’t want to blow any fuses.”

“The electrical system is state-of-the-art, 200-amp, and up-to-code. I installed it,” Cokey said proudly. “It was nice meeting you. I need to get back. I just mixed a batch of mortar downstairs, and I need to use it before it sets.” The handyman left the room, leaving a trail of dusty footprints on the navy-blue oriental rug.

When he was no longer within earshot, Katherine said, “I don’t like that ‘have-my-own-key business, come-and-go.’ I’d want to know who’s in the house at all times. It would be easy for crims to hide out in this place.”

“Crims?” Mark asked.

She chuckled. “Criminals. Does Mrs. Marston tidy up after this man? Look at that rug.”

“You seem to be just like Orvenia,” he winked. “She was a cleaning machine.”

“You learn to be tidier than usual when you have as many cats as I do.”

“That makes sense,” he said. “Allow me to show you the rest of the house. Let’s begin with the room in the back of the house. It has wood floors and oak wainscoting. It opens onto a carpeted sun porch. I think this room would provide a perfect home office space.”

“Can I see the kitchen first?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said, opening a door from the dining room that led into a 1950s kitchen, complete with red Formica table, matching chrome chairs, aqua metal cabinets, and a black-and-white ceramic tile floor.

“I love it,” Katherine exclaimed. “Even the stove is from the ‘50s.”

“We could always replace it,” he said.

“Are you kidding? My family’s stove in Brooklyn looked like this. I hope it’s gas.”

“Right you are,” he said.

The tour continued for another thirty minutes. Mark showed Katherine every nook and cranny of the old house—the rear stairs from the kitchen, Orvenia Colfax’s bedroom and sitting rooms, and the guest rooms—all crammed full of Victorian furniture and adornments. She particularly enjoyed the attic, with its trunks of memorabilia and the gargoyle that stood sentry by the east window under a small floodlight fixture.

“It’s so cool that my great aunt has a gargoyle,” she said, amused.

“Orvenia told me it guards the house against water damage. Plus, I think she bought it as a joke for the neighborhood kids. They look upon this house as being haunted.”

“Well, is it?” she asked. “Are there any ghosts?”

“You have my solemn word that there are no ghosts in this house,” he said, with a hint of forced formality.

“If there are, my friend Colleen will find them. She’s an administrative assistant by day, and a paranormal investigator by night.”

“A ghost hunter?” he asked, slightly amused.

“She belongs to the Irish chapter in NY.”

“Interesting,” he said, non-committedly.

“There are so many trunks up here,” she said, changing the subject. She opened one and found stacks of papers—receipts, bills of lading—the usual accounting files. Leaning against the wall was a tall, rectangular shape, covered with an old tablecloth. Katherine went over and removed the cloth, which sent a cloud of fine dust into the air. She coughed, then exclaimed, “What a lovely portrait. Who’s this woman?”

Mark came over. “Why, I’ve never seen this before. The woman would have to be related to you, because I can see a resemblance. She’s got your dark hair and green eyes—”

“This is uncanny. This has to be my great aunt when she was younger. How can we find out?”

Mark turned the oil painting around and scrutinized the back. On the bottom of the canvas was a handwritten note. “You’re right. It’s your great aunt.”

“What does it say?”

“Orvenia Colfax—1932.”

“Wouldn’t it be lovely to hang her portrait in the living room?”

“Where would you put William’s?”

“It can stay where it is. We could put my great aunt’s on the other side of the fireplace.”

“Consider it done,” he said.

“Oh, what am I saying? I’m acting as if I’m moving into this house.”

“I hope you do,” he said seriously.

“Perhaps,” she said. “Here, help me put this cloth back over it.”

They walked back downstairs, and Katherine watched Mark turn off the gas supply to the parlor fireplace.

“Just in case Mrs. Marston forgets,” he said, extinguishing the flame. When he finished, he announced he was going to the basement to mention something to the handyman. While Mark was away, Katherine milled about the parlor, admiring her great aunt’s impressive Chinese cloisonné collection on the fireplace mantel. She was startled to hear Mrs. Marston and another woman arguing upstairs.

“Leave him alone. He’s a married man,” Mrs. Marston demanded.

“He was promised to me before she came into the picture,” a woman’s voice said.

“Lower your voice. She’ll hear you. I saw that Jimson weed growing in the plant room, and a bag of seeds sitting next to it for anyone to see.”

“How did you know what it was?” replied the other woman, haughtily.

“I wasn’t born yesterday. That stuff used to grow wild on the farm. It can kill you! I know that young people are ending up in ERs all over the country because of it. Are you abusing drugs again?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m growing that as a part of my final research paper this semester.”