The Cats that Surfed the Web

by Golden, Karen

  “For the last five years I’ve taken care of Orvenia’s garden during my school summer breaks,” she said in a monotone voice.

  “Where do you go to school?”

  “The university in the city,” she said. “I’m a graduate student.”

  “What do you major in?” Katherine asked.

  “Botany,” Patricia answered. “Now, what can I get you this evening?”

  “We would both like the prime rib,” Mark said.

  The server smiled slightly, wrote down their order, and returned to the kitchen.

  Katherine took a sip of her wine. “I’ve got a question for you. Where was the housekeeper when my great aunt died?”

  Mark looked surprised, then relaxed. “Orvenia died in the middle of the night. Mrs. Marston found her the following morning.”

  “Did she cry out, or ask for assistance in any way?”

  “She might have, but nobody was in the house to hear her, or to call an ambulance.”

  “I thought Mrs. Marston and her daughter lived in the house,” Katherine said.

  “No,” Mark answered. “Vivian has an apartment downtown. After Orvenia passed away, Vivian moved into the house, but this arrangement is only temporary. Patricia rents a room at the Erie Hotel. Orvenia lived quite alone for most of her life. She preferred it that way.”

  “My mother didn’t talk much about her aunt. You must understand my great aunt moved to Indiana before my mom was even born. I think they exchanged Christmas cards every year, but that was the extent of their relationship. I suppose that since you’re my great aunt’s attorney, you’re probably aware of the big scandal?”

  “Scandal?” he asked.

  “Mom said she was a beautiful woman with lots of suitors, but she chose to run off with an older man in his late 70s. Didn’t he die soon thereafter?”

  “I believe it was about a year later. William was eighty when he died,” Mark offered.

  Katherine observed Mark’s bland expression and said, “That was the scandal. My great aunt was seventeen when she married him.”

  “Well, you know,” he said, looking down at the table, “a lot of people in this town thought Orvenia was a gold-digger. When William married her, he immediately changed his will. If he died first, Orvenia would inherit everything. Previously, he had been inclined to leave his wealth to the town.”

  “I feel sorry for my great aunt. Poor thing, disowned by her family back in Brooklyn, and then not accepted by the townspeople. Did she ever talk about my great uncle to you?”

  “Yes, she did. In fact, she must have cared deeply for him, because she never remarried. Tomorrow I’ll make sure to show you his portrait.”

  Patricia brought the steaks over. “Sorry it took so long,” she said, putting the hot plates down. “Don’t touch that steak until I come back,” she commanded. She rushed to the kitchen, and then returned with two bibs. Katherine protested slightly, but then acquiesced to the town tradition.

  Chapter Three

  Half-asleep, Katherine sat up in bed and strained to look around the room, which was enveloped in darkness. It’s too dark, she thought. She listened for the ordinary street noises. There were no blaring police car sirens echoing down Lexington Avenue to the east. There were no wailing car alarms triggered by a driver parallel parking, or a thunderclap. Where was the sanitation truck, with its noisy clanging and banging, screeching and thumping? It seemed to be way past his usual pick-up time of three o’clock in the morning. Even the pigeons were not cooing outside on her twenty-second floor window ledge.

  Katherine began to panic. Where are the cats? “Lilac . . . Scout . . . Iris,” she called. She felt for them in the dark, and then realized they weren’t there, because she wasn't even in New York state, let alone cuddled up with the Siamese in her warm bed. Instead, she was lying in a four-poster canopy bed in a bed and breakfast called the Little Tomato, in faraway Indiana.

  She stumbled out of bed and searched for the light switch. She walked into a chair. “Ouch,” she moaned, as she struggled to find the wall. She cursed aloud, then stepped on her carry-on bag. Finally, she found the switch for the ceiling light fixture. The dim light from the low wattage bulb cast eerie shadows on the wall. She picked up her watch. It read five a.m.

  The room was incredibly cold. Katherine lamented that she had not brought her fuzzy bathrobe or her slippers, but congratulated herself for packing her heavy-duty fleece pajamas, which, she surmised, had prevented her from freezing to death. She jumped back into bed and pulled the covers over her, shivering.

  She thought about the cats. During the workweek, 5:00 in the morning was their usual wake-up time. Katherine would get up and feed the cats, then would get ready for work. By the time she’d finished putting on her make-up, fixed her hair, and put on her clothes, the cats would be stretched out languidly next to the steam heat radiator.

  That’s it, she thought. I'm freezing in my bed and I’m subconsciously trying to get warm by thinking about my apartment’s steam heat. She vowed to never complain again about the temperature in the living room being 82 degrees in the middle of winter. She wondered if she could ever get used to the Indiana cold.

  She forced herself out of bed and ventured into the hallway. She found the communal bathroom and went inside, bolting the door lock behind her. She took a hot shower and then returned to her room to get dressed. While she was out of the room, someone—the note said, “compliments of the house”—had placed a warm coffeepot on the nightstand with a large, heavily iced sweet roll.

  She took one bite and said out loud, “This is incredible.”

  She put the roll down and wiped her sticky fingers on a paper napkin. She fished her cell phone out of her bag and started to call Colleen to check on her cats, but then she realized how early it was and decided Colleen would be fast asleep. Stop worrying, she thought. Colleen may be totally new at cat care, but she was smart enough to figure it out. Siamese had clever ways of dealing with newcomers, and showing them the ropes.

  Mark arrived at nine o’clock. Because he was fifteen minutes late, Katherine had put on her coat and was waiting for him at the front door. When she saw him pull up, she hurried outside. He jumped out of his car and opened the door for her.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” he apologized.

  “No problem,” she said.

  “One of my clients called right as I was about to leave, and I had to answer a few quick questions that ended up taking more time.” He went on to explain that the veterinarian office was located a mile north of Erie. “How did you like your room?” he asked cheerfully.

  “It was great. I think I was the only guest staying at the Tomato last night.”

  “Business is probably pretty slow this time of year,” he agreed.

  “This morning, while I was taking a shower, someone brought coffee to my room and the most fantastic cinnamon roll ever,” she said, engaging in simple chitchat. “It was delicious.”

  “That must have been Carol. Her cinnamon rolls are known throughout the county. That was thoughtful of her.”

  “It was huge and sticky and covered with a mountain of icing,” Katherine continued.

  “You’re making me hungry. I haven’t had breakfast,” Mark said.

  “Sorry. May I treat you to lunch today?” she offered.

  “I’d be delighted,” he replied.

  “I cannot wait to meet Abigail,” Katherine said excitedly.

  “She’s a sweet cat,” Mark said.

  “If she’s so sweet, then why doesn’t she stay with you?” Katherine asked.

  “My Maine Coon weighs twenty-five pounds and is very bossy. I was afraid he might hurt her.”

  “Does he routinely beat up other cats?”

  “I really don’t know. He’s never come into contact with another cat. However, he’s very jealous of my women friends, and a female cat might really upset him.”

  “What’s your cat’s name?” she said, as Mark pulled into a long gravel road lea
ding to the vet’s office.

  “I named him Bruiser after a famous Hoosier wrestler named Dick the Bruiser. When Bruiser was a few months old—my cat, that is—he managed to push my forty-six inch flat-screen off the entertainment center, so I’ve called him Bruiser ever since.”

  Mark pulled in front of the veterinary clinic and parked the car. A sign over the door read: “Please wipe your paws.”

  Katherine hurriedly opened the car door and darted inside the clinic. She announced her name to the receptionist, who quickly showed her to an empty examination room. Mark followed the two women inside.

  “Dr. Sonny will be with you in a moment,” the receptionist said. “Please have a seat and make yourselves comfortable.” She closed the door behind her.

  After a few minutes, Katherine began to fidget. “I hate to wait.”

  “A New Yorker hating to wait,” he grinned.

  “Yes, we hate a line just as much as anyone.”

  The door opened and a white-smocked man walked inside, carrying a small, rusty-brown bundle of fur. “Hello,” he said. The cat nestled deeper into the crook of his arm. “I’m Dr. Sonny,” he said to Katherine. “And my little friend here is Abigail. She’s very shy at first, but once she warms up to you, she is quite affectionate.”

  Katherine stood up. “She’s beautiful. I love her gold eyes. Can I hold her?”

  “By all means,” he said, unhooking Abigail’s claws from his jacket. He finally dislodged the clinging cat and placed the Abyssinian in the arms of her prospective caretaker.

  “She seems terrified,” Katherine said. “She’s trembling.”

  “I’m sure she will be fine after a while,” Mark said.

  “I’ll let the two of you get acquainted. I have an emergency surgery coming in a few minutes—a dog was hit on the highway. So when you’re finished, just let Valerie at reception know, and she’ll return Abigail to her cage.” He smiled, then left the room.

  “She’s so tiny,” Katherine said.

  “Petite,” Mark noted.

  Katherine cradled Abigail in her arms and began to gently knead the fur on the back of the Abyssinian’s neck. Abigail began purring loudly and slowly blinked her eyes. “Do you know what that means?” Katherine asked.

  “That you’re choking her,” Mark observed.

  “No,” she laughed. “When a cat squeezes its eyes it’s actually blowing you a kiss.” She kissed the purring bundle on her head. “How old did you say she is?”

  “About two.”

  “She can’t weigh but five pounds. She’s as light as a feather.”

  “Never judge a cat by its weight. I’ve seen this cat in action. Orvenia thought Abby was part-monkey, always climbing to the top of furniture. Her favorite place is on top of a tall window valance.”

  “This little creature?” Katherine said. “I can’t imagine her doing anything but sleeping.” The cat looked up and chirped.

  “Did you hear that?” Katherine said. “She sounds like a bird.”

  “Abyssinians are generally very quiet cats—at least that’s what the breeder said in Wisconsin. They’re notorious for being hyperactive. She might be lethargic now because she has been boarded in a cage with limited exercise.”

  Katherine sat down and continued cradling the Abyssinian.

  “I think Abigail is going to sleep,” he said.

  “Did you know that Abyssinians are supposedly descendants of the Egyptian sacred cat?” The little cat opened her eyes and looked soulfully up at Katherine, then began to purr loudly again. “I looked it up on the Internet.”

  “This is a good sign—two bouts of purring,” Mark said. “I think she likes you.”

  “You’re quite the salesman,” Katherine kidded. “I think I like her, too,” she said stroking the cat’s silky fur.

  “Do I take it you’ve decided to accept your great aunt’s offer?”

  Katherine kissed the resting cat on the head. “I’m seriously considering it, but permit me to make up my mind after I’ve seen the house.”

  “It’s a deal. I’ll get Valerie to take Abigail, and we can go straight to the house,” Mark said, opening the door. He called the receptionist.

  Valerie came in and took the cat from Katherine. The Abyssinian looked up, squeezed her eyes, then chirped.

  “Say good-bye, Abby,” Valerie said as she picked up the cat and walked out of the room.

  “I’m in love,” Katherine said. “She’s truly wonderful.”

  “I hope you feel the same way about the house,” Mark said, escorting Katherine to the car. “Would you prefer to have a cup of coffee first?” he said, deliberately trying to hide his enthusiasm. “It ain’t Starbucks,” he mocked “but there’s a diner a few miles from here.”

  “What did you say?” she said dreamily.

  “Coffee. Caffeine. Latte! Cappuccino!”

  She didn’t answer until they were back on the highway. “Yes, coffee would be fine, but after I see the house.”

  They drove on in silence. Once on Lincoln Street, Katherine began to admire the historic houses. “These houses are gigantic.”

  “The brick house on the corner is an Italianate built in the 1870s,” Mark said, pointing. “Over there is a Classical Revival.”

  “I can imagine their utility bills.”

  “And this is Orvenia’s former home. The locals still refer to it as the William Colfax house.” He pulled into the drive and parked under a covered carport known as a porte cochère.

  She was silent for a moment, and then she said, “I didn’t realize the house was pink.”

  “Orvenia was fascinated by the Victorian painted ladies in San Francisco, and like so many of the houses there, she wanted this one to have a four-color paint scheme.”

  Katherine got out of the car and began walking around the perimeter of the house. She gazed up at the three stories, taking in the many architectural features—the cross-gabled roof, the fish-scale-shingled turret, the stained glass in several windows, the front porch columns, the limestone pillars, and the maroon arches framing the covered carport. She rejoined Mark, who was now standing on the bottom step of the side entrance.

  “Look here,” Mark said, pointing up at the ornate brass doorbell. “You’ll find that many of the original details still remain in the house.”

  “It’s incredible.”

  “Ready to go inside?”

  She nodded.

  He offered his arm. “Shall we?” Together they walked up the stairs. On the top step he fumbled for a key, then turned it in the ancient lock. He pushed the heavy door open. “This way,” he said, directing Katherine from the small foyer to a large, formal dining room.

  “The ceilings are so high,” she said.

  “Thirteen feet,” he said.

  “I love the burgundy wallpaper.”

  “It was silk-screened.”

  “And a chair rail. Lilac would love this.”

  “Look above,” Mark said. “There’s also a plate rail.”

  “What a gorgeous plate collection. Surely my great aunt didn’t get up on a ladder every time she set the table,” Katherine chuckled. “Just kidding. I can see Lilac now, hurling the dishes off of her new cat walk.”

  “Do your cats break a lot of things?”

  “Not really,” she said. “Sometimes there are accidents, but I've learned not to cherish an object that can one moment be admired, and the next is broken into smithereens.”

  Mark smiled and said, “I’ll show you the rest of the house, but first let me check the basement to see if Mr. Cokenberger is working. He’s the handyman I mentioned. He’s more familiar with the house than I am.” Mark disappeared into another part of the house.

  Katherine walked into the next room, which was as richly decorated and lavishly furnished as the dining room. She was amazed that the ceiling was decorated as ornately as the walls. The frieze paper above the picture rail depicted blue and green peacocks. Against one wall was a crystal vase full of peacock feath
ers atop a marble-top curio cabinet, which was centered between two kerosene-light wall sconces made of intricately etched brass. Next to the vase was a small, flat-screen TV, which seemed to be a curious anachronism compared to the Victorian-era furnishings throughout the room.

  She admired the gilded mirrors and antique lithographs that hung by brass chains and molding hooks from picture rails. A red oriental rug, octagonal in shape, lay in the center of the room. Beyond the rug’s edges was a geometric-patterned, wood parquet floor. An octagonal table rested on the rug, with the day’s mail scattered on the tabletop. Katherine counted five wide pocket doors, all of them closed.

  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?”