The Cat, The Professor And The Poison

Seven

When I heard “rat poison,” my focus immediately returned to the cats in the bathtub. I swallowed hard. Had they been poisoned, too? Was it only a matter of time before their muscles starting going rigid? And what about the cats outside?

But from what I knew of rat poison, which wasn’t much, it was a blood thinner, not something that would turn a person into a grotesque human sculpture. Bile rose in my throat as the image of the professor with his arched back and stiffened limbs flashed through my mind. Stop. Think about these cats right now. They’re alive. They need help.

Where was that vet? Where was Shawn?

But I couldn’t quit thinking about poison. Maybe there was more than one kind of rat poison and these cats had been harmed with a different substance. They were limp and lethargic. Is that what the kind of blood-thinner rat poison found in the grocery store did to animals before they died?

I bent and looked more closely at them-sure, like that would tell me something-and noticed they both wore thin collars. I lifted the tabby’s chin and saw a white paper tag attached to the buckle. Written in ballpoint ink was TRIXIE.

The orange cat had a similar tag. His said VLAD.

“Hey, Vlad. Hey, Trixie,” I said. “I promise you’ll get help soon.”

When I heard Candace say, “My friend the cat whisperer,” I nearly jumped out of my skin.

I’d been so focused, I hadn’t heard her come back. “You scared me,” I said.

“This is a scary place. Shawn’s here with volunteers, and Dr. Jensen’s not far behind. An officer will bring the vet in here when he arrives.”

I sighed with relief. “Good. I’m even afraid to offer them water. Maybe they’d start-”

“I don’t want to know what might happen. Anyway, there’s no light out back beyond that shed, but the sheriff’s department has arrived with portable halogens. It’ll probably freak out those cats when we turn the lights on, huh?”

“You bet it will. As if they’re not freaked-out enough,” I said.

“Can you help outside? Like I said, the vet will be here any second.”

I stood, my worried stare on my two new friends. “Of course.”

As I followed her back out into the hall, she said, “Please stay on my heels and don’t touch anything.”

“Can’t we go around the shed?” I said. “Maybe there’s a gate or-”

“No gate. To get inside the cat runs, you gotta go through that shed.”

Cat runs. Thoughts of what I’d seen earlier made my anger resurface. The man who did this to them had died a horrible death, and though I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, I was still mad at what he’d done.

When I heard Lydia ’s loud voice, I said, “Is she okay with me… um… participating?”

“Oh, perfectly happy now that she’s checked every nook and cranny to make sure Tom Stewart isn’t here and won’t be called upon to help out,” Candace said. “Why does the county designate someone like her to be in charge of suspicious deaths, anyway? It makes no sense.”

“You think the government is supposed to have common sense?” I said.

“I’d say ‘how true’ except I am part of the government,” she reminded me.

I smiled and said, “But back to Tom. Why would you call in a security expert for something like this?” I said.

“I wouldn’t. But you know Lydia. She believes if Jillian Hart’s around, well, Tom must be lurking, too, ready to jump your bones right in front of her,” Candace said.

A blush warmed both my cheeks. “She is so frickin’ crazy, it’s ridiculous.”

“For now, she’s in charge. Try to ignore her, okay? In her defense, she does seem to have some knowledge about the cause of death.” Candace stopped at the end of the hall, where it made a hard right turn. “We’ll pass quickly through the kitchen and out the back door. Stay right behind me.”

“I’d love to ignore her, but she’s the one-”

“Forget about her, Jillian,” Candace whispered harshly. “Frightened cats need you right now.”

Lydia Monk and Morris Ebeling were in the kitchen, a room that could have traveled through time from the set of Father Knows Best with fifty years of dirt added. The meat that had so upset Candace was spread out on a dirty countertop, and an old-fashioned grinder was clamped to the counter’s edge. Professor VanKleet had obviously been making food for the cats, but in a place the FDA would have shut down in a nanosecond.

A gloved Lydia knelt by the body in the other entrance to the kitchen, the one that led to the living area. She said, “The contractions caused by the strychnine are wearing off, Morris. That’s why the body is relaxing. I told you this was no rigor mortis you were seeing when-” She stopped talking and smiled up at me as if nothing had happened between us earlier. “Glad you’re here to help with the animals, Jillian. Mercy has such concerned citizens. Truly heartwarming.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled, as Candace practically dragged me past the meat-covered counter to the back door.

“This is the worst suspicious death I have ever worked,” Candace said once we were outside. “And before you say anything, I’m not calling it murder until we know for sure. Maybe the guy overdosed. Sometimes dealers use tiny amounts of strychnine to cut cocaine. Could be the professor’s supplier slipped him bad stuff.”

“You’re thinking he was on drugs?” I said.

“If his thinking was impaired, it could explain his doing crazy stuff like stealing cows and grinding meat,” she answered. “But that’s just a wild guess. And I shouldn’t be guessing.”

“Is strychnine what they sell in the feed store to kill rats? Because I thought they used something else,” I said.

“ Lydia told us it used to be a standard rat killer. Not so much anymore,” Candace said. “Dangerous, and as I explained, used to cut illegal drugs.”

I inhaled the fresh night air and felt my shoulders relax. “But if the poison is off the market, then-”

“I can’t say any more about the evidence, okay?” she said.

“Got it. Sorry,” I said.

The shed stood maybe ten feet ahead, and we walked toward it down a stone path. Before Candace opened the flimsy screen door, she said, “This is where you have to be especially careful. We haven’t searched this building thoroughly yet.”

As Candace led the way, I didn’t even bother to glance around. We were through the shed and out to the cat runs in seconds. Two county sheriffs were setting up their halogens, though I couldn’t see much more than their silhouettes. And still, no cat cries. God, please don’t let them be dead like the professor.

To our right, Shawn and a man and woman I’d never met stood waiting for the lights to come on. Meager reinforcements for fifty cats… but of course if the cats were-no. The cats were alive when I’d seen them earlier.

“Hi, Shawn. Hi, Shawn’s friends.” I offered a small wave, noting the stack of crates that had been broken down and brought outside on a flatbed dolly. Bet that trip through the possibly evidence-laden shed had given Candace nightmares.

Their smiles were grim when they nodded my way. They had no idea what they were about to see, and the fact that it was so darned quiet out here made goose bumps rise on my arms.

The bright blast when the lights came on made me shut my eyes reflexively, and when I opened them, I was not prepared for what I saw.

Shawn said, “What in hell happened here?”

We did not see fifty cats. Instead, we saw that the chain-link fence had been cut open at the bottom of each small jail cell.

And the cats were gone.

“Where did they go?” I said. “They were here. I saw them.”

“You saw them?” It was Lydia, who, unfortunately, had decided to join us.

“Yes,” I said. “That’s why I called Candace. That’s how she found the body… because I told her that cats were possibly being mistreated here, and-”

“You can explain all that later,” Candace cut in. “I think I see a few cats in those end runs.”

“Oh my gosh. You’re right.” I started in that direction.

Candace grabbed my arm. “You, Shawn and the others need to wait. I have to photograph this place, look for evidence. Then we’ll see about the cats.”

“But-”

“No buts, Jillian. The cats will be okay for a few minutes.”

“She’s right.” Lydia looked at Candace. “You’ve got this covered, though I believe Jillian and I need to talk later about what she saw and when she saw it.” She smiled, turned and went back through the shed.

We stood there for more than thirty minutes, not the few that had been promised, as Candace did her job. Meanwhile, Shawn introduced me to the volunteers. Sam Howard was a retired veterinarian with snowy hair and a warm smile. Jane Haden, a soft-spoken black woman, had intelligent dark eyes and beautiful posture that exuded an air of authority. Since she was a school principal, that authority was probably put to good use.

I explained my presence, and the three of us ended up sharing photographs of our beloved pets. Sam Howard laughed at the cat cam, but Jane was intrigued and asked lots of questions. I was afraid to tell her that Tom Stewart had set it up for me for fear that if I mentioned his name Lydia would come running out in psychotic mode again.

A county deputy was showing Candace how to lift a footprint off the walkway with what looked like giant Scotch tape. From the adoring look she gave the guy, I knew he’d just made her day. She had evidence. Then both county officers helped reposition the lights so Candace could photograph each enclosure. She used her flashlight to closely examine the fence areas that had been cut away. I’m no police person, but it sure didn’t look like fingerprint territory to me. Then Candace began photographing each enclosure and the cement path that allowed access to them.

As we waited, we decided to put together three large crates to take away the remaining cats when Candace was finished.

Doc Howard, who was kneeling next to me as we worked, said, “I’ve dealt with some pretty radical animal rights groups, but killing someone has never been in their bag of dirty tricks.”

“As Candace would say, there’s no evidence yet that whoever removed these cats killed the man,” I said. “We don’t even know if he was murdered.”

“You got me there. I am jumping to conclusions,” he said. “I’ve just seen way too many people go off the deep end and act foolishly when it comes to domesticated animals. Let’s hope whoever took the cats was on the animal welfare side.”

“More like us, you mean,” Jane said as she stood. She had her crate put together. “I was at a cat show once when a protestor made a scene. She’d drawn whiskers on her face with a Sharpie. How does that kind of behavior help anyone?”

“I sell quilts at cat shows, and I’ve seen the same sort of thing a couple times,” I said. “But I like what you said. Animal welfare versus animal activism? I’ll take welfare every time.”

I’d finished my crate, and so had Doc Howard. A few minutes later we were allowed to walk down the path to the last three little jail cells: two black cats in the first we came to, two white cats in the second and my calico angel and her kittens in the last. Only the calico remained calm. The other four cats had their backs up and were hissing and spitting at the invasion, first by the police and now by us. I didn’t blame them for being upset.

Shawn said, “Doc, can you take the whites?”

“I’ll do a cursory check for deafness back in my van,” Howard said, pulling on long leather gloves.

“Do they have blue eyes?” I asked.

Howard looked surprised. “Can’t tell until I get up close. But how did you know that blue eyes might indicate deafness in whites?”

I tapped my temple. “Crazy lover of cat trivia.”

He smiled and dragged a crate toward their cage.

“Jane, black cats for you,” Shawn said.

“I adore black cats,” she said with a smile. “Works for me.”

Shawn took a cream-colored instrument off the dolly. It looked like the scanner they used to price giant bags of kibble. But then I realized what it was. I’d recently had microchips implanted near the shoulder blades of all my cats. Dr. Jensen had used a tool exactly like that to show me how the system worked. He’d held it over the shoulder area after each cat had had its chip put in, and the chip number came up on the device’s screen. Their unique embedded chip numbers are now in a database in case any of them ever get lost again.

“You think these cats have chips?” I said.

“That would be too good to be true, but South Carolina law says any rescued cat must be scanned for microchips. And I’ll look for tattoos,” Shawn said. “Some folks used tattoos to identify their pets before the microchip age.”

“Scanning is the law? I had no idea. Might be a challenge to scan them the way they’re acting right now.” I took my crate to the last enclosure. “I assume you’re taking me up on my offer to foster the calico and her kittens?”

“Do you mind? That litter I’ve already got is a handful,” he said. “Mom’s getting healthier, but we’re still tube feeding.”

“Don’t mind taking them, but Syrah, Chablis and Merlot might,” I said.

Doc Howard said, “I brought vaccines and will examine all the cats before we take off. But until their feline AIDS and parasite tests come back, these cats must be kept away from your pets.”

“I have plenty of room, so no problem. Do you do this often? Help out like this?” I said.

He knelt and offered a hand to the white cats cowering in the corner. “All over the state. Terrible cat and dog stray problems, especially in rural areas like this.”

His attention was fully focused on the cats now, and I had a job to do, too.

The calico almost looked like she was smiling up at me as I pulled the crate into her prison. Her kittens were feeding-two mackerel tabbies, a bicolor orange and white, and a calico baby that had less white than mama cat. I squatted near them and talked soothingly for a few minutes, noting that she and the kittens lay on straw. That professor hadn’t even given them a blanket. I’d just finished about a hundred cat quilts for a future craft festival in Atlanta, and one of those little quilts would soon be put to good use.

I opened the crate door, thinking that would help Miss Calico get used to it, but she amazed me once again. She stood, washed her babies’ faces and licked all their bellies. Then she proceeded to lift each by the scruff and carry them one by one into the crate. Once she’d carried the last one in, she stayed in there with them.

Meanwhile, Shawn was having an awful time scanning the other cats, but he finally finished.

He walked over to my jail cell, wiping sweat off his brow with a forearm. “Cats never like to be told what to do.” At least he was smiling. “Seems you had no problems.”

“She put her litter in the crate all by herself,” I said.

“No way.” He came around and bent down to look at them. “Pretty bunch. But she’s not in a position where I can get a good scan. We’ll take care of that later. Let’s get out of here. This is a bad, bad place.”

Shawn carried my crate, and when we passed Candace on the way out, I said, “You look deep in thought.”

She blinked and met my gaze. “I am.”

“About evidence you found?” I said.

“No, I’m thinking about the why of what we found here. Seems like someone came and rescued most of the cats and may have killed the professor. That conjures up plenty of suspects of the animal-activist kind-people who thought these cats weren’t being treated as they should.”

I nodded. “Makes sense. Sort of.”

“What do you mean, sort of?” She brushed a stray blond hair off her furrowed brow.

“They left cats behind,” I said. “No true animal lover would leave even one behind. Not in a million years.”