Leann Sweeney - The Cat, The Professor and the Poison

I did. If I wanted Lydia to leave me alone, I needed to relate everything as dispassionately as possible-just the facts, ma’am-and so I recited what had gone on since Wednesday night, including the premature kittens and the missing cow.

“Good. That matches what Candy told me. You can go,” Lydia said abruptly. She waved in the direction of the door. “If you were trespassing here, I figure that’s Candy’s business.”

“My business, too,” Morris said. “And from what you’ve told me about this poison and when the rigidity wears off, Ms. Hart was probably with Shawn Cuddahee at the time the man died.”

“And you’re discussing this in front of her?” Lydia whispered to him out of the side of her mouth.

Morris reddened. “She’s no suspect in my book, but as for the cats-”

“Who cares about the cats? You can leave, Jillian,” Lydia said. “There’s no compelling evidence that you had anything to do with this death.” So she believed me just like Morris did? Thanks to what I guessed was a recent Botox treatment on her forehead, it was hard to read her.

I said, “I’d love to go, but I don’t have a ride.”

“That’s right. You’ve been playing policewoman with your pal Candy again. Don’t go calling up Tom and pleading for him to come and pick you up. Morris will find you a ride.” She returned to the kitchen, and all I could do was give the palms-up “I don’t get it” gesture to Morris.

But once he walked me outside in search of a ride from fireman Billy Cranor or a paramedic who might still be hanging around, we found Shawn pacing at the end of the driveway.

He said, “Been waiting for you. Need a lift back to the sanctuary?”

How could I have forgotten that I’d agreed to take the calico and her litter home? Stress, I decided.

I believed Morris was more grateful than I was for Shawn’s presence. He thanked Shawn and headed back toward the house.

The crated litter and their mom-her white tag read DAME WIGGINS-were in the backseat of Shawn’s extended-cab truck, and they made no sound. Sleeping, no doubt. What a long, awful day for everyone. On the way back to the sanctuary, Shawn told me that Dr. Jensen believed the most pressing issue with the cats from the bathroom was dehydration. Dame Wiggins was in amazingly good shape, but then she’d found a way out of her cell in search of food, probably more than once.

I shook my head, feeling terrible about what the cats had endured. “What was wrong with that professor?”

“Whatever it was, he paid in spades. Man, the way his body was all twisted up was the nastiest thing I’ve ever seen. The other cats seem a little malnourished, but not nearly as bad as those two Dr. J. took to his hospital.”

“Thanks to Dame Wiggins and her escapist ways, we probably saved some cats today. I never would have found out what was going on if not for her,” I said.

I arrived home close to midnight, and after I disabled the alarm, I took Dame Wiggins and her family into the house through the door below the deck. This entrance led to the basement game room, which had an attached unfurnished bedroom. I set up my foster cats with fresh water, food and a disposable litter box. This “basement apartment” had a fully stocked pantry and a bathroom-for the guests that so far I hadn’t had yet.

There was a guest room upstairs, but John had made sure we’d finished the basement for the grandchildren my late husband hoped to have. I couldn’t have kids, but John did have his daughter Kara from his first marriage. She’d never even got a chance to visit us in South Carolina. The last time I’d seen her was at John’s funeral in Houston, where she still lived. We had never been close, and John’s death hadn’t changed that. How I wished that were different.

“Dame Wiggins,” I said before I went upstairs, “I bequeath this empty room to you and promise to bring a comfy quilt after I visit with my friends upstairs.” I opened the crate for her and then left, closing the bedroom door behind me.

I’d also closed the door to the upstairs so three curious friends wouldn’t come down to check out what I was doing. Syrah, Chablis and Merlot might not appreciate feline visitors, although I’d occasionally kept a few lost cats and they hadn’t minded too much. But kittens? Nope, I’d never brought home kittens, so I had no idea how they would respond.

I climbed the stairs and opened the door, leaving it ajar now that Dame Wiggins was safely sequestered. Cats hate closed doors.

When I flipped on the kitchen lights, three loving feline faces stared up at me-and they had been waiting with a gift.

A dead mouse lay in front of them.

Syrah tapped the lifeless body toward me, as proud as punch. Sheesh. Another dead body. Tiny but still dead. But it wasn’t like they hadn’t made offerings like this before.

I said, “I’ve eaten, thanks. But nice work, you three.” I recalled the stalking behavior I’d witnessed on the cat cam. They’d been chasing bigger prey than spiders in my absence. I took a wide path around the poor dead thing-didn’t want to hurt the cats’ feelings and dispose of their prize too soon. That might seem ungrateful.

Once we were all in the living room and far from the dead animal, I sat on the floor and bestowed plenty of love on my best friends. But my cats were less interested in petting and playing than they were in sniffing me from head to toe. Merlot even put his Swiffer duster paws on my chest and met me nose to nose. He recognized the scent of a foreign cat and wanted to drink it in completely.

A few minutes later, they grew tired of me. After all, I hardly ever came in through the basement, so I was sure they felt something must be explored down there. And I was also sure they were hoping there would be other invaders that needed to be stalked, trapped and killed.

As they hurried down the stairs, I followed as far as the kitchen, ready to dispose of the dead mouse. I pulled a few paper towels off the roll, realizing I felt more compassion for this creature than for the professor. Did that make me a good recruit for animal activism? No, not yet, I decided, as I headed out the back door for the trash can to dispose of the mouse. Whoever released or captured those cats today had probably tackled more barbed wire in their pursuits than I ever wanted to see again.

Right before I lifted the trash can’s lid, I had a thought.

I could call an exterminator tomorrow. I’d seen a dead spider earlier today, and now this mouse. Just the kind of things exterminators live for. Not that I actually wanted to exterminate anything. No, I wanted an expert opinion.

As I’d waited those ten minutes in the professor’s disgusting living room earlier, I’d thought about his note taking, the way he fed half the animals dry food and the other half that repulsive concoction from the jar. Was that why he was on sabbatical? To develop some new kind of cat food?

But before he could complete whatever he was doing with the meat on the counter or the red mixture in the jar, the professor had died. The question remained-had he been done in by his stupidity or by another’s hand?

Maybe someone not quite as nice as Ruth Schultz got angry about cats wandering on their property. A few cats had managed to escape from the professor’s prison and ended up with her, after all. Could someone else have tracked down the professor and decided to gather all the cats and dispose of them at the same time they got rid of the source of the problem-the instigating professor?

That could mean the missing cats were victims, too. Now they were who knew where, maybe some as sick as the gray, or the orange cat and the tabby Dr. Jensen took away. Though it wasn’t my business to investigate anything aside from how well certain fabrics complemented one another, I felt compelled to help in any way possible. Cats were involved. Lots of cats. Since Mercy has experts on everything from quilting thread to coffee beans, why not rodent poisons-and, sadly, possible cat poisons?