Leann Sweeney - The Cat, The Professor and the Poison

Yes. I needed to talk to an expert first thing tomorrow. And with that thought I pushed down the little voice that said, “What are you getting yourself into now, Jillian?”

I finally got to sleep at a reasonably normal time on Friday night and woke up the following morning feeling almost myself again. First thing, I contacted Rufus Bowen, the owner of What’s Bugging You? The choice of an exterminator was easy, considering only one company was listed in the thin Mercy yellow pages.

I tried questioning him over the phone, but Rufus cut me off, said he knew where I lived and would stop by on his way to an appointment. Then he hung up.

He knew where I lived? Guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Everyone knew everything about everyone in Mercy.

When I answered the front door a half hour later, my gaze was drawn past his tall, broad and muscled body. I was looking at his truck parked in my driveway. A giant cockroach does catch your eye, and this one was painted on the side of the pickup. The customizing was beautifully done, but I still stifled a “yuck.” Spiders and mice I could handle. Cockroaches made me shudder.

Syrah and Merlot entered the foyer when I greeted Rufus. One whiff and they hightailed it to parts unknown. Since cats have a sense of smell hundreds of times more acute than that of humans, I figured they probably detected the “odor-free” chemicals clinging to Rufus Bowen. All I smelled was perspiration.

Chablis didn’t bother to show her face, unusual since she enjoys greeting visitors. She’d been downstairs when I went to feed Dame Wiggins early this morning, and my educated guess was that she was still there, parked outside the bedroom door.

“So you got yourself a vermin problem?” Rufus said.

“Not exactly,” I said. “Can we talk for a minute?”

He glanced at his watch. “Sure, but I don’t do snakes if that’s-”

“No snakes. Come into the kitchen.”

I led him through the living room, and when we sat at the kitchen counter he removed his Atlanta Braves baseball cap to reveal thinning, greasy brown hair.

“Would you like coffee? Or sweet tea?” I asked.

“No, ma’am. I just need to know the problem.”

“Here’s the deal. My cats killed a mouse yesterday, which got me thinking that exterminators would probably know plenty about any chemicals that kill animals.”

“You’d be correct, ma’am. But are you saying there’s more than one mouse hanging around your house?” His glance swept the kitchen floor. He was doing a “Candace.” Looking for evidence of infestation.

“Perhaps there are more mice, but that’s not-”

“If so, you got two better exterminators than this old boy. Nothing prettier than watching a cat pounce on a rodent.” His lopsided smile indicated genuine admiration for cats, and I liked that.

I said, “What if the mouse was, say, poisoned, and one of my cats ate it. Would that make him sick?”

“Did they?”

“Did they what?” I said.

“Eat it?”

“Oh no, but I’m just asking what if. See, I saw some dead rats close to where several cats were being… imprisoned is the only word to describe it,” I said.

He squinted at me. “I think I know where this is going, but quit throwing curveballs and pitch one right down the middle of the plate. What do you want?”

“A consultation-which I am happy to pay for,” I said.

“You don’t need to pay me for talkin’. Glad to assist you, ma’am.”

I smiled gratefully. “Here’s a couple of questions: What would be your first choice to kill a mouse if I didn’t have my own personal exterminators? And what might be the danger to the person handling the poison?”

Rufus nodded and for the first time seemed a tad uncomfortable. “This is about that peculiar professor getting poisoned, ain’t it? Read the cop column in the Messenger this morning, and when I stopped at Belle’s for coffee I heard a bunch of cats got sprung from that setup he had at the old Taylor farm. And you’re interested, huh?”

“Very. That’s why I called you for an expert’s knowledge. But you said ‘peculiar’ professor. You knew him? Because I sure didn’t.”

“Nah. He wasn’t here long enough, but I saw him around town. Man needed a regular haircut. Dressed and talked funny. Heard he once took all the coins out of that cup sit-tin’ by Belle’s register. You know, the one where they have change if you’re a few cents short?”

I nodded. And he stole a woman’s cow, too. That did qualify as weird… or desperate. “Would you say he was hard up, then?”

Rufus looked down at the chunky hands resting on his thighs. “Yeah, and I shouldn’t be calling him peculiar. My mama heard me speak unkindly of the dead, she’d slap me upside the head.”

“Promise I won’t tell,” I said. “Back to my original question. What’s the best product for killing… anything?”

He said, “Nuclear bomb, I guess. Seriously, though, it’s all about how much poison. Anything can be considered deadly in the right dose. Even plain old table salt or water.”

“Everyday items from the kitchen aren’t the problem in this case. I was at the professor’s place last night, and-”

“You was there?” He grew more alert, and did I detect a wariness in his eyes?

I nodded. “Yes, I was there.”

“Yowee. Folks are gonna start crossin’ to the other side of the street, they see you comin’, Ms. Hart. That’s two bodies you’ve been up close and personal with in the last year.”

“Not how I want to be remembered. Anyway, the deputy coroner said the professor was poisoned with strychnine. Do you ever use that for killing rodents? Because, as I said earlier, I noticed a few dead rats on the property before they found the professor’s body.”

Rufus said, “You sure Lydia said strychnine?”

“Yes. She said that considering the condition of the body, the way he was all… contorted, that it had to be strychnine,” I said.

Sweat beads popped out on Rufus’s forehead. He averted his gaze and didn’t respond.

“Was she right?” I asked.

“Oh, she’s right. Might be the first time ever for that woman. Meanwhile, I got to be going.” He slid off the stool, his demeanor totally different now. He seemed eager to get the heck out of my house as soon as possible.

He was halfway through the living room before I even left my stool, and I had to hurry after him. What just happened?

I said, “What’s wrong? You seem upset.”

“Not bothered any which way, but my next customer might be if I don’t get there lickety-split. Nice to meet you, and if you ever have a real problem with bugs or varmints-”

I touched his arm and said, “Wait. I have more questions.”

He looked none too happy when he faced me. “I don’t think I can help you.”

“Just one more. Would strychnine be something you’d supply for killing rats?” I asked.

“Nope. Don’t need anything that strong for rats. Better and kinder ways to get rid of them. Thank you, ma’am, but I can find my way out.”

He was done with me; that much was certain. And I surely didn’t want to keep Rufus from a paying customer. I watched him leave, still puzzled by his abrupt reaction to the mention of strychnine. I wished I could have asked him about the sick cats and whether he thought they could have been poisoned with something different. Perhaps another day.

My cell phone rang, and I pulled it from my pants pocket. It was Shawn.

“Heard from Doc Jensen,” he said without a hello.

Merlot and Syrah reappeared and meowed several times. They started toward the kitchen, and I knew from their “feed me now” cries that I’d better pay attention or they’d get even louder. They are the boss of me, that’s for sure.