Leann Sweeney - The Cat, The Professor and the Poison

“What about the gray? And are the bathroom cats, Trixie and Vlad, okay?” I asked as I followed them.

“Doing much better. Too thin, dehydrated, but all of them are eating and drinking this morning,” he said. “They’ll be just fine.”

I sighed with relief. “That’s great news. They weren’t poisoned, then?”

“Doc doesn’t think so. No microchips on them, though. Three more strays that’ll need loving homes after they’re neutered. Same with the other four we took. They weren’t spayed or neutered neither. The vet’ll take care of all of them soon. You willing to donate anything toward the cause?”

“My quilt business has picked up since all that publicity after the murder last year, so sure, I can help out,” I said.

“Bags of pet food would be great, which reminds me. How’s your hungry little bunch of fur this morning?” he said.

“You mean the ones yowling at me this minute or the rescues?” I said with a laugh.

“Them and the visitors you took in, but it sounds like you’d better do right by your best friends,” he said.

I opened the pantry, looking for a flavor of wet food they hadn’t eaten recently. “The mama cat and kittens are doing fine,” I said. “But Chablis wants to visit them. Can she?”

“Yup. Leukemia, parasite and FIV tests were negative on the mother. Doc used a flea comb on our Dame Wiggins, but I’d check those kittens for any fleas or ear mites before you let your three anywhere near them. You got any ear-mite medicine?”

“I do.” I breathed a sigh of relief. Fleas and mites I could handle, but unlike humans, cats can transmit leukemia to one another, and FIV stands for feline immunodeficiency virus, another deadly and transmittable illness. “Do you have any clue about who might have taken the other cats?” I asked.

“No such luck. Candace asked me to check with rescue groups, seeing as how they’re the most likely folks to stage a raid, but I got nothing. Problem is, since there’s been a death and all, I doubt I’ll hear anything.”

I picked a can of chopped grill, and Syrah nearly tripped me by winding in and out of my legs as I left the pantry. Merlot plopped down beside the empty cat dish. He was doing the half-tweet, half-purr call that said, “If you don’t hurry, I might eat you, my human servant.”

I said, “No chance the people who cut the fence just set those cats loose?”

“If an activist did it, no way. Heard tell Candace and Morris were headed back over to that professor’s place this morning to look for any evidence outside the runs. They needed daylight to see if someone dropped something or left footprints at the spots where the fence was cut. Maybe they’ll get a lead or clue-anything to make Candace’s day.”

I put the phone on speaker and set it on the counter. Then I popped the can and squatted by the cat dish. Chopped grill sounded so haute cuisine, but was merely a brown smelly blob of who knew what.

Syrah was on the food so fast, you’d have thought I never fed him in his life. Merlot quieted, waiting for his turn. He might be bigger, but Syrah was first in line when it came to food.

“Did you hear if there are any suspects in the professor’s death?” I asked Shawn. I stood and opened the fridge. Time for sweet tea.

“Suspects? Are you thinking he was murdered?” he said.

“I understand he could have killed himself, or maybe his death was even an accident, but the fact that those cats disappeared says someone wasn’t happy with the professor,” I said, pouring myself a glass.

“His house was salmonella waiting to happen,” Shawn said. “I’m thinking he did himself in. Besides, all I care about are the feline victims. Not sure I care diddly-squat about this professor. And professor of what? Evil?”

“That’s like one of the worst lines ever from a B movie, Shawn. And no one deserves to die such a miserable death,” I said.

“You sticking up for the guy?” he said.

“No. But sometimes you say things I don’t think you mean. You never even met the man.”

A short pause followed, and then he said, “I get hot when people do ugly stuff to animals; that’s all.” He went on to tell me I could visit the gray, Vlad and Trixie at the veterinary hospital. Then he said an abrupt good-bye.

Shawn will be Shawn, and he’d have forgotten about this less-than-pleasant end to our conversation the next time we spoke. But he did have me thinking.

Professor of more than just biology?

Syrah and Merlot gave up on their food when they saw me head for the hallway. They thought I was about to start working on quilt orders, since it was that time of the morning. But rather than enter the sewing room, I went to my office and booted up the computer. They sat next to my desk chair and looked up at me as if to say, “You’re in the wrong room, staff person.” Though the computer was fun because that meant I stayed in one place, the days I spent quilting were heaven for all of us. Yes, they loved fabric almost more than I did. Syrah had even been known to sit on a three-inch square of fabric if that’s all that was available.

But I wanted to learn about the professor, seeing as how I knew next to nothing, except that he liked to dress up like a cat burglar and steal cows. I remembered he’d been on the faculty of Denman College, and I brought up the school’s Web site first. Not much to learn, I soon discovered. They offered degrees in general studies, biomedical engineering, mathematics, nutrition and biology. Not big on the arts, but the school was small. No profile page for him when I clicked on the button for faculty.

Next, I Googled Professor VanKleet, and that yielded better results. I found a ten- year-old photo of him and his wife, Sarah, at a fund- raising event. No long hair, and he seemed genuinely happy, his arm around his wife’s waist. But her expression seemed tense, and her hands gripped a rhinestone bag so tightly that her knuckles were white. I printed out that picture and veered back onto the Internet highway. I learned that the professor had dual PhDs, one in animal nutrition and one in biology. At least he’d told the truth about teaching biology. There was a link to a profile page at Denman College, but all I discovered was a message saying that the page no longer existed. The few abstracts for academic papers I was able to locate indicated that he had researched commercial pet food. This was confirmation of what I’d thought yesterday, so no surprise there.

Science was never my strong point in college-my degree was in fiber art-thus, the few summaries I dug up on his papers made my eyes glaze over. Though I didn’t understand all the talk about amino acids and vitamin content, I at least felt more confident that the man might have been researching cat diets in that grubby farmhouse kitchen.

When I sat back in the chair, processing this information, Syrah jumped up on the desk. He stared intently at me.

“Do you like what I feed you, sweet boy?” I said.

He meowed in response to the distress he must have heard in my voice. If what I’d seen in the professor’s kitchen had anything to do with the breakfast I’d just fed my cats, well… I didn’t want to know that much about cat food.

I was set to resume my quest for more personal information on the professor-including wife Sarah-but I was interrupted by the doorbell.

I checked my watch and discovered it was already noon. That’s what the computer is-a giant time suck. Syrah and Merlot were joined by Chablis by the time we reached the foyer. All three sat several feet from the door as usual, not too close, but they of course wanted to see who might be calling this time.

My eyes widened in disbelief when I looked through the peephole. John’s daughter, Kara, stood on the front stoop. I hadn’t spoken to her in so long, I couldn’t imagine why she was visiting.