Leann Sweeney - The Cat, The Professor and the Poison

“Okay,” I said to Candace. “I’m anxious to know why you think the professor was murdered.”

“Sometimes, when you find little or no evidence, that tells you a lot,” she said. “Although I do prefer a nice fingerprint or DNA.”

“And what didn’t you find?” I asked.

“Strychnine. At least I don’t think there was any strychnine in that house or outside. We found rat poison in the shed. But it was your usual grocery-store variety made with warfarin. And it was pellets, not powder.” She sat back with a satisfied smile.

“Could strychnine have been substituted for the warferwhatever? Sheesh. I can never say that word.”

“Sure. But why? Do you think he was snacking on warfarin pellets and the murderer somehow knew that and made a substitution?” she said.

“You’re right. Dumb question. I’m not thinking too clearly today.”

Tom said, “I take it you didn’t find any suicide note?”

“Nope,” Candace said. “I’d say you’d have to be pretty damn sorry about something to strychnine yourself to death. I’ve been reading up on it, and you won’t find me within a country mile of that poison.”

I sipped my coffee, and it was just right. Tom had added milk to mine and none to Candace’s. We hung out at Belle’s at least a couple of times a week, and he knew how we liked our coffee.

Tom poured three packets of sugar into his high- test and stirred the pitch-black espresso with a tiny spoon. He said, “I worked a murder case involving strychnine once. Multiple deaths from bad cocaine. Dealers sometimes cut the coke with strychnine powder. But Candace probably already knows that.”

“One of your private investigations?” I asked.

“Nope.” His gaze was fixed on his cup. “This was back when I was on the force. Do you know why Morris doesn’t think this is a murder case?”

“Morris wants the easiest solution,” Candace said. “Thing is, no one knows much about this professor.”

“Or why he was feeding cats that red goop and raw cow’s milk,” I said. “Research, maybe?”

“Yes. We’ve already tossed around the idea he was doing some kind of experiment with the cats’ diet. But you know me,” Candace said. “I hate guessing. No one seems interested in what I have to say, though.”

“I’m interested,” I said. “Maybe some animal welfare group found out what he was doing and didn’t like it. But that doesn’t explain the cats that were left behind. True animal lovers wouldn’t have left them.” I sipped on my coffee. “That still bothers me.”

Half to himself, Tom said, “Interrupted.”

“What?” I said.

“Maybe they were interrupted and couldn’t take all the cats.” He sipped at his espresso.

“Yes,” I said, nodding as I realized that what he said could well be true. “Interrupted by someone else. By the killer. Maybe the people who went to get the cats weren’t the same people who killed him.”

Candace groaned. “Don’t start making stuff up. I need evidence, and so far, all I have is a footprint. And from the size, it looks like it will come back to the professor. Oh, and a few fibers off the fence.”

“The barbed- wire one? You might find all kinds of me on that particular fence.” Like my skin. But the scratch on my backside was nothing, not even worthy of a tetanus shot. Now that the tension had finally seemed to dissipate, I felt more relaxed with my friends.

“I got a few strands of fabric off the chain- link enclosure, where someone probably reached through to grab a cat. Cat hairs, too, but those were all over the place and pretty much useless.”

Tom said, “Wouldn’t he be keeping notes about this possible experiment? Like on a computer or even talking into a recorder?”

Candace said, “Oh, he was. Jillian saw him writing things down. But that’s actually an ‘absence of evidence’ and pretty darn suspicious. All I found in the house were lots of textbooks on animal nutrition, but no notebook and no computer. I think the computer must have been taken, because the professor did have a DSL line, and we found an instruction manual for a laptop.”

“He had a PhD in animal nutrition,” I said. “Do you consider his education evidence that he could have been researching cat food?”

“Who told you about his schooling?” Candace said. “I was with you the entire fifteen minutes we spent with the man, and I never heard him say anything about that.”

“I Googled him. He had a wife. Has she been notified?” I said.

“Ex-wife. And two sons. The ex is on the way from Denman, but I don’t know about the kids,” Candace said. “All’s I can say is, I sure hope the pathologist can get that grimace off the professor’s face before the woman is asked to give an official identification.”

“Did she sound upset?” I asked.

“Not so much, I have to say,” she said. “But she said she had no idea he was living here and that she needed directions. She mentioned she’d need several copies of the death certificate and asked about insurance. No, the ex-Mrs. Professor wasn’t too upset about anything but those nonhuman details.”

Tom said, “I’m stuck on this notebook. Where did it go? Jillian saw it and, what, an hour later the guy’s dead and the notebook’s gone?”

“That’s what I was talking about. Circumstantial evidence that makes me think this was a murder,” Candace said.

“Most whodunit cases are built on circumstantial evidence,” Tom said.

More cop talk, I thought. I sure wanted to hear about his cop days, as he’d told me very little before, but I needed to wrap my mind around the case at hand.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Here’s something I know that might be useful. There’s a difference between activists. The welfare types like Shawn and so many like him, and the fringe types that are more radical. More political. Maybe the notes will surface on the Internet if some group wanted to expose the professor’s actions. But if people interested primarily in animal welfare took those cats, my bet is, you won’t hear another thing. And those kinds wouldn’t hurt anyone. Period.”

Candace said, “Yes. Different kinds of activists. I’ve never met up with any of these folks, but if they carry strychnine around, I don’t want to get anywhere near them.”

“Welfare activists usually want to save animals from mistreatment, but the more militant types want humans to have no access to animals. Even as pets,” I said.

“That’s… almost impossible, I’d say,” Tom said. He looked at Candace. “I’m still hung up on my interruption thing. What if you were the one who interrupted what was going on at that farm?”

“You mean the folks who took the cats were on the property when I showed up?” she said. “How would they-” Her hand flew to her mouth, and between her fingers she whispered, “I sorta screamed when I saw the meat on that counter. They could have heard me.”

“But I was right outside, and I didn’t hear-” My stomach clenched as I remembered the man in the van, the one who had waved to me.

“I can tell by your face that you remember something,” Candace said.

“Before you came out of the house, a van drove by. It came from the opposite direction from the way we’d arrived.” I closed my eyes, trying to picture what I’d seen. “The driver even waved at me.”

“This is big,” Candace said. “Can you describe this van?”

“White panel,” I said. “Is there ever a crime committed without a white panel van involved?”

“Did you see the driver?” Tom said.

“A man. Maybe. Gosh, I was so worried about the cats, I didn’t pay much attention,” I said.

“Don’t think too hard,” Tom said. “You’ve had a demanding day, and when you’re more relaxed, details might come flooding back.”