Leann Sweeney - The Cat, The Professor and the Poison

“You think he might sue you or something?” Candace said.

“It’s been known to happen,” Johnson said curtly.

“Was his being drunk that night the reason you kicked him out, or was it because he owed the college a chunk of change?” Candace said.

I read the surprise in Johnson’s eyes. “I will not get into that. Not today. Are there any other questions I can help you with?”

“Tell me about Sarah VanKleet. How did she handle all the trouble surrounding her family members?” Candace said.

He seemed to relax some at this change in direction and said, “Sarah is a hardworking woman who did the best she could with all she had to deal with. Her older son went to school here and has gone on to law school. She’s quite proud of him, as is Denman College.”

“She lives with Professor Lieber now?” Candace said.

He repositioned himself in his chair and blinked several times before answering. “I am not in the habit of inquiring about my employees’ private lives. Professor Lieber is well respected here. And loved by the students, I might add. He is unmarried, and if he has a relationship with Sarah, that’s certainly not my business.”

Like heck you don’t know about them, I thought. I’ll bet you know every detail of what goes on around here.

“Were Professor Lieber and Professor VanKleet friends?” Candace asked.

I wasn’t sure whether Candace had worn him down and he was tired of dancing around the truth, but he said, “Yes. They were friends. We have what I like to call a tight-knit family here at Denman.”

“Were you surprised to learn Professor VanKleet died a horrible, painful death?” She’d leaned in and was probably looking for his nonverbal response to this very direct question.

“Why, of course. Why would you ask such a thing?” He was rattled now.

“Because he brought shame on this college, didn’t he? Some people might be glad he died that way. At least one person did-the killer.”

“I-I can’t believe you’re saying these things to me,” Johnson said. “I tried my very best to do right by Hubert. Gave him every opportunity.”

“But you gave up on him in the end, just like everyone else,” she said softly. Then she stood.

I was so taken aback by her switch to this hard line that I felt like a robot and just followed her lead, standing as well.

Lawrence Johnson didn’t stand. He sat in his big chair in his fancy office, and I read sadness on his face. Even his eyes had filled. Candace had been tough on him, but I now understood that though he loved his college, he had also cared about Hubert VanKleet.

Candace said, “Can you tell me where the Bartletts live?”

That brought Johnson out of his reverie. “You mean Rosemary Bartlett? You’re talking to her, too?”

“I’m hunting for a killer. I might interview everyone in this whole damn town,” she said.

He looked a little stunned now, nothing like the calm, cool and collected academic he’d been when we first walked in. “Um… where did you park?”

“Right next to you,” Candace said.

“Then you can walk to their house. There’s a path on the far side of the lot that leads to Hawthorne Street. They live in a small house about a block to the right. Number 405.”

“Thanks,” Candace said and started to turn to leave. But then she stopped. “Does Mr. Bartlett do a good job janitoring? Is that why Rosemary got to stay and Evan didn’t after that little protest?”

Johnson opened his mouth to reply, but Candace said, “You don’t have to answer. I think I already know.”

I followed her out, and when we were in the elevator I said, “You didn’t tell me Rosemary’s father worked at the college, too.”

“I mentioned that everyone in town works at the college, didn’t I?” she said with a smile.

“You did. I have to say, I’ve never sat in on anything like that. You were awesome.”

“He could have been a suspect, you know,” she said.

“Because VanKleet tarnished Denman College?” I said.

“Maybe, but even though I didn’t act like it, I believe he’s a genuine guy doing a difficult job. VanKleet went rogue on him, and he had no choice but to fire him.”

“I agree you didn’t leave President Johnson with a warm, fuzzy feeling,” I said. “He might be worried you’ll come back.”

“This is murder, Jillian. There’s nothing warm or fuzzy about it. If I need to return with a subpoena for that letter Evan said he wrote, I will,” she said.

“Maybe Evan kept a copy. I could ask him,” I said.

“Good idea. Now I’m ready to hear what Rosemary Bartlett has to say.”

The Bartlett home was about a ten- minute walk from the college, and Mr. Bartlett answered the door of the small brick house. He was a burly man with muscled arms and a ruddy complexion.

Unlike Lawrence Johnson, he invited us both in without even questioning my presence. Maybe he was old-school. If a cop comes to your house, you don’t ask any questions.

The living room was small and neat, with a big flat-screen TV the centerpiece on the far wall.

Bartlett said, “The wife’s gone. Said she didn’t want to be here when you questioned Rosemary. It’s better that way. She’d probably cry the whole time. I mean the wife, not Rosemary. I wish I’d see that girl cry over something. Worries me sometimes how she can be.”

Candace said, “This is Jillian Hart. She’ll be sitting in on the interview, taking notes.” She took her notebook from her pocket and handed it to me.

Okay, I thought. I can take notes.

“Where is your daughter, sir?” Candace said.

Funny how she’d never used the word sir with Johnson-a powerful man-but chose to do so now with a guy who obviously respected Candace without reservation.

“I’ll get her. Go ahead and sit.” He left the room and went left down a hallway.

“Do you really want me to take notes?” I said.

“Yes. And sit on the sofa next to me. That way the girl can only choose one of the easy chairs and I’ll be right across from her.

We sat on the beige sofa, and I noticed the vacuum lines on the carpet. A police visit required tidying up. Yup, this was far different from sitting in a college president’s office.

Rosemary walked into the room after her father, her head down. The hair grabbed my attention first. Purple and magenta, cut in spiky layers. Her bangs covered one eye.

When she sat across from us, I noticed a piercing in her lower lip, but the ring had been removed. Sullen was a kind word to describe Rosemary Bartlett’s expression.

Her father took the other easy chair, a plaid rocker, and said, “Go ahead. Talk to the officers.”

She addressed him, not Candace. “What am I supposed to say? I’m sorry?”

He pointed a thick freckled finger at his daughter. “Quit with the attitude. These policewomen have come a long way to talk to you. I told you they want to know about Evan VanKleet. And I’d sure like to hear about him, too.”

Rosemary raised her eyes and then faced Candace. “How can I assist you, Officer?” But she didn’t sound in the least like she wanted to assist anyone.

“First of all,” Candace said in her kindest voice, “let me tell you that I’ve spoken with Evan. He was cooperative and very much wants to find out who murdered his father.”

Rosemary’s heavily penciled brows knitted. “You’re lying, right? He cooperated with the cops after they put him in jail for no reason?”

“I didn’t put him in jail,” Candace said. “And from what I could tell, he got a raw deal.”

“No kidding. We do have the right to protest in this country,” she said. “That’s all we were doing.”