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.
“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?
Ten
Syrah and Merlot gave up on their food when they saw me head for the hallway. They thought I was about to
