The Cat, The Professor and the Poison

by Leann Sweeney

  “That would be great. I had another question, though,” I said.

  “About Dame Wiggins? She looks great, and those kittens seem healthy just by looking at them, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he said.

  “It’s not that. It’s about animal activist groups,” I said.

  “Oh.” He held up his mug. “Then that information can only be bought with more coffee.”

  I laughed, and we went upstairs.

  Once Shawn and I were settled at the kitchen table, both of us with fresh coffee, I said, “Tell me what you know about these groups.”

  “Um, that might take all day, and I’ve got to get back to the sanctuary.” He held the mug between both his hands, looking distracted now.

  “There are some who believe animals shouldn’t be domesticated at all—shouldn’t be kept by people, right?” I said.

  “Very true. Those are the worst kind. You know why?” His tone was harsh now.

  “Why?” I said.

  “Because they just want to dump them. They don’t really care about the animals. It’s all political. They think they know how all of us should live our lives. Man, do not get me started on those types.”

  “Are there any of those types around here?” I said.

  “Probably. But you know, when I saw that meat in the professor’s house, I was thinking this was about the raw-food movement. That’s what he was feeding them, right? Raw food?”

  I shook my head, confused. “What?”

  “You have to know about the raw-food people, Jillian. You’re smart about everything that has to do with cats,” he said.

  “Well, I do know a little about that. I know some folks think animals should eat unprocessed and raw food, like they would in the wild. But that’s not anything radical. I mean, some advocates of raw food go a little overboard, but it’s become a commercially viable—” I put my hand to my mouth, felt my eyes widen. “That’s what VanKleet was doing. That’s why he thought he was going to hit the jackpot. Because he thought he was making a commercially viable raw pet food.”

  It was Shawn’s turn to look confused. “What are you talking about?”

  “I just figured something out, thanks to you. Anyway, back to these activists. Do they have names for their groups?” I said.

  “Only the big umbrella organizations. But I can tell you one unique way they operate. Actually, Allison figured this out. She’s the computer geek.” He sipped his coffee.

  “So tell me,” I said.

  “They use the Internet to communicate. Ever heard of Twitter?”

  “Yes, but I don’t know much about it,” I said.

  “Well, Twitter isn’t the only game in town. There’s another thing like it—can’t remember the name right now. Anyway, Allison says they send each other these little coded messages about where animals are being held and if they don’t think it’s a good situation. Like in a lab, or even like what was going on at the professor’s place.”

  “Coded messages? Like Morse code?” I said.

  “Almost, really. I guess on these sites you can only use so many words. Allison’s the expert on this, but she says she’s followed some of these messages, and they give addresses. Send out the alarm. Like, ‘Anyone in the area of such and such address. Ten chimps need help.’ Stuff like that. Of course, sometimes the messages are good. There are people who inform about cats or dogs that are about to be euthanized and plead for people to go adopt.”

  “Oh, that is a good thing,” I said. “I guess these people are networked and ready to act when called on. But you’re saying the problem can be what they decide to act upon?”

  “Exactly.” Shawn drained his mug. “Wish I could tell you more, but I got to get back. Thanks for the jump start with the coffee. Doc and I will be here later today about that chip. And I’ll ask Allison if she knows anything more about this activist stuff on the Internet.”

  I thanked him and gave him a big hug before he left.

  Kara, I thought, as I locked the back door. Kara could show Candace and me how this network thing works.

  I made a fresh pot of coffee, hoping a second round of that wonderful aroma would rouse the sleeping beauties. It worked, at least for one of them.

  Candace stumbled into the kitchen, rubbing sleep out of her eyes. “You get up way too early, Jillian. I’m supposed to be watching you, so you need to stay in bed until I get up.” She grabbed a mug from the cabinet and poured herself some coffee.

  I grinned. “Shawn came to scan the chip. Someone had to be awake.”

  “Oh yeah. You’re gonna miss Dame Wiggins when he takes her to her owner, huh?” she said.

  “His scanner couldn’t read the number,” I said.

  “Broken equipment?” It was Kara. Chablis was supposed to be the stealthiest one around here, but Kara had her beat.

  Unlike Candace, Kara was dressed in cropped pants and a peasant shirt. Made her look younger than twenty-nine.

  “Shawn thinks the chip’s the problem, not the scanner.” I went on to explain about the chip being too large. “But his visit was valuable in other ways.”

  “Can we sit and talk?” Candace said. “Chasing that stupid coward yesterday has taken a toll on my thighs. I haven’t been on my treadmill since this case started. And that’s not good for a cop who’s supposed to be in shape.”

  We went into the living room and sat down, Kara in the chair that had become her favorite spot. “I am allowed to listen, right?” she said.

  “Certainly. And I’m hoping you can help me understand something,” I said. “But first, we forgot about one piece of evidence—not that there haven’t been distractions. Remember the meat?”

  “We’re gonna talk about that meat before breakfast?” Candace said. “I’ll try not to puke on your fine wood floors, Jillian.”

  “Shawn understood why that meat was there, but he probably assumed we knew, too. At least he assumed I did. But I didn’t put two and two together until I talked to him today. I think the professor was experimenting with a raw-food diet for those cats.”

  “That makes sense,” Candace said. “There was blenderized meat in those jars; that’s for sure. But we’ve learned the professor was two slices of bread short of a sandwich, right? That diet he was creating could have been completely bogus.”

  “Maybe not. He was a pretty respected scientist, despite his mental health problems. And raw-food diets have gotten lots of attention and are now commercially available. Expensive, but available,” I said.

  “They are?” Candace said. “In cans, like what you feed your cats?”

  “No,” I said. “Grocery stores are putting in refrigerators just for raw pet food.”

  “No way,” Candace said.

  I nodded. “Yup. So maybe VanKleet’s missing notebook contains valuable information. He may have had issues, but President Johnson called him a genius. He could have been developing something innovative concerning the raw- food diet.”

  “He did tell Evan he was about to win the lottery,” Candace said.

  “This is about a formula for pet food? That’s the motive?” Kara said.

  “Not very glamorous, huh?” Candace said. “But what if this formula or whatever he’d cooked up—or maybe didn’t cook up is what I should say. Anyway, what if this was all in his head?”

  “Then why did someone take that notebook?” I said. “I saw it, and an hour later it was gone.”

  Candace said, “Good point. We should be looking at people who knew about this experiment and believed the professor could make millions.”

  “Who knew?” Kara said.

  “Lots of possibilities. Evan, for one,” Candace said. “Or anyone else in the family. Maybe even the guy who fired him. And let’s not forget Hoffman. Maybe he and the professor were in cahoots.” Candace stood. “I need to get on the phone with the chief about this. Thanks, Jillian.”

  “You should thank Shawn for reminding me what we all saw that night,” I said.

  Candace
left the room, and Kara looked at me. “You said there was something I could contribute.”

  I explained what Shawn had mentioned about activists communicating on the Internet.

  “He’s right. I don’t know about animal rights people, but remember the election rebellion in Iran? Twitter was invaluable at getting the word out of the country about the protests and the resulting brutality.”

  “Lots of people use this way to communicate?” I said.

  “Millions. It’s mostly innocent stuff, but I can see how a terrorist might use this form of social networking to talk to other terrorists. How can anyone possibly follow all the hundred-and-forty-character messages going out every second of every day?”

  “One hundred forty characters, not words?” I said.

  “Right. Tweeting is a new language full of abbreviations. It takes some studying to get the hang of it,” she said.

  “Shawn said there are other sites like Twitter. What do you know about those?” I said.

  “There are. Twitter is big business and wouldn’t want their network used for anything even bordering on illegal,” she said. “They suspend suspicious accounts all the time. But some of the clones probably aren’t as careful.”

  “Can you show me on my computer how this works?” I said.

  “I can show you on your new phone,” she said.

  A few minutes later, Candace joined us as I learned how to join the Twitter world. She learned a few things, too, though she already did have a Twitter account herself. But the bad news was, Kara doubted we could ever backtrack to identify anyone who was sending messages this way. Social networking was her thing, and she said the technology wasn’t there yet. How could anyone track the millions of messages going out every second?

  But at least I felt more up on this now. And then while I was closing down the application, my phone rang.

  I nearly dropped the thing. “Is Twitter calling?” I said before I pressed the TALK button.

  Not Twitter—not even close. The female voice said, “This is Sarah VanKleet. I’d like to talk to you, if you have time.”

  “We’re talking,” I said.

  “Not over the phone. Can you come here? To the bed-and-breakfast where we’re staying? It’s called the Pink House.”

  I kept myself from admitting I knew. “What’s this about?”

  “My sons. Please? Can you humor me?” she said.

  “Sure. When?” I said, wondering why she was calling me instead of Chief Baca or Candace.

  “They do a very nice lunch here. Say, eleven thirty?” she said.

  “I’ll be there,” I replied.

  After I disconnected, I told Candace we had a lunch date.

  Twenty-seven

  The Pink House is an old Victorian, one of the first houses built in Mercy. I knew the place well because it had also been the scene of the murder last fall. I had stayed away from the place since then, so I was amazed by what I saw today. Less than a year ago, the house had been about to fall down. Now it had a fresh coat of salmon pink paint, and all the gingerbread trim was once again white. Flowers and manicured shrubs lined the walkway up to the front stoop.

  “This is amazing,” I said to Candace as we reached the front door. “I never thought I’d come back here, but I’m glad I did.”

  Kara had promised she wouldn’t wait alone at my house while we were gone and would instead take her computer to Belle’s Beans, the place she called the “hotbed of Mercy gossip.” I knew she was right about that, and I realized I actually looked forward to what she might learn while she was there. I had to admit, I’d come to admire how intelligent Kara was. And she’d loved her dad, loved cats, and maybe one day she’d care for me, too. I wanted her in my life. She was my family.

  I rapped on the door using the gleaming brass knocker—definitely a new addition—and a petite woman with short brown hair answered. She seemed about my age but probably had plenty of those little jars of face cream like the one Kara offered Candace last night, because her skin was creamy and smooth.

  “Anita Stone,” she said, glancing back and forth between Candace and me. “Can I help you?”

  “Jillian Hart. I’m having lunch with Mrs. VanKleet.”

  Anita Stone smiled. “Ah yes, but we only expected one guest.”

  I thumbed at Candace. “She goes where I go.”

  Candace held out her hand. “Deputy Candace Carson, Mercy PD.”

  I didn’t think Anita Stone’s skin could have gotten any paler, but she did lose color. She finally took Candace’s hand in greeting and said, “Please come in. I’ll tell Phillip we’ll have one more for lunch. He’s my husband and does all the meals.”

  We followed her through the large foyer, and though I knew the layout of this house well, the place had been transformed back to what it had once been probably fifty years ago. The wood banister and trim were shiny with polish, and fresh flowers sat on an antique table we passed. No dust mites or musty odors, either.

  “You’ve done an amazing job renovating this house in such a short time,” I said.

  “That’s for sure,” Candace said.

  “You know the history, then?” she said as we reached the dining room. Then she shook her head. “How stupid. Of course you do. You’re the police.” Anita looked at me. “Are you an officer, too?”

  “No. And I’m not signing up anytime soon.” I perused the dining room. The massive oak table that had once been here was gone, replaced by four round tables sporting white linens. A vase of fresh daisies and yellow mums sat on each one.

  “I’ll talk to Phillip about the menu and get another place setting. Mrs. VanKleet and her professor friend should be down shortly.”

  Shortly was right. They came into the dining room mere seconds after Anita left.

  Sarah glared at Candace. “What are you doing here?”

  Douglas Lieber rested a hand on Sarah’s back. “It’s okay. I’ve told you that you have nothing to hide. Perhaps it’s better that Deputy Carson came along.”

  But Sarah still didn’t look happy. “I can’t throw you out, can I? First of all, this isn’t my home, and second of all, you’re the police.”

  “And you’d be right,” Candace said with a smile. “You can’t.”

  “Shall we sit down in the parlor while we wait for lunch?” Lieber said. “I assume you’ve met Anita?”

  “We did. She’s making sure I get to eat, too.” Candace walked across the polished wood floor to the parlor.

  We all followed. The huge pieces of furniture that had once filled this room had been replaced as well. Smaller antique dressers and tables were used only to display artwork or showcase beautiful candles and Lladró figurines. Slipcovered easy chairs and a love seat against the wall sandwiched a coffee table. We all sat down, with Sarah and Lieber taking the love seat. He immediately took her hand in both of his.

  I ran my fingers along the arms of the chair, admiring the gorgeous floral fabric, but Candace was all about business.

  “Why did you ask Jillian here today?” she said.

  “The honest truth?” Sarah said.

  “That’s the best kind,” Candace said.

  “Um, we were hoping for a friendly conversation,” Lieber said.

  “I’m not real good at friendly when two people are dead,” Candace said.

  “But I’m glad you called me,” I said quickly. Candace was being the touchy cop again, and I had a feeling that wasn’t the best approach with these two.

  Sarah smiled at me. “I called you here to apologize, for one thing.”

  “For what?” I said, totally confused. I didn’t even know this woman.

  “I understand my sons created a disruption at your home the other night,” Sarah said. “They argued in front of you and nearly came to blows. For that, I am very sorry.”

  “Brandt tell you about that?” Candace said.

  “He did. Will you accept our apology?” Sarah said.

  “I’m not sure I understand why you’
re apologizing for the actions of your grown kids,” I said. “But it was really nothing. Tempers flared. I didn’t think twice about it.”

  “Brandt told me how Evan was there at your house when he arrived with his new friend, Kara,” Sarah said. “And apparently Evan was quite emotional. I am worried about him. What did he say?”

  So that’s what this is about, I thought. “Did you ask him?” I said.

  “I don’t want to set him off. Evan has been troubled ever since the divorce, and . . . and—”

  “We think Evan blames Sarah for his father’s death,” Lieber said.

  “He thinks she killed him?” Candace said.

  “Nothing like that,” Lieber said quickly. “But though Evan and I remain friends, he wasn’t happy about my relationship with his mother, or about the divorce. He thinks her actions—really our actions—might have made Hubert go off the deep end.”

  “He did tell me his father’s mental illness had worsened recently, but he didn’t blame anyone,” I said. “Evan was trying to make sense of the murder—something I can never make sense of, by the way.”

  Candace cleared her throat, and I took that as a cue to be careful about what I gave away concerning Evan. She said, “You have money issues, right, Mrs. VanKleet? And that’s made you bitter about your husband’s failure to pay support?”

  Her cheeks flushed. “He took everything we had. And it’s my fault I never knew how much that was. I still don’t know. But he had enough money to purchase a silly farm.”

  Lieber squeezed her hand. “Remember what Brandt told you?”

  “To keep your mouths shut?” Candace said. “Innocent people don’t need to keep secrets.”

  Lieber sighed heavily. “I suppose what she’s just told you does make Sarah seem vindictive, but it wasn’t like that. She took care of Hubert for twenty- five years. She’s a loving, caring person. Hubert may have pushed her too far, but she would never hurt anyone.”

  Sarah seemed to be fighting tears. “I loved that crazy man once. He could be so funny and brilliant and—”