The Cat, The Professor and the Poison Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Also Available

  Praise for the Novels of Leann Sweeney

  The Cat, the Quilt and the Corpse

  “A solid start to a cozy mystery series.”—CA Reviews

  “The first installment of what promises to be a delightful cozy series. . . . Leann Sweeney presents readers with a solid mystery that kept this reader guessing through all of the plot twists and turns. Plenty of cat trivia adds to the richness of the narrative. . . . Highly recommended!”

  —The Romance Readers Connection

  “The cats are entertaining four-legged assistants. . . . Kitty lovers will enjoy the feline trivia.”—Publishers Weekly

  “Great fun for cat lovers . . . a lot of hometown charm.”

  —The Mystery Reader

  “Fans will enjoy her amateur sleuth investigation.”

  —The Best Reviews

  Praise for the Yellow Rose Mysteries

  “As Texas as a Dr Pepper-swigging armadillo at the Alamo. A rip-roaring read!”

  —Carolyn Hart, author of Death Walked In

  “Full of emotions! Anger, sadness, fear, happiness, laughter, joy, and tears . . . they are all there, and you will feel them along with the characters in this book!”

  —Amanda Shafer, Armchair Interviews

  “An intriguing puzzle [that] has buried layers that must be uncovered.”—Rendezvous

  “I adore this series.”—Roundtable Reviews

  “A welcome new voice in mystery fiction.”

  —Jeff Abbott, national bestselling author of Collision

  “A dandy debut . . . will leave mystery fans eager to read more about Abby Rose.”

  —Bill Crider, author of Of All Sad Worlds

  “Pick Your Poison goes down sweet.”

  —Rick Riordan, New York Times bestselling and Edgar® Award-winning author of The Battle of the Labyrinth

  “A witty down-home Texas mystery . . . [a] fine tale.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  Other Novels by Leann Sweeney

  The Cats in Trouble Mysteries

  The Cat, the Quilt and the Corpse

  The Yellow Rose Mysteries

  Pushing Up Bluebonnets Shoot from the Lip Dead Giveaway A Wedding to Die For Pick Your Poison

  OBSIDIAN

  Published by New American Library, a division of

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  eISBN : 978-1-101-18735-7

  First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, May 2010

  Copyright © Leann Sweeney, 2010 All rights reserved

  The Edgar® name is a registered service mark of the Mystery Writers of America, Inc.

  OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  This book is dedicated to Lydia and Rufus, the best friends in the world. Thanks for always being there

  Acknowledgments

  I want to thank my husband for putting up with a writer who doesn’t cook or even move away from her computer for months at a time. I love you. My three cats can’t read, but I owe them so much for their inspiration. The dog, too, since she believes she’s a cat on most days. And my sister for her encouragement. I know whom to turn to when the words won’t come—my sister and my daughter. Jeffrey, Shawn, Allison and Maddie, you are wonderful and always in my thoughts. My writing group is amazing. Kay, Amy, Laura, Dean, Bob, Joe and Millie, and to my fellow bloggers on Writers Plot—Lorraine Bartlett, Sheila Connolly, Doranna Durgin, Kate Flora and Jeanne Bracken—your support and insights are always invaluable. Thanks, too, to Susie, Charlie, Isabella and Curry for your generosity and friendship. Lastly, my agent, Carol, and my editor, Claire. What would I do without your knowledge and support? Thank you, one and all, for everything.

  Way down deep we are all motivated by the same urges. Cats have the courage to live by them.

  —JIM DAVIS, creator of Garfield

  One

  “The smallest feline is a masterpiece,’” I said, using a trembling finger to gently stroke the newborn kitten curled in the palm of my hand. “And that’s not me being brilliant. Those are Leonardo da Vinci’s words.”

  “The Mona Lisa guy, right?” my friend Candace said.

  “Yes, ma’am. An expert on masterpieces should know plenty about these wonderful babies,” I said.

  “Look at you,” Candace said. “Your hand is shaking.”

  “This is a big responsibility,” I said.

  “You’re do
ing fine with these itty-bitty ones,” she said. “Better than I could do.”

  Tonight, here in the Mercy Animal Sanctuary’s office, I definitely felt the full weight of the responsibility that shelter owner Shawn Cuddahee had bestowed on me. These four brown kittens entrusted to my care were preemies with a less-than-peppy mom. That meant tube feeding them every two hours, as well as caring for the weakened mama cat.

  Though Shawn, who was spending all the daylight hours taking care of his shelter and these kittens, had taught me exactly what to do, I still feared I might make a mistake. That’s why I’d asked Candace to spend the night shift with me—for moral support. She’d heard all the same instructions from Shawn and had taken notes, so she could help me make sure I did everything right. But as for hands-on assistance? Deputy Candace Carson of the Mercy, South Carolina, PD performed better with an attitude and a gun than with a litter of kittens.

  She said, “One more hour and we have to do another feeding. You did so good last time, Jillian.”

  “You’re sure you don’t want to give it a try?” I said.

  “They all had nice fat bellies and fell right to sleep after you did the midnight feeding. Why mess with success?” Her right eye twitched, and her voice was strained by what had to be her unease. The thought that she might have to do a feeding obviously made her more nervous than when she’d stormed into my house last fall and taken a murderer into custody.

  That week in October, when my Abyssinian was catnapped and I came face-to-face with a murderer, had changed me forever—and in ways I never would’ve imagined. I’d moved to Mercy with my husband, John, who’d been fourteen years older than I was, when he wanted to retire. But he died of a heart attack not long after we arrived. Now I made my living sewing little quilts for cats, a mostly online business and a very quiet job. I’d thought my life was over when my husband died. But then I’d gotten involved in a mystery and a murder, and by the end of it I’d realized I had made new friends and was beginning a different life for myself.

  Once the fireworks of the murder investigation ended, I began receiving e-mails from all over the country. Seems the story had reached the major news outlets. For some reason, folks have decided I can solve any mystery involving cats. So not true. I may be as curious as a cat, but I have no investigative training whatsoever. I responded to every e-mail to tell these desperate cat and dog lovers as much, but some remained persistent and have kept me updated about their lost animals. And of course they keep insisting that I can help them.

  Putting those thoughts aside—the stories did tug at my heart—I said, “You’re nervous about the feedings; I get that. I promise you don’t have to do a thing except make sure we have enough coffee to keep us awake until six a.m. And I am running low.” I lifted my Belle’s Beans travel cup. The last time I’d stayed up all night on purpose was to cram for a college exam about twenty years ago.

  Candace smiled with obvious relief. “I can do coffee. That antique Mr. Coffee machine Allison insists on keeping has met its match. I will serve you awesome java.”

  Allison is Shawn’s wife and one of the sweetest people I have ever met. But Candace was right about the coffee-maker. I knew what to get them for their next anniversary.

  Candace reached into her backpack and pulled out a small purple bag labeled STELLAR BREW. “This is from the Organic Coffee Company. Bought it online.” She stood and tiptoed over to the small table where the pot sat.

  I set the sleeping kitten I’d been holding next to its mother’s tummy, and he never stirred. Though the office was small, the space heater did a less-than-adequate job of heating the place, and I didn’t want him to get chilled. Despite the gorgeous spring day, the night had turned cool, and I was glad I’d worn a sweatshirt. I’d also brought a couple of cat quilts along, hoping to finish hand binding them, but the lighting was too poor for sewing. So both Candace and I had added to our own warmth by sitting on the quilts instead.

  The kittens, of course, with their heated pallet and their mother’s body, would be fine, temperature-wise. But the mama couldn’t lick her kittens enough—Shawn wasn’t sure why she was so weak—and every so often I stroked each one to keep its blood circulation adequate. I also had to rub their tummies with tissue after feeding to stimulate urination, another task the poor cat couldn’t do regularly enough. She didn’t seem to mind my help, but still, the babies looked so fragile, so breakable. I vowed not to make any errors tonight.

  As Candace filled the Mr. Coffee with bottled water, Snug—that’s Shawn and Allison’s African Gray parrot—said, “Put on the pot, Allison. Put on the pot.”

  Candace turned and stared up at his cage, which sat on a shelf close to the ceiling. “I’m not Allison, and I’m not sure I like being ordered around by a bird. Shawn needs to have a talk with you about the word please, Mr. Snug.”

  “Shawn should have a talk with himself if that’s how he speaks to Allison,” I said with a laugh.

  She pointed at me. “That’s a better idea.”

  The mother cat mewed pathetically, and I reached into the box and stroked her head. “This sweetheart was fortunate to have been dropped at Shawn’s doorstep right before she delivered.”

  “Lucky?” Candace sat back down to the grumbling tune of the old coffeepot as it worked its magic. “I’d say someone knew what they were doing—knew how amazing Shawn is with animals. Course, that might just be the cop in me, because I don’t believe in luck and I don’t believe in coincidences. No, ma’am, not me.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” I said. “But you’re probably right. Luck had nothing to do with it. Shawn has told me before how people are always dropping off dogs and cats in the dead of night. I could never do what he and Allison do. I’d be too furious with the people who’d abandoned the animals to think straight.”

  “Not everyone believes that cats are the most wonderful creatures on earth,” Candace said.

  “Wonderful? That reminds me.” I took my phone from my jeans pocket and pulled up the live feed on my personal “cat cam.” I laughed out loud at what I saw going on in my living room across town. My three cats, Chablis, Syrah and Merlot, were tearing apart a roll of toilet paper. Syrah was sitting like a king in his own special shredded pile. I handed the phone to Candace. “Check this out.”

  Her blue eyes widened, and she grinned. “I think they want you to know exactly how mad they are that you left them alone all night.”

  “This shredding thing is nothing new. I might have to put a child safety lock on the bathroom cabinet. Both Syrah and Merlot can open anything, though. They’d figure it out eventually.”

  Candace handed the phone back. “Knowing your cats, I’d place bets on that. But exactly why did you volunteer for night duty here? I know you’re a sweetheart and when Shawn asked you couldn’t say no—just like I couldn’t say no to keeping you company—but you’ve never done this before, have you?” She stood as the wonderful aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the office. The pot was sputtering and beckoning now.

  “No, but with Allison driving to Clemson a couple days a week for classes, she needs her sleep. And leaving the kittens at the vet was too expensive. Contributions to the shelter are way down.”

  “I forgot about her starting school,” Candace said. “What’s she studying, again?”

  “Preveterinary medicine.” I took the cup of steaming brew that Candace offered. “In a few years they won’t need to pay the vet. She’ll be the vet.”

  “Wow. She’ll make a great veterinarian,” Candace said, sounding wistful.

  I’d met Candace last year during the murder investigation, and ever since, we’d become closer and closer friends. In some ways I felt motherly, but really more like her good friend. Despite our twenty-year age difference, we seemed alike in many ways. She was obsessed with becoming a better cop, and I was obsessed with my cats and my one-woman job. There’d been a time when my old job had consumed me, so I guess I understood Candace on that level. I’d trave
led the world buying fabric for a large company, but that hectic life was over. I’d met John, the financial adviser for said company, and when he was ready to retire to go fishing and sit by the lake, I discovered I wanted to return to my first love—the simplicity and peace of handwork. If only we’d had more time sitting together looking out on Mercy Lake. If only.

  Knowing that Candace wanted desperately to go back to school herself and become a crime-scene investigator or even an FBI forensics expert, I decided that talking about Allison’s new venture wouldn’t work. Since Candace helped her mother with her bills, money was tight and the topic of school made her depressed. Time to change the subject.

  “Cards?” I said.

  “Double solitaire?”

  “Sure, just don’t injure my hands when you slap down those cards. I have kittens to feed,” I said.

  “So you want an advantage? Guess I have to go along with that this one time,” she answered with a smile.

  We sipped coffee, chatted and played cards for the next several hours, stopping for the scheduled tube feedings. Candace was too afraid to even pick up the kittens, saying she was scared she might injure one. Both of us handling them probably wasn’t a good idea, anyway.

  Snug had finally tucked one leg close to his body and went blissfully to sleep while Candace and I kept each other awake. But at four a.m., both of us were having a hard time keeping our eyes open, much less shuffling the cards. The only thing that helped me stay halfway alert was the tarantula that Shawn kept in the glass case across the room. I don’t mind spiders, but a big hairy one that might climb out of that tank and wander my way gave me the creeps.

  We both started when Candace’s phone jangled “Sweet Thing,” a Keith Urban song she adored.