“Thanks,” I mumbled, as Candace practically dragged me past the meat-covered counter to the back door.

“This is the worst suspicious death I have ever worked,” Candace said once we were outside. “And before you say anything, I’m not calling it murder until we know for sure. Maybe the guy overdosed. Sometimes dealers use tiny amounts of strychnine to cut cocaine. Could be the professor’s supplier slipped him bad stuff.”

“You’re thinking he was on drugs?” I said.

“If his thinking was impaired, it could explain his doing crazy stuff like stealing cows and grinding meat,” she answered. “But that’s just a wild guess. And I shouldn’t be guessing.”

“Is strychnine what they sell in the feed store to kill rats? Because I thought they used something else,” I said.

“ Lydia told us it used to be a standard rat killer. Not so much anymore,” Candace said. “Dangerous, and as I explained, used to cut illegal drugs.”

I inhaled the fresh night air and felt my shoulders relax. “But if the poison is off the market, then-”

“I can’t say any more about the evidence, okay?” she said.

“Got it. Sorry,” I said.

The shed stood maybe ten feet ahead, and we walked toward it down a stone path. Before Candace opened the flimsy screen door, she said, “This is where you have to be especially careful. We haven’t searched this building thoroughly yet.”

As Candace led the way, I didn’t even bother to glance around. We were through the shed and out to the cat runs in seconds. Two county sheriffs were setting up their halogens, though I couldn’t see much more than their silhouettes. And still, no cat cries. God, please don’t let them be dead like the professor.

To our right, Shawn and a man and woman I’d never met stood waiting for the lights to come on. Meager reinforcements for fifty cats… but of course if the cats were-no. The cats were alive when I’d seen them earlier.

“Hi, Shawn. Hi, Shawn’s friends.” I offered a small wave, noting the stack of crates that had been broken down and brought outside on a flatbed dolly. Bet that trip through the possibly evidence-laden shed had given Candace nightmares.

Their smiles were grim when they nodded my way. They had no idea what they were about to see, and the fact that it was so darned quiet out here made goose bumps rise on my arms.

The bright blast when the lights came on made me shut my eyes reflexively, and when I opened them, I was not prepared for what I saw.

Shawn said, “What in hell happened here?”

We did not see fifty cats. Instead, we saw that the chain-link fence had been cut open at the bottom of each small jail cell.

And the cats were gone.

“Where did they go?” I said. “They were here. I saw them.”

“You saw them?” It was Lydia, who, unfortunately, had decided to join us.

“Yes,” I said. “That’s why I called Candace. That’s how she found the body… because I told her that cats were possibly being mistreated here, and-”

“You can explain all that later,” Candace cut in. “I think I see a few cats in those end runs.”

“Oh my gosh. You’re right.” I started in that direction.

Candace grabbed my arm. “You, Shawn and the others need to wait. I have to photograph this place, look for evidence. Then we’ll see about the cats.”

“But-”

“No buts, Jillian. The cats will be okay for a few minutes.”

“She’s right.” Lydia looked at Candace. “You’ve got this covered, though I believe Jillian and I need to talk later about what she saw and when she saw it.” She smiled, turned and went back through the shed.

We stood there for more than thirty minutes, not the few that had been promised, as Candace did her job. Meanwhile, Shawn introduced me to the volunteers. Sam Howard was a retired veterinarian with snowy hair and a warm smile. Jane Haden, a soft-spoken black woman, had intelligent dark eyes and beautiful posture that exuded an air of authority. Since she was a school principal, that authority was probably put to good use.

I explained my presence, and the three of us ended up sharing photographs of our beloved pets. Sam Howard laughed at the cat cam, but Jane was intrigued and asked lots of questions. I was afraid to tell her that Tom Stewart had set it up for me for fear that if I mentioned his name Lydia would come running out in psychotic mode again.

A county deputy was showing Candace how to lift a footprint off the walkway with what looked like giant Scotch tape. From the adoring look she gave the guy, I knew he’d just made her day. She had evidence. Then both county officers helped reposition the lights so Candace could photograph each enclosure. She used her flashlight to closely examine the fence areas that had been cut away. I’m no police person, but it sure didn’t look like fingerprint territory to me. Then Candace began photographing each enclosure and the cement path that allowed access to them.

As we waited, we decided to put together three large crates to take away the remaining cats when Candace was finished.

Doc Howard, who was kneeling next to me as we worked, said, “I’ve dealt with some pretty radical animal rights groups, but killing someone has never been in their bag of dirty tricks.”

“As Candace would say, there’s no evidence yet that whoever removed these cats killed the man,” I said. “We don’t even know if he was murdered.”

“You got me there. I am jumping to conclusions,” he said. “I’ve just seen way too many people go off the deep end and act foolishly when it comes to domesticated animals. Let’s hope whoever took the cats was on the animal welfare side.”

“More like us, you mean,” Jane said as she stood. She had her crate put together. “I was at a cat show once when a protestor made a scene. She’d drawn whiskers on her face with a Sharpie. How does that kind of behavior help anyone?”

“I sell quilts at cat shows, and I’ve seen the same sort of thing a couple times,” I said. “But I like what you said. Animal welfare versus animal activism? I’ll take welfare every time.”

I’d finished my crate, and so had Doc Howard. A few minutes later we were allowed to walk down the path to the last three little jail cells: two black cats in the first we came to, two white cats in the second and my calico angel and her kittens in the last. Only the calico remained calm. The other four cats had their backs up and were hissing and spitting at the invasion, first by the police and now by us. I didn’t blame them for being upset.

Shawn said, “Doc, can you take the whites?”

“I’ll do a cursory check for deafness back in my van,” Howard said, pulling on long leather gloves.

“Do they have blue eyes?” I asked.

Howard looked surprised. “Can’t tell until I get up close. But how did you know that blue eyes might indicate deafness in whites?”

I tapped my temple. “Crazy lover of cat trivia.”

He smiled and dragged a crate toward their cage.

“Jane, black cats for you,” Shawn said.

“I adore black cats,” she said with a smile. “Works for me.”

Shawn took a cream-colored instrument off the dolly. It looked like the scanner they used to price giant bags of kibble. But then I realized what it was. I’d recently had microchips implanted near the shoulder blades of all my cats. Dr. Jensen had used a tool exactly like that to show me how the system worked. He’d held it over the shoulder area after each cat had had its chip put in, and the chip number came up on the device’s screen. Their unique embedded chip numbers are now in a database in case any of them ever get lost again.

“You think these cats have chips?” I said.

“That would be too good to be true, but South Carolina law says any rescued cat must be scanned for microchips. And I’ll look for tattoos,” Shawn said. “Some folks used tattoos to identify their pets before the microchip age.”

“Scanning is the law? I had no idea. Might be a challenge to scan them the way they’re acting right now.” I took my crate to the last enclosure. “I assume you’re taking me up on my offer to foster the calico and her kittens?”