The Cat Who Said Cheese

10

As Qwilleran fed the cats on Tuesday morning, a hundred questions unreeled in front of his brain's eye:

Who had bombed the hotel - and why? Would he strike again?

What would happen to the hotel now? Would it ever be restored? Was this the beginning of the end for downtown Pickax?

Were mall developers from Down Below implicated in the bombing? Did they want to see the demise of downtown shopping?

What was J. Willard Carmichael's true reason for moving to Moose County? Did Pickax People's Bank have an interest in promoting mall development?

And what about Iris Cobb's cookbook? Would it ever be found?

And what about the Food Forum? Was it just another; of Hixie's harebrained ideas? Why should he waste his time dummying a column for her when he had problems of his own?

Feeding words and thoughts into the bottomless maw of the "Qwill Pen" was one problem. Feeding two fussy felines was another, more immediate, more exasperating problem. They had been on a seafood binge, and he had stocked up on canned clams, tuna, crabmeat, and cocktail shrimp. Today they were turning up their wet black noses at a delicious serving of top-quality red sockeye salmon with the black skin removed.

"Cats !" he muttered. Koko was the chief problem, having spent his formative years in the household of a gourmet cook. That cat wanted to order from a menu every day! Yum Yum merely tagged along with her male companion. She was the type of cat who could live on love: stroking, hugging, sweet words, a ready lap.

Qwilleran found himself yearning for other times, other places - when Iris Cobb was his housekeeper, when he lived in Robert Maus's high-class boarding house, when Hixie was managing the Old Stone Mill and sending the busboy over with cat-sized servings of the daily specials, He was aware of the conventional wisdom: If they get hungry enough, they'll eat it. But he, unfortunately, was the, humble servant of two sovereign rulers, and he knew it. He admitted it. What was worse, they knew it.

Qwilleran left the two plates of untouched salmon on the kitchen floor in the feeding station and went to breakfast at Lois's, knowing she often had interesting leftovers in the refrigerator, waiting to go into the soup pot. It was raining, so he drove his car.

He sat in his favorite booth and ordered pancakes. Lois's son was serving. The rather large adhesive bandage on his forehead indicated that he had looked up when the bomb exploded and the chandelier dropped.

"Will you be able to ride in the bike-a-thon Sunday?" Qwilleran asked him.

"I don't much feel like it, but everybody tells me I should." Lenny Inchpot had the lean and hungry look of a bike racer, the neatly groomed look of a hotel clerk, and the stunned look of a young man facing tragedy for the first time.

"If you bike, I'll sponsor you at a dollar a mile."

"Take it!" Lois shouted from the cash register. "Give him a green card!" It was not really a shout; it was Lois's usual commanding voice.

Qwilleran asked Lenny, "What's the best place to get some good pictures?"

"About a mile south of Kennebeck, where the road runs between two patches of woods. Know where I mean? We're just starting out - no drop-outs - no stragglers. It's some sight! You see a hundred bikers come over the hill! The paper's gonna print a map of the route on Friday, and everybody knows that's the best place to shoot, so get there early. Take a lotta film. There's a prize, you know, for the best shot."

As they talked, Qwilleran felt someone staring at them from a nearby table. It proved to be a husky man with a pudgy face and long white hair. He was eating pancakes.

"Good morning," Qwilleran said. "How are the flapjacks today?"

"They're good! Almost as good as my mom's. Lois always gives me a double stack and extra butter. I bring my own honey. D'you like honey on flapjacks? Try it. It's good." The beekeeper leaned across the aisle, offering Qwilleran a plastic squeeze bottle shaped like a bear-cub.

"Thank you. Thank you very much... How is Mr. Limburger? Do you know?"

"Yeah. I took him a jar of honey yesterday, and he threw it at the window, so I guess he's feeling pretty good. Coulda broke the glass. He wants to come home. The doctor says: No way!"

Qwilleran dribbled honey on his pancakes and staged a lip-smacking demonstration of enjoyment. "Delicious! Best I've ever tasted!" Then he noticed the front page of Monday's newspaper on Aubrey's table. "What did you think of the hotel bombing?"

"Somebody got killed!" the beekeeper said with a look of horror on his face. He stared at his plate briefly, then jumped up and went to the cash register.

"Aubrey, don't forget your honey!" Qwilleran waved the squeeze bottle.

The man rushed back to the table, snatched it, and left the lunchroom in a hurry.

Lenny ran after him in the rain. "Hey, you forgot your change!"

Lois said, "What's the matter with him? He didn't even finish his double stack."

"He's wacko from too many bee stings," her son said. "Well, you wash his table-good! It's all sticky... How'd you like the flapjacks, Mr. Q?"

"Great! Especially with honey. You should make it available to your customers."

"Costs too much."

"Charge extra."

"They wouldn't pay."

"By the way, Lois, could I scrounge a little something for the cats? Tack it on to my check."

"Don't be silly, Mr. Q. I always have a handout for those two spoiled brats. No charge. Is ham okay?"

With a foil-wrapped package in the trunk of his car, Qwilleran drove to the public library for a conference with Homer Tibbitt, but the aged historian was not to be found in his usual chair. Nor was he in the restroom, taking a nip from his thermos bottle. One of the clerks explained that rainy weather made his bones ache, and he stayed home.

A phone call to the retirement village where the nonagenarian lived with his octogenarian wife produced an invitation. "Come on over and bring some books on lake shipwrecks. Also the file on the Plensdorf family." At ninety-five-plus, Homer Tibbitt had no intention of wasting a morning.

The historian was sitting in a cocoon of cushions for his back, knees, and elbows when Qwilleran arrived. "I need all this padding because I'm skin and bones," he complained. "Rhoda's trying to starve me to death with her low-fat-this and no-fat-that. I'd give my last tooth for a piece of whale blubber."

"Homer, dear," his wife said sweetly, "you've always been as thin as a string bean, but you're healthy and productive, and all your contemporaries are in their graves." She served Qwilleran herb tea and some cookies that reminded him of Polly's dietetic delight.

He said to Homer, "Under these circumstances, my mission today may prove painful. I want to know what food was like in the old days, before tenderizers and flavor-enhancers."

"I'll tell you what it was like! It tasted like food! We lived on a farm outside Little Hope when I was a boy. We had our own chicken and eggs, homemade bread made with real flour, milk from our own cow, homegrown fruit and vegetables, and maple syrup from our own trees. I never even saw an orange or banana until I went away to normal school. That's what they called teacher training colleges in those days. I never found out why. Rhoda thinks it's a derivation from the French... What was I talking about?"

"The food you ate on the farm."

"Our fish came from Black Creek or the lake, and sometimes we butchered a hog. Anything we didn't eat we took to Little Hope and exchanged for flour, sugar, and coffee at the general store."

"And calico to make dresses for your womenfolk," Rhoda added.

Qwilleran asked, "What happened when the mines closed and the economy collapsed?"

"With no jobs, there was no money for food, and no market for our farm produce. We all tightened our belts."

Rhoda said, "Tell him about the rationing in World War One."

"Oh, that! Well, you see, sugar was in short supply, and in order to buy a pound of it, we had to buy five pounds of oatmeal. We ate oatmeal every day for breakfast and sometimes dinner and supper. I haven't eaten the stuff since! After the war I went away to school and I discovered fancy eating, like creamed chicken and peas, and prune whip. I thought that was real living! Then I came home to teach, and it was back to boiled dinners, squirrel pie, fried smelt, and bread pudding. What a letdown! Then came the Great Depression, and we majored in beans and peanut butter sandwiches."

Qwilleran said, "You haven't mentioned the foremost regional specialty."

The Tibbitts said in unison, "Pasties!"

"If you write about them," Homer said, "tell the green horns from Down Below that they rhyme with nasty, not hasty. You probably know that Cornish miners came here from Britain in the mid-nineteenth century. Their wives made big meat-and-potato turnovers for their lunch, and they carried them down the mine shaft in their pockets. They're very filling. Takes two hands to eat one."

Rhoda said, "There's disagreement about the recipe, but the real pasty dough is made with lard and suet. I don't approve of animal fat, but that's the secret! The authentic filling is diced or cubed beef or pork. Ground meat is a no-no! It's mixed with diced potatoes and rutabagas, chopped onion, salt and pepper, and a big lump of butter. You put the filling on a circle of dough and fold it over. Some cooks omit the rutabagas."

Qwilleran said., "There's a Pasty Parlor opening in downtown Pickax on Stables Row."

"Unfortunately," she said, "pasties are no longer in our diet. Homer and I haven't had one for years... Have we, dear?"

They turned to look at the historian. His chin had sunk on his chest, and he was sound asleep.

Having been briefed in Pasty Correctness by the knowledgeable Tibbitts, Qwilleran went to Stables Row to check out the Pasty Parlor, not yet open for business. Behind locked doors there were signs of frantic preparation, but he knocked, identified himself, and was admitted. A bright young couple in paint-spattered grubbies introduced themselves as the proprietors.

"Are you natives of Moose County?" he asked, alI though he noted something brittle about their appearance and attitude that indicated otherwise.

"No, but we've traveled up here on vacations and eaten a lot of pasties, and we decided you people need to expand your horizons," the young man said. "We made a proposal to the K Fund in Chicago and were accepted."

"What was your proposal?"

"A designer pasty! Great-tasting! Very unique! Choice of four crusts: plain, cheese, herb, or cornmeal. Choice of four fillings: ground beef, ham, turkey, or sausage meat. Choice of four veggies: green pepper, broccoli, mushroom, or carrot - besides the traditional potato and onion, of course. Plus your choice of tomato, olive, or hot chili garnish - or all three - at no extra charge."

"It boggles the mind," Qwilleran said with a straight face. "I'll be back when you're open for business. Good luck!"

From there he hurried through the rain to Lori Bamba's brainchild: The Spoonery. It was not yet open for business, but the energetic entrepreneur was lettering signs and hanging posters. He asked her, "Are you serious about serving only spoon-food?"

"Absolutely! I have dozens of recipes for wonderful soups: Mulligatawny, Scotch broth, Portuguese black bean, eggplant and garlic, and lots more. Soup doesn't have to be boring, although I'll have one boring soup each day for the fuddy-duddies."

"What does your family think about it?"

"Nick's very supportive, although he's working hard at the turkey farm. My kids are taste-testing the soups. My in-laws are helping set up the kitchen... How are Koko and Yum Yum? I haven't seen them since Breakfast Island.

"They're busy as usual, inventing new ways to complicate my life."

Lori said with her usual exuberance, "Do you know what I read in a magazine? Cats have twenty-four whiskers, which may account for their ESP."

"Does that include the eyebrows?"

"I don't know. They didn't specify."

"Are there twenty-four whiskers on each side, or is that the total?" he asked.

"I don't know. You journalists are such fuss pots!"

"Well, I'll go home and count," Qwilleran said. "And good luck, Lori! I'll drop in for lunch someday."

It was still raining. He went home to give the Siamese the ham he had begged from Lois, and he found Koko doing his grasshopper act. The cat jumped in exaggerated arcs from floor to desktop to chair to bookshelf. It meant that there was a message on the answering machine. The faster he jumped, it appeared, the more urgent the call. How did the cat know the content of the message? Perhaps Lori was right, Qwilleran thought; cats have ESP whiskers.

The message was from Sarah, the office manager, who had never phoned him at the barn before. "Sorry to bother you at home," said the deferential voice, "but an express letter came for you. I thought I should let you know."

He got her on the phone immediately. "Sarah, this is Qwill. About the express letter, what's the return address?"

"It's just hotel stationery. No one's name. It's from Salt Lake City."

"I'll pick it up right away. Thanks." Qwilleran felt a tingling on his upper lip; he had a hunch who was writing to him. He drove to the newspaper via the back road, to make better time.

Sarah handed him the letter. "Shall I slit the envelope for you?" she offered.

"Not this time, thanks." He carried it to an empty desk in the cityroom and tore it open, looking first at the signature: Onoosh Dolmathakia. The handwriting was hard to decipher, and she spoke English better than she wrote it. She had trouble with verbs, and she was nervous, frightened. The brief note dripped with emotion:

Dear Mr. Qwill

I sorry I leave and not say thank you - I hear it on radio about hotel bomb - I panick he is threttan me many time - he want to kill me - I think it good I go away - long way away - so he not find me

- how he find me in Pickacks is not to

- know - now I afraid again - I not feel safe if he alive - always I run away where he not find me - I leave this hotel now - I sign my right name -

Onoosh Dolmathakia

When Qwilleran finished reading the letter for the second time, he felt his neck flush and beads of perspiration drench his forehead - not at the thought of Onoosh being terrorized by a stalker, but at the realization that Koko had been feeding him this information ever since the bombing, and even before. Koko had been stalking Yum Yum boldly and repeatedly, in a way that looked like a purposeful campaign.

Qwilleran telephoned the police station. "Stay there!" he barked at Brodie. "I have some curious information." A few minutes later, he walked into the chief's office.

"What've you got?" Brodie demanded gruffly.

"A letter from Onoosh Dolmathakia, a.k.a. Ona Dolman. Don't ask any questions till you read it. She addressed it to me at the paper."

Brodie grunted several times as he read it, then threw it down on the desk. "Why the hell didn't she tell us his name - and how to find him? Stupid!"

"Not stupid," Qwilleran protested. "She's in panic. She's not thinking straight."

"We can assume he lives Down Below. That means he transported explosives across a state line - a federal offense. The FBI will get into the act now. My God! Did the guy fly up here on the shuttle with a homemade bomb on his lap - in fancy wrappings? Crazy woman! Why didn't she give us more information? She's left Salt Lake City by now."

Qwilleran said, "Dolman is obviously an Americanization of Dolmathakia and not the name of her ex-husband. All we know about him is that he might be a fan of the Detroit Tigers, judging by the description of his cap."

"There's gotta be a local connection. How would he know she was here? Who drove the getaway vehicle? Did the same blue truck pick him up at the airport?"

"Well, the ball's in your court, Andy. I have unfinished business at home. Give me Onoosh's letter."

"I'll keep the original," the chief said. "You can have a copy."

Qwilleran went home and counted whiskers. He counted Koko's first and then Yum Yum's. It was just as he had surmised. He telephoned Polly immediately.

At the sound of his voice, Polly was convulsed with merriment. She said, "Lo Phat and Lo Psalt have just arrived, and I laughed so hard I almost ruptured my thoracic incision! When I saw the gift box, I thought it was a bomb, but it came from Amanda's, so I felt safe in opening it. I'm going to hang them in my kitchen. Qwill, you're so clever!"

"Yes, I know," he said tartly. "I should get a job in advertising."

"You sound rushed. Is something on your mind?"

"I want you to count Bootsie's whiskers and call me back," he said. "Include the eyebrows."

"Is this another joke?"

"Not at all. It's a scientific study. I plan to introduce it in the 'Qwill Pen' after the Food Explo. Cats allover the county will be having their whiskers counted."

"I still think you're being facetious," she said, "but I'll do it and call you back."

In a few minutes she phoned. "Bootsie has twenty-four on each side. Is that good or bad? Some are long and bold; others are shorter and quite fine."

"That means he's normal," Qwilleran said. "Yum Yum has twenty-four also. Koko has thirty!"