The Cat Who Said Cheese

13

At the newspaper everyone called her Sarah. Now she was giving her name as Sarah Plensdorf. Qwilleran walked across the stage toward the nervous little woman, extending two reassuring hands. Tears of excitement or triumph were streaming down her face. His own reaction was: How could she - or why would she - spend that kind of money on a dinner date with anyone? It must be a practical joke, he decided, financed by the unholy three: Riker, Hixie, and Junior. It was the kind of trick they would play - an expensive joke, but tax-deductible... Well! He would spoil their fun; he would put on a good show! He grasped Ms. Plensdorf's two trembling hands, bowing over them courteously, and mumbling his pleasure that she had won. Then he brought down the house by giving her a bear hug.

The red-jacketed attendant ushered the two of them to a table in the wings, where Pender Wilmot invited them to set a date for their dinner.

"Would Monday evening be too soon?" Ms. Plensdorf asked shyly. "I'm so thrilled, I can hardly wait."

"Monday will be perfect," Qwilleran said. "I'll reserve the best table at the Mill and pick you up at seven o'clock." She lived, he now learned, in Indian Village, a good address, where many singles had upscale apartments.

Returning to the Green Room he reasoned that he could have done worse. At the office Sarah always dressed tastefully and spoke in a cultivated voice. Furthermore, she regularly commented intelligently on his current column and never mentioned his moustache. With the complete makeup and hair styling included in the package, she would be a presentable dinner date. Besides, it was all for a charitable cause. He was, in fact, glad that Sarah Plensdorf had edged Danielle Carmichael out of the running.

Back at the barn he wasted no time in phoning Polly to report the news.

"Sarah Plensdorf! What a surprise!" she exclaimed. "Well, I'm glad she won you, Qwill. She's a very sweet person."

"I know her only as office manager at the paper, and she seems to bring efficiency and a pleasant manner to the job. What I wonder is: Can she afford fifteen hundred dollars?

"I'm sure she can. She donates generously to the library. The Plensdorfs made their fortune in lumbering in the early days, and I imagine she inherited a handsome amount."

"I see," Qwilleran said. "Do you know anything about her personal interests?"

"Only that she collects buttons."

"Buttons!" he repeated in disbelief. "Did I hear right?"

"Well, yes. Didn't you see her collection in the library display case last year? It was featured in your paper, too."

"I didn't see the display, and I didn't read the feature!" he declared defiantly.

"When are you taking her to dinner?"

"Monday night."

"If you want to bone up on buttons before then, you'll find one or two books on the subject at the library."

"Thank you for the suggestion, but... no thanks. I'll wing it."

Early rising was not a Qwilleran habit, but on Sunday morning he left the barn at seven-thirty and drove toward Kennebeck. The wooded hill south of the town was lined with cars, vans, and pickups on both shoulders. Those who had arrived early for a good vantage point were having tailgate breakfasts. By eight-thirty their cameras were at the ready.

First, a sheriff's car came slowly over the crest of the hill and started down the long gentle slope, followed by more than a hundred elegantly lightweight cycles with helmeted riders crouched over the handlebars. Qwilleran hoped he would not see Lenny's green jersey with number 19 on the back. There was a burst of applause for the gold and bronze medalists when they passed, but the silver medalist was nowhere in sight. The PPD had successfully grounded him; he might even be on his way to Duluth.

The ride was a joyful sight-until a rifle shot rang out. The crowd became suddenly silent. A second shot; was heard, and parents pushed their children into their vehicles. "Just a rabbit hunter," someone yelled. Still, the motorcycle escort talked into a cellular phone, and the sheriff's car returned.

Qwilleran thought, Everyone's edgy. All their lives they've been used to hearing hunters' rifle shots. What a difference a homicide makes!

When he returned to the barn, he took a quick look into the sea chest before unlocking the back door. To his surprise, there was a carton labeled: "Product of Cold Turkey Farm. Weight, 12 pounds. Keep frozen until ready to use, then defrost in refrigerator."

Payola, Qwilleran thought, but then he remembered that payola was a big-city breach of ethics. In the country, 400 miles north of everywhere, neighbors helped neighbors and received neighborly expressions of gratitude, which they accepted with good grace. The question was: What to do with the bird? Actually, as he remembered Mildred's demonstration, prepping a turkey was not a staggering problem, and the oven did the rest. If one followed the instructions, it could be no harder than changing a tire - easier, perhaps. He would need a large pan with a rack. There were two turkey roasters in the apple barn, but they were being used for other purposes. Meanwhile, the cats were yowling in five octaves, and he banished them to the broom closet until he could open the carton and put the plastic-wrapped turkey into the refrigerator.

On the hour he tuned in WPKX, expecting to hear a report on the bike-a-thon: how many riders had started, how many had dropped out, and what milepost the leaders had reached. Instead, he heard a startling news bulletin:

"A fisherman was found dead this morning, as a result of multiple bee stings. According to the medical examiner, the insects had attacked in such numbers that the victim was virtually smothered. The body was found in a rental cabin belonging to Scotten Fisheries on the bank of Black Creek. No further details are available at this time, but police say... he was not... a resident of Moose County."

That last statement, spoken with significant emphasis, was typical of WPKX. It meant: Relax; he was not one of us.

Qwilleran had a sudden urge to visit Aubrey Scotten. As usual, he liked to take the public pulse whenever an unusual happening occurred, so he stopped at the Dimsdale Diner. On a Sunday morning there were no pickups in the rutted parking lot and no farmers smoking and laughing around the big table. He sat at the counter on the only stool that still had a seat on its pedestal; the others stood like a row of grim stakes in a tank trap. To the half-awake counterman he said, "I'll have a cup of your famous bitter coffee and one of your special three-day-old doughnuts." The man shambled away to fill the order. A cheap radio spluttered in the background.

Qwilleran asked, "Where did you buy that radio? It has excellent tone."

"Found it," said the counterman.

"Did you hear about the guy who was stung to death by bees?"

"Yep."

"Who was he? Do you know?"

"Fisherman."

"Has that ever happened around here, to your knowledge?"

"Nope."

"Apparently he was allergic to bee venom."

"Guess so."

Someday Qwilleran would write a column about the laconic subculture in Moose County. Engaging them in conversation was a hobby of his. "Best coffee I ever drank! Great taste!" he declared. "What's your name?"

"AI."

"Thanks, AI. Have a nice day."

It was indeed a nice day, Moose County style: sunny - just cool enough for a sweater. On such a day Gustav

Limburger's red brick mansion rose out of its green weeds with a forlorn grandeur. He drove into the side yard and tooted the horn. The door of the honey shed was open, and after a second blast of the horn, a dejected figure appeared in the doorway. He was not the big, fleshy man who had enthused about his bees, Lois's flapjacks, and the German Bible he would inherit. His whole frame drooped, and his pudgy face sagged.

Qwilleran jumped out of his car and went toward him, saying, "Remember me? Jim Qwilleran. I came to buy a couple of jars of honey."

Without a word Aubrey disappeared into the shade of the shed and returned with two of the flattened jars. The transaction was made in silence.

"Beautiful day, isn't it?" Qwilleran asked.

Aubrey looked around to see what kind of day it was, and then nodded absently.

"How's Mr. Limburger?"

"Same, I guess," he said in his squeaky voice.

"Did you hear that Lois has closed her restaurant?" The beekeeper nodded in a daze.

"How do you like your new job at the turkey fann?"

The man shrugged. "It's... okay."

"Look here, Aubrey! Are you all right? Is something worrying you?" Qwilleran asked out of curiosity and concern.

Two tears ran down the soft face and were wiped away with a sleeve.

Qwilleran slipped into his big-brother role. "Come on, Big Boy, let's sit down and talk about this. It'll do you good." He took the young man by the elbow and steered him to a weather-beaten bench outside the honey shed. They sat in silence for a few moments. "I was sorry to hear about the accident at your cabin. Did you know the man?"

Aubrey's breathing was a series of heavy sighs. "He was my friend."

"Is that so? How long had you known him?"

"Long time."

"Had he ever been up here before?" There was more weary nodding.

"And the bees had never bothered him?" There was no response.

"Where were you when it happened?"

"In the house." He jerked his head toward the brick mansion.

"He evidently did something that frightened or upset the bees."

Aubrey shrugged shoulders that seemed weighted by a heavy burden.

"I wish I could think of something to say or do that would help you, Aubrey. You must keep up your spirit. Go to see the old man in the hospital; do your job at the turkey farm; take care of your bees. It takes time to recover from the shock of a tragedy like this. Keep busy. Face one day at a time." While he was babbling platitudes, he was thinking about a recent morning at Lois's when the bombing was mentioned, and the sensitive young man said, "Somebody was killed." Then he rushed from the restaurant without finishing his pancakes. Now a longtime friend had been killed - and by his own bees, compounding the anguish. If bees died after stinging, did it mean that Aubrey had lost much of his swarm? He was a lonely person who seemed to yearn for a friend. He liked Lois because she was friendly; Gary at the Black Bear was friendly; his bees were his friends. Taking that thought as a cue, Qwilleran said, "At a time like this, it helps to talk to a friend, Aubrey. I want you to think of me as a friend and call me if I can help... Here's my phone number." The sincerity of Qwilleran's attitude said as much as his words.

Aubrey took the card and nodded, while drawing his sleeve across his face again. Then he surprised Qwilleran by following him to his car. "The police were here," he said anxiously.

"That's standard procedure in the case of accidental death. The police and the ambulance crew and the medical examiner are required to respond. What did the police say?"

"They kept asking about the bees. Could they arrest me for what my bees did?"

"Of course not! Cops always ask a lot of questions. They may come back and ask some more. Just answer them truthfully without going into a long-winded explanation. If they give you a hard time, let me know."

On the way home, Qwilleran frequently tamped his moustache with his fist. Instinct, and a sensation on his upper lip, told him there was more to this story than appeared on the surface. Furthermore, Koko had been agitated all weekend, a sure sign that he was trying to communicate. For one thing, he kept knocking A Taste of Honey off the bookshelf.

From the desolation of blighted Black Creek, Qwilleran drove to West Middle Hummock, where fine estates nestled among rolling hills and winding roads. The Lanspeaks lived there. So did the Wilmots. Elaine Fetter had suggested Sunday afternoon for the mushroom interview because her weekdays were consumed by volunteer work. In preparation he had consulted the encyclopedia and had learned that the edible fungus is a sporophore consisting largely of water and having a curious reproductive system - what they called the sexuality of the mushroom.

Although he was no gardener, he knew that one could plant a radish and get a radish, but there was something murkily mysterious about the propagation of mushrooms.

Mrs. Fetter specialized in shiitake, which she pronounced shee-tock-ee. The Japanese word with a double-i would confuse the proofreaders at the Something. After several years they were still uncomfortable with the QW in his name.

The Fetter residence was an old farmhouse on which money had been lavished, with open decks and ramps, giving it a contemporary look. The woman who greeted him was the same statuesque, self-assured, well-groomed shopper who had suggested short-grain rice at Toodle's Market.

"Do come in and let us start with a cup of tea in the keeping room," she said. She led the way through spacious rooms furnished with antique pine and cherry - to a large kitchen with a six-burner range, a bank of ovens, and shelves filled with cookbooks. Separated from the cooking center by an iron railing was an area with a fireplace and Windsor chairs around a trestle table. The railing looked like the missing section of the Limburger fence. Qwilleran said, "This would make a spectacular feature for our new food page. John Bushland could take photos, if you'd permit it. Did you have a professional designer?"

"No, this is all my own idea, although Amanda's studio ordered a few things for me. I call this the nerve center of the house. I spend my mornings here, testing recipes and experimenting with new dishes. I'm writing a cookbook, you see, in addition to supervising the one for the Friends of the Library."

He set up his tape recorder, with her consent, and then asked, "Could you describe briefly the procedure in growing shiitake?"

"Of course! First you find a young healthy oak tree and cut it down after the leaves begin to fall and before it leafs out in spring. It should be four to six inches in diameter, with just the right thickness of bark."

"How thick is the right thickness? Already this sounds somewhat esoteric."

"Ah! This is a matter of study and experience. After cutting your logs in four-foot lengths, you buy commercial spawn; drill holes in these bed-logs, as they're called; then inoculate them with the spawn and seal the holes, after which they incubate for three months."

"Do you ignore them during the incubation?"

"Not at all! You must maintain the humidity by occasional deep-soaking or frequent watering with a gentle spray. An electric gauge measures the interior moisture of the logs." She explained the process glibly and concisely, like a lesson memorized from a textbook. "After inoculation you can expect fruiting in six to nine months."

"And what do you do with your crop?"

"Sell them to restaurants and the better markets in Lockmaster. Local grocers consider them too expensive, although shiitake are considered more delicious and nutritious than ordinary mushrooms. After we've visited the growing arbor, I'll saut‚ some for you - with parsley, garlic, and freshly ground black pepper."

From the kitchen they stepped through sliding glass doors to a patio, then down a ramp and along an asphalt-paved path to a wooded area on the bank of a stream. In the partial shade the bed-logs were stacked in a crisscross pattern; others stood on end around a central pole. Some were sprouting little buttons. "Just beginning to fruit," she said. "And over there is a flush ready to crop." She pointed to logs ringed with ruffles of large mushrooms, the caps as big as saucers and furrowed in a pattern of brown and white.

Qwilleran thought, By comparison, ordinary mushrooms look naked. "Are mushrooms still considered aphrodisiacs?" he asked, remembering a reference in the encyclopedia.

"There have been all sorts of superstitions in the past, and always will be," she replied. "There was a time when women weren't allowed in mushroom-growing establishments; it was thought the presence of a female would ruin the crop."

"When was that? In the Dark Ages?"

"Surprisingly, the superstition continued into the beginning of the twentieth century. And did you know that scientists used to battle over the question of whether the mushroom was a plant or an animal?"

On the way back to the kitchen, he said, "This shiitake project sounds like a lot of work, considering all your other activities."

"Oh, I have a little help," she said nonchalantly. While she saut‚ed shiitake, Qwilleran perused her large collection of food-related books: Larousse, Escoffier, and Brillat-Savarin, as well as ethnic cookbooks of all kinds and the recipe collections of famous chefs. He wondered how original her own cookbook would be, and how much plagiarism occurred among food writers. Before he had a chance to examine the books, she called him to the table, and he tasted the best mushrooms he'd ever eaten.

Later, he reported the entire incident to Polly as they took their walk. "After five minutes with the encyclopedia and an hour with Elaine Fetter, I am now a mycological expert. I know that a mushroom cap is called the pileus; the gills underneath are lamellae; and the stem is the stipe. Also, there are three strains of shiitake, one of which is called Koko."

"You overwhelm me with your erudition," Polly said. "What did you think of Elaine?"

"Well, I'm impressed by her vitality and expertise and collection of cookbooks, but..." He patted his moustache. "I have a sneaky feeling she wasn't telling the whole story. During my career I've interviewed about forty thousand individuals, and I get certain vibrations when they're holding something back - or lying."

"Did she mention her son?"

"No, the conversation was all about mushrooms and her personal activities. She didn't even mention the auction, and she's the one who snagged the mayor. What about her son?"

"Donald lives with her. He was driving the car when it crashed and killed her husband, and he's quite incapacitated. He's confined to a wheelchair, but growing shiitake is his therapy, and it gives him a reason for living."

"Hmmm... that puts a different slant on the story," Qwilleran said. "And actually it's a better story - one that could be rather inspirational. Also, it explains the ramps and asphalt pathways and the spaciousness of the house... Now what to do?"

"Perhaps I shouldn't have mentioned it."

"I'm glad you did - very glad! The question is: Why did she withhold that aspect of the mushroom enterprise? Does Donald avoid publicity because of his physical condition? Or does his mother keep him under wraps? Does she want the publicity for herself?"

"An astute observation," Polly said. "She's a very proud woman, and she has a powerful ego. It makes it hard for her to get along with other volunteers. She's always taking credit for what the others do... What will you do about it?"

"Put the column on hold until I can get to the bottom of the problem."

"I hope you'll handle it tactfully."

"Don't worry, and I won't involve you in any way. But it puts me in a bind. I'd scheduled it for this week, and now I'll have to find another topic in a hurry."

He declined an invitation to have tea with Polly and Lynette. He said he had to make some phone calls. He didn't mention it, but there was more than the shiitake situation that bothered him.