The Cat Who Said Cheese

15

Convinced that he was doing the right thing, Qwilleran left Aubrey with his mother and went home to dress for his dinner date with Sarah Plensdorf. First he fed the cats, scooping turkey chunks from the Spoonery carton and warming them in some of the broth, minus barley and carrots. "This will have to do," he told them, "till the real bird comes along."

Then he showered, shaved, trimmed his moustache, and dressed in his navy blue suit with white shirt and red paisley tie. He thought it was an appropriate getup for an evening with a button collector; whimsically, he chose a button-down collar.

On the way to Indian Village to pick her up, he reflected that she had donated $1,500 to charity for the privilege of a few hours in his company, and it was his responsibility to make the evening enjoyable, if not memorable. Making conversation with strangers or virtual strangers was no problem; it was one of his professional skills. In fact, asking questions and listening to the answers had made him a popular companion in Moose County. He hoped only that the cosmetician would not make the modest Sarah look like a china doll, or worse.

When he arrived at her apartment, she was ready and waiting-somewhat breathlessly, he thought. In her new rust-colored dress with Chanel jacket, she looked quite smart, and Brenda's Salon had given her a flattering hairdo and natural makeup that gave her a certain glow.

Gallantly he said, "I've been looking forward to this evening, Sarah."

"So have I, Mr. Q," she said excitedly. "Would you care for an ap‚ritif before we leave?"

"I'd like that, but we have a reservation for seven-thirty, and I think we should be on our way." Then he added sternly, "And if you don't start calling me Qwill, I'll cancel the reservation!"

Amused and pleased, she concurred. She wondered if she would need a wrap. He said it might turn chilly later in the evening, and it would be wise to take one.

While she went to pick up her handbag and, presumably, have a last look in the mirror, Qwilleran appraised the interior: large rooms, evidently two apartments made into one... heavy on blue... antique furniture, old oil paintings, good Orientals. He was surprised, however, to see a dog. Dogs were not permitted in apartments in the Village. This one was a Bassett hound. Strangely, it was standing on hind legs with forepaws on a library table. He stared at the dog, and the dog stared at him.

Sarah returned. "That's Sir Cedric," she said. "A Victorian piece, carved wood. Realistic, isn't it?"

"I must say it's unique," Qwilleran said. The table was dark pine with ordinary carved legs at one end, while the other end was supported by the dog, "Clever! Very clever!"

As they drove away he asked his passenger, "Do you like living in Indian Village?" It was not the most intelligent question he had ever asked, but it was a start.

"I do indeed," she replied. "Every season of the year has its delights. Right now it's the autumn color, especially beautiful this year."

"Polly Duncan, whom you must know, would take an apartment out here, if it weren't for the long drive into town."

"You tell her," Sarah said emphatically, "that it's no trouble at all, after one does it for a week or so."

"How do you like working at the newspaper?"

"It's most enjoyable! Everyone seems to be having so much fun, and yet they manage to put the paper out on time. It was Junior Goodwinter who suggested me for the job. It's the first one I've ever had."

"Is that so?" he asked in surprise. "You handle it with great aplomb."

"Thank you. I attended an Eastern college and could have had a fine position in Boston, but my parents wanted me at home. I was an only child, you see, and we had a lovely family relationship. I went to Europe with my mother and on business trips with my father, Then there was community service, which is both social and rewarding. So I've had a busy life. My one regret is... that I never had a career. I think I would have been quite successful."

"I'm sure of that!" he said. Then, to introduce a light note to the conversation, he added, "My only regret is... that I was born too late to see Babe Ruth at bat or Ty Cobb in centerfield."

"That's right! You're a baseball fan! I clip and save all your columns on baseball - for old time's sake. My father never missed a World Series, and he started taking me along when I was seven. My mother didn't care for spectator sports, so he and I flew allover the country, and I learned to keep a detailed scorecard and figure batting averages. I believe it gave me a knack for math and a taste for minutiae."

Qwilleran glanced at her with admiration. "Minutiae" was a word he had never heard on a blind date. He said, "Do you remember the historic game in 1969 when the Mets took the series from the Orioles?"

"I do! I do! In 1968 the Mets had ended in ninth place, and since Father and I always rooted for the underdog, we were strong Met supporters. When they won - after that last exciting game - I remember the Met fans running out on the field and digging up the grass.... Do you have any particular ball club allegiances, Mr. Q?... I mean, Qwill?"

"Well, I was a Chicago Cubs fan before I could walk, but I seldom see a big league game these days. Do you still follow the sport?"

"No," she said sadly. "Not since Father died. It was baseball that killed him. The 1975 Series between Cincinnati and Boston was unbearably suspenseful. It ran seven games. There were delays because of rain. Scores teetered back and forth. Incredible performances! Surprises and twists of fate! It was too exciting for Father. He had a heart attack." She sighed, and Qwilleran mumbled consolations.

When the two baseball fans arrived at the Old Stone Mill, they were shown to the best table - one with a bouquet of fresh flowers - and there was applause from other diners; everyone in Pickax knew about the $1,500 dinner date. Sarah blushed, and Qwilleran bowed to the smiling faces at other tables.

The waiter served them one dry vermouth and one Squunk water, and Sarah said, "When you write about Koko and Yum Yum in your column, Qwill, you show a wonderful understanding of cats. Have you always been a cat fancier?"

"No, I was quite ignorant of feline culture when I adopted them, but they soon taught me everything I needed to know. Now I'd find it difficult to live without them. What attracts me is their secret energy. It makes a cat a forceful presence at all times."

He was interrupted by the forceful presence of Derek Cuttlebrink, presenting the menus and reciting the specials: "Chicken breast in curried sauce with stir-fried veggies... roast rack of lamb with green peppercorn sauce... and shrimp in a saffron cream with sun-dried tomatoes and basil, served on spinach fettucine."

Sarah said, "I developed a taste for curry when we traveled in India, so that would be my immediate choice."

Derek asked Qwilleran, "You want a sixteen-ounce steak and a doggie bag?"

"You don't happen to have any turkey, do you?"

"Come back on Thankgiving day. The soup du jour is oxtail."

"I had oxtail for lunch at the Spoonery. Who stole the recipe from whom?"

"You wanna know the truth," Derek confided, "our chef got the recipe from Joy of Cooking."

When the waiter had left the table, Sarah said, "He's rather outspoken, isn't he? But he's refreshing."

Qwilleran agreed. "He gets away with it because he's six-feet-eight. If he were five-feet-six, he'd be fired...

Now, where were we? Speaking of cats, I assume you like animals."

"Very much. I volunteer my services at the animal shelter every Saturday."

"What do you do?"

"I wash dogs."

"Small ones, I hope," Qwilleran said. "All sizes. Every dog gets a bath when he arrives at the shelter, and not one has ever given me any trouble. They seem to know we're doing something nice for them. Last Saturday I bathed a Great Dane. He jumped right into the tub. I put cotton in his ears and salve in his eyes, then wetted him down with the hose, applied shampoo, talked to him, hosed him off, and dried him. He loved it!"

"Apparently you're accustomed to dogs."

"Yes, we always had them at home. Now all I have is Sir Cedric. When I go home at the end of the day, he greets me, and we have some conversation, rather one-sided, I'm afraid... I wouldn't tell this to anyone else, Qwill."

"I understand exactly how you feel," he said with sincerity.

When the entr‚es were served, he took a deep breath and asked, "Didn't you have a display of buttons at the library a while ago?"

"You remembered! How nice!" she exclaimed.

"How, why, and when did you start collecting?"

"My father had a valuable collection of historic military buttons, and when we went to large cities for ballgames, he would search for Civil War buttons in the antique shops, and I would look for pretty glass ones. Now I have over a thousand - all kinds. My miniature paintings on porcelain are small works of art that I can hold in my hand. I also specialize in animal designs on ivory, silver, brass, copper, and even Wedgwood. I have a shell cameo of a dog's head carved from the Cassis Tuberca from the West Indies. You may remember it in my exhibit."

"Yes," he murmured vaguely.

Then she said, "If it isn't too presumptious, Qwill, I'd like to give you a memento of this occasion." She reached into her handbag and gave him a carved wood button depicting a cat's head.

"Well, thank you. That's a charming thought," he murmured.

"You might like to attend a meeting of the tri-county button club, too. Quite a few men belong."

"That's something to keep in mind... Shall we have dessert?"

The meal ended with crŠme br–l‚e for her and apple pie with cheese for him, and she declared it the most delightful dining experience of her entire life. As he drove her home, the conversation turned to shoptalk: the newspaper's fast-growing circulation, Wilfred's glory as a biker, and Mildred's new Thursday food page.

Sarah asked, "Did you notice the references to Iris Cobb in the Food Forum? She's greatly missed."

"Did you know her?"

"Very well! When I was a volunteer at the museum, she'd invite me to have lunch with her, knowing how I loved her pasties. I have an educated palate, you know - another of Father's legacies." She sighed and went on. "Did you know I was one of the preliminary judges for the pasty contest Saturday?"

"No. Filling or crust?"

"Filling. And now I must confide in you: There was one pasty that was extraordinary! To me it tasted as good as Iris Cobb's! It was made with turkey, which was disallowed, but the other judges and I were mischievous enough to pass it through to the finals." They were turning into the gates of Indian Village. Shyly, Sarah said, "Would you care to come in for a while and see my collection of buttons?"

"Thank you, but I have some scheduled phone calls to make. Another time, perhaps," he said, "but I'll see you safely indoors and say goodnight to Sir Cedric."

The animal holding up the library table, who had been standing on his hind legs for a hundred years, looked eerily alive. There was the shading of the brown coat, with the delineation of every hair, and there was the sad hound-dog expression in the eyes. Qwilleran patted his head. "Good dog! Good dog!"

On the way home he reflected that the evening would have been quite different if his auction package had been knocked down to Danielle Carmichael for her mandated cap of a thousand dollars. The conversation would have been about malls, football, and kinkajous instead of buttons, baseball, and carved wooden dogs, and she would never have referred to minutiae. Instead of a simple dress with Chanel jacket, she would have worn a sequinned cocktail sheath, thigh-high, and the other diners would not have applauded. Rather, they would have gasped, and some would have snickered. (This was Pickax, not Baltimore.) And the Christmas fund would have been five hundred dollars poorer. And he would not have heard the comment on the extraordinary pasty in the bake-off. By raising the ghost of Iris Cobb, Sarah might well be supporting his growing suspicions.

As soon as he arrived home, he made some phone calls. It was late but not too late for certain night owls of his acquaintance.

At the Riker residence, Mildred answered. "How was your fifteen-hundred-dollar dinner date?"

"Never mind that. Read about it in the 'Qwill Pen,' " he replied briskly. "Right now I'm interested in what the accountants' safe divulged. I read the winners' names in the paper today. Who baked the superpasty?"

"If I tell you, will you promise not to leak it? We're planning a feature, you know - the way you suggested."

He promised.

"Promise you won't even tell Polly?"

He promised again.

"Why are you so interested?"

"I'm writing a book on the origin and evolution of the pasty, from miner's lunch to gourmet treat."

"At this time of night? Come on, Qwill! You're keeping secrets."

"You're the one who's keeping secrets. I'm telling you flat-out that I'm writing a book." He was always on the verge of writing a book, but not about pasties.

"Okay. It was Elaine Fetter of West Middle Hummock."

"I suspected as much."

"Do you know her?"

"Everybody knows her. And if I were you, I'd put that superpasty feature on hold."

"What's the matter? What's this all about?"

"Tell you tomorrow. I'm in a hurry. Thanks for the information. Wake up your husband and tell him I said goodnight."

He hung up the phone without further civilities and called Celia Robinson. There had been lights in the carriage house when he drove in, and he knew she would be sitting up, reading the latest espionage thriller. In an undercover voice he asked, "Any luck?"

"You were right. I found what you wanted." She spoke in a hushed voice with abstract references. "There wasn't any name on it, but I checked what you mentioned. It's the real McCoy, all right."

"Good going!" he said. "Talk to you later." And now, he wondered, how do we get our hands on it without embarrassing anyone? He sprawled in a lounge chair with his feet on an ottoman and cudgeled his brain. The Siamese sat quietly nearby, sensing that he was doing some concentrated thinking.

Suddenly, in one impulsive move, he swung his feet off the ottoman and went to the telephone desk. He called Hixie Rice at her apartment. There was no answer. He left a message on the machine.

Two minutes later she called back. "Sorry, Qwill. I've been avoiding someone. What's on your mind? How was your dinner date? What did you two talk about?"

"We talked about cats, dogs, baseball, buttons, pasties, and Iris Cobb, and that's why I'm calling you. I need to enlist your cooperation in a small, private, legal, innocuous intrigue."

"That's my specialty," she said. "I want to run an ad in tomorrow's paper, if it isn't too late, but I must not be identified with it in any way. Can you handle that?"

"How big an ad?"

"Whatever it takes to be seen across the room: bold headline, sparse copy, plenty of white space."

"What's the message? Can you give it to me on the phone? I don't think I'm bugged."

He dictated about twenty words.

"Hmmm... interesting!" she said. "Do you expect results?"

"I don't need results," he told her. "This is a bluff. Stay tuned."