The Cat Who Said Cheese

16

The cheese-tasting was scheduled for Tuesday evening, and Qwilleran spent much of the day hanging out downtown. The reason was simple. The redoubtable Mrs. Fulgrove was coming to clean the main floor. The amiable Mr. O'Dell would do the floors and vacuum the furniture, but she would dust, scrub, polish, and complain - about public morals, politicians, the younger generation, popular music, and the cat hair, which she considered a Siamese conspiracy to make her work harder. The white-haired Pat O'Dell, on the other hand, usually had something constructive to say in his pleasing Irish brogue.

"Faith, an' it's a foine woman livin' upstairs o'er the garage," he said on this occasion.

"Yes, Mrs. Robinson is a cheerful and energetic soul," Qwilleran agreed.

"Her windows are in need of washin', I'm thinkin', what with so many cars in the parkin' lot and the exhaust leavin' a scum on the glass."

"Make arrangements with her to clean them, Mr. O'Dell, and send the bill to me." Celia had already remarked about the considerate and good-natured maintenance man; she thought she might invite him to dinner some evening and give him a good Irish stew.

So Qwilleran locked the Siamese in their loft apartment and made his getaway before Mrs. Fulgrove loomed on the scene. First, he stopped at the library to see if they had any books on button collecting, in case he should want to write a column on the hobby at some future date. They did. He leafed through one of them and was pleased to find his cat-button pictured and described as a valuable collectible.

Then he went to breakfast at the Scottish Bakery: scones, clotted cream, and currant jam served by a bonnie lassie wearing a plaid apron. The coffee was not bad, either.

Next he visited the health food store, whose bearded proprietor was the husband of the Something's new feature editor. "Welcome to Pickax!" Qwilleran said. "We're always glad to give asylum to defectors from Lockmaster."

"Thank you. We like it here, although the bombing and the murder shook us up, I don't mind telling you."

"It's not a local crime wave, I assure you. It's a spillover from Down Below." Qwilleran patted his moustache with confidence. "Okay if I just browse around?"

He wandered among the vitamin bottles with strange names, trays of muffins with unusual ingredients, meatless sandwiches, and fruit and vegetables without the waxed finish that made them look so good at Toodle's Market. Then there were the snacks. What looked like a chocolate chip cookie had no butter, no sugar, and no chocolate. What looked like a potato chip was made without fat, salt, or potato.

Qwilleran said, "I have a friend who'll be a good customer of yours. Tell me honestly, do your kids eat this stuff?"

"Oh, sure! Our family goes in for alternatives. Our kids were brought up that way, and they think junk food is weird."

From there Qwilleran walked to the police station to inquire about Lenny Inchpot. The witness to the bombing had been found and put on a plane to Duluth, where he would stay with his aunt for a while.

At the Chamber of Commerce across the street, he found them making plans for a Lois Inchpot Day in Pickax, in an effort to lure her back to town and reopen her lunchroom. The mayor would issue a proclamation to that effect, and loyal customers were painting the walls and ceiling, water-stained from the last roof leak.

Then it was time for a bowl of soup at the Spoonery. The day's specials were bouillabaisse, roasted peanut with garlic, sausage and white bean, and chicken with rice and dill. Qwilleran played safe with the bean soup.

After that he visited the Kitchen Boutique to buy a thermometer, basting syringe, and roaster with rack. He was going to roast that blasted bird if it was the last thing he ever did in his life.

Triumphantly, Sharon said, "Mother and I knew you'd break down and start cooking - someday."

"Don't bet on it," he said. "I'm just picking these up for a friend." It was one of the impromptu prevarications that he had developed into an art.

By that time the Tuesday edition of the paper was on the street, and he read his ad. Within a few hours the entire county would be talking about it:

$10,000 REWARD for information leading to the recovery of the late Iris Cobb's personal recipe book, missing since her death.

Confidentiality guaranteed. Write to P.O.

Box 1362, Pickax City.

When Qwilleran returned to the barn, the cleaning crew had gone and there was not a cat hair or mite of dust to be seen. He climbed the ramp to the top level and opened the door to the loft apartment. "Okay, you can come out and start shedding," he said.

In the kitchen he tested the progress of the thawing turkey, and before he could close the door, Koko executed a grand jet‚ over the bar and landed in the refrigerator with the bird.

"Out!" Qwilleran yelled, dragging him from the refrigerator and slamming it shut. The cat howled as if his tail had been caught in the door. "Don't overreact, you slyboots! Cats are supposed to be known for their patience."

Koko went slinking away, licking his wounded feline ego.

Qwilleran dressed for the cheese-tasting in dinner jacket and black tie, with a rare set of black studs in his shirt-front. They were from India, inlaid with silver and gold-a gift from Polly. Appraising himself in the full-length mirror, he had to admit that he looked good in evening clothes.

It was dark when the jitneys started delivering the well-dressed guests, and the exterior lights transformed the barn into an enchanted castle. Indoors, mysterious illumination from hidden sources dramatized the balconies and overhead beams, the white fireplace cube and its soaring white stacks, the contemporary tapestries, and the clean-cut modern furniture. Add to that the glamor of beaded dinner dresses, the courtliness of men in evening wear, and the bonhomie of such an occasion; it had all the ingredients of a magical evening, one never to be forgotten in Pickax, for more reasons than one.

John Bushland was on hand with a camcorder, the idea being to sell videos of the festivities and raise an extra thousand or two for a good cause. Although distinguished guests received ample coverage, the Siamese received more than their share of footage. They sat on the fireplace cube, watching in an attitude of wonder. Later they would sail to the floor like flying squirrels, Koko on the trail of cheese crumbs and Yum Yum on the lookout for shoelaces. As the proliferating number of feet endangered her tail, she fled to the first balcony and watched from the railing.

Among those present were the Rikers, Lanspeaks, and Wilmots; the mayor in his red paisley cummerbund; Don Exbridge with his new wife and his former wife; and the new banker with the flashy Danielle. If one wanted to count, there were three attorneys, four doctors, two accountants, one judge, and five public officials coming up for re-election. One of them was the cranky but popular Amanda Goodwinter, running again for city council and wearing a dinner dress she had worn for thirty years.

The focus of attention was the dinner table, with its silver punch bowls and lighted candles. Flanking it were the two white-skirted buffets, each with eight cheese platters and a large wheel of Cheddar. Jerry Sip and Jack Nibble presided at the buffets, assisted by college students looking professional in white duck coats.

Jack Nibble was heard to say, "We have three blues on the cheese table. Try all three and compare; it's the only way to learn. The one from France is crumbly; the Italian is spreadable; the one from England slices well."

And Dr. Prelligate replied, "Do I detect nuances in your observation?"

"Anyway you eat it," said Amanda Goodwinter, "it's still moldy cheese."

Then Jerry Sip said, "If you like a rich, creamy cheese with superb flavor, try the double-cream Brie."

"Yow!" came an endorsement from the floor.

Amanda said, "That cat and yours truly are the only ones here who tell it like it is!"

Pender Wilmot, who had cats of his own, said, "They all know the word 'cream' when they hear it."

"I have it on good authority," said Big Mac, "that Qwill feeds his on caviar and escargots. Too bad he can't take them as dependents."

"They're so elegant!" Dr. Diane enthused. "We have to dress up for special occasions, but Siamese always look formally attired." She gazed up at Yum Yum on the balcony railing, and the little female turned her head this way and that to show off her left and right profiles. "They're also vain!"

Not all the conversation was about cats and cheese. There were speculations about the bombing, the murder, and the $10,000 reward. Riker pulled Qwilleran aside and demanded, "Did you run that ad? You're crazy! Who's going to payoff?"

"Don't worry, Arch. No one will claim it, but it's large enough to put a lot of sleuths on the trail. I'm betting that the guilty person will mail the cookbook anonymously to the P.O. box, rather than be exposed."

Qwilleran circulated, listening and looking for ideas. He was always the columnist, always on duty, always hoping for material to fill the space on page two above the fold. What he heard was mostly small talk:

Don Exbridge: "It's never safe to recommend a restaurant. If you do, the chef quits the next day, the management replaces him with a hash-slinger, and your friends think you have a tin palate."

Larry Lanspeak: "Has anyone been to the Boulder House Inn? The chef grows his own herbs and knows how to cook vegetables-with a bone in them."

Carol Lanspeak: "Qwill, there's a fuchsia silk blouse at the store that Polly would love - scarf neck, drop shoulder. In fact, I've laid one aside in her size. If you want me to, I'll gift-wrap it and drop it off here."

Pender Wilmot: "Who's interested in starting a gourmet club? I'm taking applications."

Arch Riker: "Deal us in - but not if it's just another dinner club where you talk about the national deficit while you're eating. I want to learn something about food and wine."

Mildred Riker: "Someone has said that food worth eating is worth talking about."

Qwilleran: "Would this be a club for gourmands, gourmets, or gastronomes?"

Don Exbridge: "Get the dictionary, somebody!"

Dr. Diane: "How would it work? Would we flock around to restaurants? Or would we have to cook?"

Willard Carmichael: "In Detroit we belonged to a hands-on group. The host planned the menu and prepared the entree. Other members were assigned to bring the other courses. Recipes were provided - all unusual, but not freaky. No fried grasshoppers."

Danielle Carmichael: "You had to follow the recipe exactly or pay a forfeit - like running the dishwasher or paying for the wine."

Qwilleran: "I'll join if I can be permanent dishwasher."

Amanda Goodwinter: "Don't put my name on the list. The last time I attended a gourmet dinner, I had indigestion for a month!"

The evening wore on, with much consumption of cheese and the amber-colored punch. Voices grew louder. A few couples started to leave. Suddenly there was a commotion in the kitchen-a thumping and growling, followed by a shattering crash! Conversations stopped abruptly, and Qwilleran rushed to the scene. Koko was having a cat fit. He raced around the kitchen in a frenzy, flinging himself at the refrigerator.

When Qwilleran tried to intervene, the cat leaped over the bar and crashed into a lamp, sending the shade and the base flying in opposite directions. Women screamed and men yelled as he zipped around the fireplace cube and headed for the cheese tables.

"Stop him!" Qwilleran shouted as the cat skidded through the cheese platters and scattered crumbs of Roquefort, cubes of Cheddar, slices of Gouda, and gobs of runny Brie, before leaping to the punch table and knocking over the lighted candles.

"Fire!" someone shouted. Qwilleran dashed to a closet for a fire extinguisher, at the same time bellowing, "Grab him! Grab him!"

Three men tore after the mad cat as he streaked around the fireplace cube with fur flying. Pender, Larry, and Big Mac tore after him, bumping into the furniture and each other. Around and around they went.

"Somebody go the other way!" Somebody did, but the trapped animal only sailed to the top of the cube and looked down on his pursuers.

"We've got him!" A moment later Koko swooped over their heads and pelted up the ramp, not stopping until he reached the roof, where he perched on a beam and licked his fur.

Qwilleran was embarrassed. "My apologies! The cat went berserk! I don't know why."

"He drank some of Jerry's amber punch," Big Mac suggested.

Truthfully, Koko wanted everyone to go home, Qwilleran suspected, leaving him unlimited access to the cheese tables.

The guests were understanding but decided it was time to think about leaving. The dinner jackets on Larry, Pender, and Big Mac looked more like gray fur than black wool. A few cat hairs might have been an annoyance, but a million cat hairs - thanks to the amber punch - made it a joke. It was a merry crowd that boarded the jitneys, twelve at a time, for the ride back to the parking lot, and the students cleaning up the mess grinned to each other; it was the best thing that would happen all semester.

The Sip'n'Nibble partners were philosophical. Jerry said, "Don't feel bad about it, Qwill. There's nothing like a minor catastrophe to make a party a success. They'll talk about this for the rest of the century."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

"I just hope they mention the name of our store," Jack added, "including the address and telephone number."

Carol said, "It was really funny to see three adult males chasing a little cat in a cloud of flying fur! I wonder if Koko has any left. It was better than a car chase! Aren't we lucky that Bushy got it on tape? We'll sell loads of videos."

Jack Nibble summed it up. "I'd say we achieved our goals: to show everyone a good time and educate a few palates. And it doesn't have to be double-cream to be good; the feta we brought is low-fat."

"Yow!" came a loud affirmative from somewhere overhead.

When everyone had gone, with promises to send a clean-up crew the next day, Qwilleran changed into a jumpsuit and went into the kitchen. Koko was ahead of him, trying to claw his way into the refrigerator.

"You rascal!" Qwilleran said. "So that's why you wanted everyone to go home! If you'll just cool it, we'll prep the turkey tonight and throw it in the oven first thing in the morning. Stand back!" He opened the refrigerator door cautiously, expecting a flank attack, but Koko knew when the battle was won. He watched calmly as the prepping began.

Qwilleran remembered Mildred's instructions: Remove the plastic wrap; release the legs without cutting the skin; explore the two cavities. He put his hand gingerly into the breast cavity and withdrew a plastic bag containing the neck. Then he turned the bird around and, with more confidence, explored the body cavity. It was cold but not frosty. Koko was watching with ears back and whiskers bristled. Qwilleran groped for the plastic bag. Instead, he found something hard and very, very cold. His first thought was: a block of ice. His second was: a practical joke! He threw everything back into the tray and shoved the naked bird into the refrigerator. Then he called Nick Bamba at home.

"Hope I'm not calling too late, Nick. Just wanted to thank you for the cold turkey. I'm getting it ready to roast tomorrow... Yes, thanks to Mildred, I know how. But I have one question: Was there supposed to be anything special about the bird you delivered to me?... No, there's nothing wrong with it. I just had a... special feeling about it." He tamped his moustache. "Thanks again, Nick. I'll let you know how it turns out."

Hanging up the phone, Qwilleran kept his hand on the receiver. Should he, or should he not, call the police chief at home again? He punched the number that he knew by heart, and when the gruff voice answered, he said, "We had the cheese-tasting here tonight, you know, and Jerry and Jack left a variety of cheeses, Why don't you run over for a nibble-and a sip? Also... I have something peculiar to report - very peculiar!"

"I'll be there in two shakes," Brodie said, He arrived , in a matter of minutes, and his first comment was: "You've got a big box at your back door."

"That's an antique sea chest, It's for package deliveries."

"And you've moved the furniture around."

"That was to accommodate the crowd, We had a hundred guests. The committee is coming tomorrow to put everything back the way it was."

They sat at the bar, where Qwilleran had ready a Scotch and a plate of leftover party cheeses, He pointed out Cheddar, Gouda, Bel Paese, Emmenthaler, Stilton, and Port du Salut.

"Where's the one I like so much?"

"Try the Emmenthaler, Andy. There wasn't any GruyŠre left. Everyone liked the GruyŠre."

"Yow!"

"Including our smart cat."

When Brodie had finished his first Scotch, Qwilleran said, "Before I top your glass, Andy, I'd like you to look at a gift I received Sunday." Keeping one eye on Koko, he brought the turkey from the refrigerator and pushed the tray toward the chief. "What would you say this is?"

"Are you pullin' my leg? It's a turkey!"

"Do you know how to stuff a bird?"

Brodie scowled. "That's my wife's job."

"Well, let me explain. This is the head-end, and that's the tail-end. There are two cavities. Put your hand in the breast cavity and see what you find."

Reluctantly and suspiciously, the chief did as instructed and drew out a plastic bag. "That's the neck! Are you playin' games?"

"Now put your hand in the body cavity. That's where they always store the sack of giblets."

With a glowering glance at his friend, Brodie thrust his hand into the bird. Immediately, a strange expression spread across his craggy face. It was a mixture of shock and disbelief. "What the hell!" he blurted as he drew forth a small handgun. "Who gave you this bird?"

"Nick Bamba. It was frozen solid when it arrived- probably part of a shipment going Down Below. It's been thawing in the fridge for two days, and Koko's been going crazy. Do you want a plastic bag for the evidence?"

"Gimme a trash bag," Andy said. "I'm taking the whole bird."

"There goes your turkey," Qwilleran said to Koko. To his surprise, the cat seemed unconcerned, sitting on his haunches in his kangaroo pose and grooming a small patch of fur on his chest. Could it be that Koko sensed there was something not quite right about that turkey? Qwilleran himself sensed there was something not quite right at the Cold Turkey Farm. Nick Bamba, he knew, needed a large work force, since young turkeys required much attention. Supervisory and technical posts were held by full-time workers with special skills, but there were jobs for college students and others needing part time employment or a second source of income. Nick's contingency payroll included off-duty police officers, clerks from the public library, the beefy installer from the design studio, an alterations apprentice from the men's store, and two of Mrs. Toodle's grandchildren. Lenny Inchpot wanted to sign on, after his job at the hotel blew up, but his mother vetoed it for reasons of her own.

Did one of these employees shoot the florist and hide the gun in a turkey to be shipped Down Below? Was it assumed that the bird would be lost in a labyrinth of human chaos in some distant metropolis? That was hardly smart thinking; the plastic wrapper clearly identified its source. On the other hand, the lucky recipient might consider it a wonderful Crackerjack prize-something to keep handy for the next prowler, attacker, mugger, burglar, carjacker, or other urban menace.

So... who was guilty of the homicide, and was he the accomplice of the original bomber? Certainly it was not the fresh-faced Toodle grandchildren... nor the fun-loving bumpkin who installed wall-to-wall carpet for Amanda... nor the honeybees' best friend, who was too humane to hook a fish or swat a fly. It was after midnight. Qwilleran wondered if Aubrey Scotten had recovered enough to report to his midnight shift at the Cold Turkey Farm. Or had his mother stuffed him with homemade food and sent him to bed early?