The Cat Who Said Cheese

17

The morning after the cheese-tasting and Koko's calamitous catfit, the Country Club sent a crew to remove the folding tables and silver punch bowls and return the furniture to its normal arrangement. Meanwhile, Qwilleran spent the morning in his balcony studio, writing a thousand words about cheese. In two weeks he had learned a great deal from Jack Nibble and quoted him at length: "Never grate cheese in advance... To get your money's worth from cheese, serve it at room temperature... Cheese belongs with a good meal and makes a bad one better."

In the afternoon, Qwilleran went for a long bike ride, hoping to clarify his thinking on various matters; too much had been happening too fast. He walked through the woods to the carriage house, where his bike was parked in one of the stalls, and waved to Celia Robinson. She was having a jolly conversation with Mr. O'Dell, who was there to blow fallen leaves into huge piles for the city's vacuum truck.

"Nice man," she commented to Qwilleran as he tested the air in his tires. "Isn't this a wonderful day for a bike ride? Where are you going?"

"Out Ittibittiwassee Road to the stone bridge and back the same way."

"Oh, my! That's quite a ways! How long will it take?"

"Couple of hours."

"Well, be careful. Get back before dark!"

Ittibittiwassee Road, part of the route for the Labor Day Race, still had the orange-and-white markers planted on the shoulder by the Pedal Club. They would remain in place until November, at which time the county snowplows would send them flying through the air like toothpicks. When Qwilleran turned onto the highway at the Dimsdale Diner, the first milepost he encountered was number 15. From there he ticked off his thoughts by the mile:

Milepost 16: What to write for Tuesday's paper? Should be about food. The dictionary says turnips are edible. How about a thousand derogatory words about turnips? People live on them in times of famine or war; that's why they're such a depressing vegetable. We call a bad play or movie a turkey; in France they call it a turnip. The Larousse Encyclopedia says that turnips can be boiled, scalloped, glazed, stuffed, creamed, molded, pure‚d, or souffl‚d. I say: Any way you mash it, it's still a turnip. Has it ever been used as fertilizer? Brodie says you can make a bomb out of fertilizer. Is there such a thing as a turnip bomb?

Milepost 18: Too bad about the shiitake. It would make a good column, but not until the family situation is straightened out. Are the mushrooms his or hers? Where was Donald during the interview? She never even mentioned him. Is she hiding something? If so, what? Celia says mother and son don't get along well.

Milepost 19: How to handle it tactfully? Down Below they'd try to probe family secrets and make a scandal out of it.

Milepost 20: The shiitake had a great taste. Butter, garlic, parsley, and freshly ground pepper, she said. Polly will be interested, except for the butter.

Milepost 22: First, shiitake; and now Iris's cookbook. What's going on in Madame Fetter's kitchen? Did she pilfer the book from the museum? Or is she a receiver of stolen goods? She must have known it was hot. The museum had appealed for its return, no questions asked.

Milepost 25: Everyone's talking about the reward and P.O. Box 1362. How will Madame Fetter react? Will she have any qualms about an expose? Will she take some sort of action? If she takes the book to the post office to be weighed for postage, those savvy postal clerks will notice that it's local - going to Box 1362 - with no return address. They'll recognize her. They know everyone who's ever bought a stamp.

Milepost 26: Even if she mails it from Lockmaster, it's risky. The Ledger picked up the story of the reward. So maybe she won't try to mail it at all. She could bum it - after copying a few of the recipes. She could plant it in someone else's kitchen and claim the reward herself. Just a thought; she can't be that low. Or someone who's seen the book in her kitchen could squeal, and I'd have to fork over money for information I already have.

Milepost 29: Too bad I didn't take the book myself when I was there. I was lawfully on the premises, and the book is lawfully mine. No crime! And she couldn't accuse me without incriminating herself. I could have Celia sneak it out of the kitchen, but that's burglary; it's not her own property. I can't involve Celia in anything that might blow her cover. She's too valuable to me.

At that point, Qwilleran reached the stone bridge, took a breather, and biked home, arriving just before dusk. After stabling his bike in the carriage house, he walked to the barn on bicycle legs - with bent knees and bouncing gait. In the sea chest he found two deliveries: a Lanspeak Department Store bag and a foil-wrapped brick, slightly warm. The Siamese knew what it was and gave him a clamoring welcome.

"Okay! Okay! Later!" he said, tossing the brick into the refrigerator for security reasons. Then he turned his attention to the Lanspeak bag. Before opening it, he said to himself, Hey, wait a minute; it's too heavy for a silk blouse! It was indeed heavy. It was a thick, black, scuffed, greasy notebook with loose pages.

"Ye gods!" he said aloud. "It's Iris's cookbook!" He rushed to the phone, followed by two demanding cats. "Later! Later!" he shouted at them.

After two rings he heard Celia's voice saying playfully, "Carriage House Inn-on-the-Park. May I help you?"

"I'd like to reserve a table for six for dinner," he said.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Chief. I thought it was - someone else. Did you find my meatloaf?"

"Yes, and we all thank you profusely, but that's not all I found!"

"Were you surprised?"

"That's putting it mildly. I didn't expect you to... help yourself to the evidence."

"I didn't!" she cried defensively. "It was given to me!"

"Well! That's a surprise. Did Mrs. Fetter explain its illegal presence on her bookshelf?"

"No! No! Donald gave it to me! He saw me reading it and said, `Why don't you take that something-something piece of something home and keep it? Mom's not supposed to have it anyway. But don't tell her I gave it to you.' Those aren't his exact words, but that's the idea."

"Well! What can I say? Was that on Monday?"

"Yes, when I went out there with the junior trainee. Sorry I didn't deliver it to you right away. I wanted to copy a few of the recipes. I hope you don't mind."

"Celia, not only do I not object; I'm promoting you to Senior Executive Assistant in charge of Sensitive Investigations."

Her laughter rang out as he said good night. For a while he stared at the phone. He was thinking, If Donald had waited another twenty-four hours, he could have turned in his own mother and collected the reward... although he might have had to split it with her.

He examined the cookbook, oblivious of the caterwauling around him. The black cover was gray with decades of spilled flour; Iris had always boasted of being a sloppy cook. It bulged with loose pages and yellowed newspaper clippings, liberally spotted and smeared. Qwilleran thought he could identify bacon grease, tomato juice, olive oil, chocolate, coffee, and blood. Splashes of liquid had blotted some of the handwriting, which was virtually indecipherable even at its best. He went to his studio and typed a release for the Moose County Something and Lockmaster Ledger:

A missing cookbook, originally owned by

Iris Cobb, has been anonymously returned to its rightful owners, the Klingenschoen

Foundation, which intends to publish it.

The announcement of a $10,000 reward for information leading to its recovery produced no tips or clues, according to a spokesperson for the K Fund. The return of the book was voluntary, and no inquiries will be made.

It was while he was giving the Siamese a couple of slices of meatloaf that the phone rang. His hello brought only labored breathing. "Hello?" he repeated with a questioning inflection. Then he heard a high-pitched voice say, "I'm gonna kill myself." The words were spoken in a monotone, but desperation made them almost falsetto.

"What? What did you say? Is this Aubrey?"

"I'm gonna kill myself."

"Where are you? Are you at your mother's house?"

"I come home. I come home to get a gun. I'm gonna shoot myself."

Qwilleran had heard suicide threats before. Aubrey needed to talk to someone.

"What did your mother think about your leaving?"

"Di'n't tell her."

"How did you get home?"

"Walked."

"Where was she when you left?"

"Diggin' in the yard."

"Don't you think you should have told her?"

"She don't need me. She's got her grandkids. I'm gonna shoot myself."

"But who would take care of your bees? They need you! You told me yourself, they're your friends."

"They're gone. I smoked 'em out."

"Did you blame them for what happened? They didn't know what they were doing."

There was a breathy pause. "I'm goin' crazy. Can't eat. Can't sleep. I'm gonna shoot myself."

"Now, wait a minute, Big Boy. We have to talk about this. I'm your friend. I want to know what's troubling you."

"I got the old man's gun. I'm gonna put it under my chin and pull the trigger."

"Okay, but don't do anything until I get there! I'm leaving right away - do you hear? I'll be there in ten minutes. Turn the outside lights on."

Qwilleran grabbed his jacket and car keys and had the presence of mind to throw the remainder of the meatloaf in the refrigerator. Without saying goodbye, he rushed out the door to his car. Gunning the motor, he bumped through the darkening woods and made a tire-screeching turn onto Park Circle, heading for Sandpit Road. Traffic was light at that hour, and he could speed. Reaching Black Creek, he looked across the forlorn landscape and saw the yardlights of the Limburger house in the distance. It meant that Aubrey had been listening; he was obeying orders.

Qwilleran parked at the curb and hurried to the lighted veranda. As he climbed the crumbling brick steps, the front door opened, and a ghost of a man stood there, his shoulders drooping, his face almost as white as his hair, and his eyes unfocused.

"Thanks for turning on the lights," Qwilleran said, following the shuffling feet into the front hall. A single dim lightbulb burned in the branched chandelier. The door to the gun cabinet was open. "Look here, Big Boy," he said. "Let's go somewhere and have a good talk, friend-to-friend. Let's get away from this gloomy place.

Everything will turn out all right. Don't worry. You 'need to talk to someone who understands, when you're feeling down. Come on. Let's go. Turn out the lights. Lock the door."

Aubrey needed someone to take charge. He did as he was told, moving slowly as if in a trance. Then Qwilleran took him by the elbow and piloted him down the steps and into the car.

He could write a thousand words for his column with the greatest of ease, but he had to work hard to fill the silence that amplified the rumble of the motor as they drove to Pickax. "It's a nice night. Crisp but not chilly. Just what you expect in early October. Soon it will be Halloween - then Thanksgiving, before we know it. We haven't had Indian summer as yet, though. After that. anything can happen. Dark, isn't it? No moon tonight. You can see the glow on the horizon from the Pickax streetlights. Not much traffic tonight. No one goes out on Wednesday night... There's the Dimsdale Diner. They stay open all night. You never see any trucks in the parking lot, though. I think the cook sleeps behind the counter. His pancakes are the worst I've ever eaten. I wonder what he does to them. They say Lois is going to open her lunchroom again."

While he talked about everything and nothing, his passenger slumped in a stupor. Qwilleran hoped that his planned shock treatment would work. They turned off Park Circle, crossed the theatre parking lot, and plunged into the woods. As they emerged from the dark stand of evergreens. Qwilleran reached for the remote control, and instantaneous floodlights turned the towering barn into something unreal. Aubrey sat up and stared.

"An old apple barn," Qwilleran told him. "Built more than a hundred years ago. Wait till you see the inside."

As they walked through the kitchen door, he pressed a single switch that illuminated balconies, ramps, beams, and the giant fireplace cube. Two cats who had been sleeping on the sofa rose, arched their backs, stretched, and jumped down to inspect the visitor. They circled him inquisitively, sniffing his field boots and finding them quite fascinating.

"What are they?" Aubrey asked.

"Siamese cats. Very friendly. You can see they're attracted to you. They know you like animals. The little female is

Yum Yum; the male is Koko. Talk to them. Tell them your name."

"Aubrey," the man said hesitantly.

"Yow!" Koko replied in his piercing Siamese baritone.

Qwilleran said, "See? He's pleased to meet you. Take off your jacket and sit down in that comfortable chair. Would you like some cheese and crackers? What do you drink? Coffee? Beer? Wine? Ginger ale?"

"Beer," Aubrey said in a daze as he sank into the deep-cushioned chair. He could not take his eyes from the cats, who were milling about gracefully, striking poses, gazing at him, doing all the right things, as if they had been assigned to patient therapy.

Yum Yum made a half-hearted pass at the laces of the field boots before jumping into Aubrey's lap and kneading in the crook of his elbow, purring loudly. Then she looked up at him with soulful eyes.

Qwilleran thought, She's a witch!

"Big eyes," Aubrey said. "Why's she lookin' at me like that?"

"She wants to play Blink. She stares at you, you stare at her, and the first one who blinks loses the game." He put a can of beer and a plate of cheese at Aubrey's elbow.

Then it was Koko's turn to do his mesmerizing act. He jumped to the arm of the big chair and sniffed Aubrey's sleeve. Then the cold wet nose traveled up his sleeve and sniffed his ear.

"It tickles," he said, almost smiling. "Do you know that cats have twenty-four whiskers on each side? They're all guaranteed to tickle. Count them and see if I'm right."

Aubrey turned his head and met the hypnotic gaze, eyeball to eyeball.

Qwilleran thought, They know he's troubled. Cats have a natural aptitude for care-giving. He said, "Give Koko a taste of cheese, and he'll be your friend for life."

The man followed orders and was pleased when both cats took crumbs of cheese from his fingers. "Just like a dog I used to have," he said. "His name was Spot - black and white - mixed breed. On'y way he'd eat was from my hand. I never saw cats like these... You let 'em in the house!" he added in surprise.

"This is where they live. They never go outdoors."

Aubrey stroked their silky fur constantly while he talked.

Qwilleran thought, It's a miracle; he's talking!

Aubrey went on, as though some healing flow of energy was passing from the cats to the man. "When Spot was killed, I di'n't want another dog. I joined the Navy. I was gonna learn electronics. I like that stuff. But I had an accident. I hadda come home."

Cautiously and with all the kindliness he could muster, Qwilleran asked, "What kind of accident?"

"I come near drownin'. When I come to, I thought I was dead. I felt different. But I wasn't dead. I was in sick bay. The medics said lowed my life to my buddy. Vic, his name was. He jumped in after me. They said there was sharks all around."

"Frightening experience."

"When somebody saves your life, you owe 'im one. That's what they say."

"Do you still keep in touch with... Vic?"

Aubrey turned a horrified face to Qwilleran. "That was him in the cabin!" He broke down in a fit of sobbing, covering his large face with his hands.

"That's all right," Qwilleran said soothingly. "It's good to let go. Get it off your chest."

The Siamese were alarmed but stayed nearby--each a silent but sympathetic presence. When the sobbing finally subsided and Aubrey started wiping his face on his sleeve, Qwilleran offered handfuls of tissues. The man clutched at them.

"Now you'll feel better," Qwilleran said.

He was right. Aubrey relaxed into dazed tranquility. "Perhaps you're ready for something to eat now - a meatloaf sandwich?"

"Yeah. I'm hungry."

"Let's go and sit at the bar. We'll take the cheese with us, so the cats don't get it."

Aubrey hunched over the bar and devoured cheese and crackers and drank beer while Qwilleran threw together sandwiches with Celia's meatloaf, mustard, and dill pickle. Then, after two sandwiches and three cans of beer, Aubrey wanted to talk. Words poured forth in a torrent of disconnected thoughts and naive remarks.

Qwilleran listened attentively. Suddenly he said, "Excuse me a moment. I'll be right back." He spiraled up the circular staircase that led from the kitchen to his studio and made a phone call. At the first gruff hello, he thundered, "Where's Koko's turkey? He wants his turkey!"

"It's at the lab," Brodie said, sounding grumpy. "Buy him another one. You can afford it. Is that all you called about?"

"Not by a long shot. Seriously, Andy, I hate to bother you again, but I think you should haul your bagpipe over here on the double. It's important. I want you to meet someone."

"What the hell kind of invitation is that?" the chief demanded. He sounded as if his favorite TV program had been interrupted.

"Trust me. You won't be sorry."

"Business or pleasure?"

"Tonight it's just a friendly get-together. You're off-duty. You just happen to drop in for a drink... But tomorrow it may be police business. Tonight it's off-the-record, off-the-cuff, and off-the-wall."

"Get out the Scotch," Brodie said. "I'll be right there."