The Cat Who Said Cheese

19

In all, Aubrey Scotten told his story five times: first to Qwilleran, again to Brodie, next to the attorney, then to the prosecutor, and finally to a sympathetic judge at an open court hearing. He spoke with gravity and simplicity. The facts never varied - only the digressions about the cooking of turnips and the quality of Lois's flapjacks. Listeners were spellbound by the man's rambling tale and his ingenuous way of telling it. Onoosh Dolmathakia, the former wife of Victor Greer, made an appearance to corroborate certain details, and Nick Bamba, Aubrey's employer, vouched for his honesty, reliability, and value to the community. No charges were brought against the beekeeper, who was entrusted to the guardianship of his mother.

The "old man" in the case did not appear in court. Gustav Limburger had died, leaving a will in the hands of his Lockmaster attorney. To the surprise and consternation of the locals, his entire estate was bequeathed to a daughter in Germany.

Meanwhile, Wetherby Goode was predicting a severe winter. "We shall have snow, and what will poor robin do then, poor thing?" Merchants reported a run on snow blowers and long johns.

After the first frost nipped the air, Moose County experienced a brief but glorious Indian summer. Polly was preparing to return to the workplace, half-days, and Qwilleran was taking her to Boulder House Inn in Trawnto for a celebratory dinner and overnight.

Trawnto was a quiet lakeside resort with large old summer houses on a bluff. It had been settled in the 1800s by Canadians, ship-wrecked on the rocky shore. They wanted to name their tiny village Toronto, but local officials misunderstood their pronunciation and spelled it T-r-a-w-n-t-o in the county records.

En route to Trawnto on that festive Saturday afternoon, Qwilleran kept glancing at his passenger. "Polly, you look great! Absolutely great!" She was wearing a fuchsia silk blouse with her gray pantsuit, and it gave her face a radiant glow. "I feel wonderful!" she said. "I'm down to a size fourteen, and I'm in the mood to buy some new clothes. Also, when I return to work, I'm applying to the K Fund for public access computers. I believe we're the only library in the U.S. that still uses a card catalogue exclusively."

"I like card catalogues," he said. "I used to fantasize about being locked up overnight with the card catalogue in the New York Public Library... Why don't you also ask the K Fund for some chairs with padded seats?"

Polly said, "I've been reading about Edward MacDowell. He was a very handsome man, with a moustache just like yours. You'd look exactly like him if you'd part your hair in the middle."

"I'll do that," he replied dryly. "I've always wanted to look like a nineteenth-century composer. What else have you been reading?"

"The 'Qwill Pen.' Your column on cheese made me hungry."

"I didn't begin to cover the subject. Do you realize its importance in colloquial speech? Cheese! What a narrow escape!... Cheese it! The cops!... Who's the big cheese around here?... This is a cheesy hotel! And there are more that I won't mention."

There was nothing cheesy about the Boulder House Inn. It had been the summer residence of an eccentric quarry-owner, and it was constructed of rough boulders, some as big as bathtubs, piled one on another. Windows were recessed in stone walls two or three feet thick. The floors were giant flagstones, and the staircases were chipped out of rock.

"A house designed for giants," Qwilleran said. "I hope the food is good."

"It's advertised as nouvelle cuisine," Polly said with approval. "I suppose that means light sauces, small portions on large plates, cosseted vegetables, and glamorous fruit desserts."

"Something tells me I should have packed a lunch." When they checked in, the author of the "Qwill Pen" was greeted as a celebrity, and a hospitable innkeeper conducted them personally to adjoining rooms upstairs.

"I have a four-poster bed!" Polly announced as she unpacked her overnight case.

"I have a refrigerator!" he called back.

"I have a fireplace."

"I have an overstuffed sofa and a chess set."

They spent the afternoon walking on the beach and browsing in shops on the boardwalk, then dressed for dinner and had aperitifs on the stone terrace: dry sherry for her, Squunk water for him.

Although they had talked non-stop during the drive from Pickax, they now lapsed into tranquil silence as they contemplated the turquoise lake, the boundless blue sky with billowing October clouds, and their good fortune in being there together, in good health.

After a while Polly said, "I've missed Koko and Yum Yum."

"They've missed you, too... So have I."

"Are you still reading Aristophanes to them?"

"Yes, we're reading The Frogs. Their favorite line is Brekekekex ko-ax ko-ax."

"I imagine you read it with amphibian authority," she said.

"Thank you. I did the play in college and still remember some of my lines. The translation we used then was more poetic than the one I'm reading now, but not as humorous. In the comic scene where what's-his-name keeps saying Lost his smelling salts, my present translation reads Lost his bottle of oil, which somehow seems funnier to me. Don't ask why."

"For the same reason that a plate of sardines is funnier than a slice of bread," she said. "A donkey is funny; a horse is not. Pants are funny; shoes are not."

A large gray cat walked solemnly across the terrace, and Qwilleran said loudly, "Brekekekex ko-ax ko-ax."

Other guests looked inquiringly in his direction, but the cat kept walking.

"He doesn't understand frogspeak," Qwilleran said.

"He's hearing-impaired," Polly suggested.

"He's missing a few whiskers."

In the dining room she said she would have an amusing piece of trout. Qwilleran decided on a serious steak.

Then she asked, "Did you ever find out who surrendered Iris Cobb's cookbook?"

"No one has confessed," he replied truthfully but evasively, protecting Madame Fetter's reputation as well as Celia's cover.

"It surprised me that Aubrey Scotten's statement to the court was printed verbatim in the Something."

"Possibly the editors wanted to cool the gossip."

"Why did the bees attack the man? Was it the foul odor?"

"Who knows?" Qwilleran said with a shrug. "Bees are sensitive and intuitive creatures-and even more mysterious than cats."

"Everyone is hoping Aubrey will go back into the honey business."

"He will," Qwilleran said. "I understand his hives have been moved to his mother's farm, and he's found a new swarm of wild honeybees. He'll continue to work at the turkey farm. His mother will feed him well and cut his hair. Aubrey will be all right... Too bad Limburger didn't leave him the Bible and the cuckoo clock."

"We were shocked to hear he had a daughter in Germany. What will she do with the hotel?"

"The K Fund is negotiating with the estate for the purchase of the hotel and the house, which will make a good country inn. If the Scottens agree to sell the cabin, the inn property will extend to the river, where the bass-fishing is said to be the best anywhere around."

Accompanying the entrees were tiny brussels sprouts with caraway; spinach and toasted almonds in phyllo pastry; and an herb-flavored souffl‚, which Qwilleran pronounced excellent.

"Of course, you know it's turnip," Polly informed him.

"Well, they've done something to it - something underhanded," he said grudgingly. "Do you remember my recent anti-turnip column? I took a lot of flak from readers who are turnip freaks, and someone mailed a large box to me at the office. There was no return address, so the police were notified. There's a way of defusing a bomb with a firehose, you know, so that's what they did. It turned out to be a ten-pound turnip, largest ever grown in Moose County."

The salad course was Bibb lettuce with lemon zest dressing and toasted sesame seeds, garnished with a sliver of Brie.

"Don't eat your cheese," Qwilleran instructed Polly. "It's double-cream. I'll relieve you of it."

"That's so thoughtful of you, dear," she said. "By the way, I saw the video of the cheese party, and the catchase is hilarious! What caused Koko' s catfit?"

"Your guess is as good as mine." He wanted to tell her about the handgun in the turkey, but there were topics he never discussed with his two best friends. Both Polly and Arch Riker discouraged him from "getting involved" in matters that were police business and not his. There were long hours spent with Polly when Qwilleran had to hold his tongue. Neither could he reveal Koko's uncanny ability to sense wrong-doing and sniff out wrongdoers. The practical librarian looked at him askance, and the cynical publisher suggested he was cracking up.

Over dessert (poached pears stuffed with currants and pistachios and served with cherry coulis), Polly mentioned a subject that emphasized Qwilleran's predicament.

"Lisa Compton is spearheading a program to help battered women," she said. "Apparently there is a great deal of abuse going unreported in Moose County. Remember the wild rumors circulating about the mystery woman? No one dreamed she was a victim, being stalked and threatened by an ex-husband."

Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. Her statement was not true. Koko had sensed the situation. He had tried in his catly way to communicate. He started stalking Yum Yum. He drove her crazy. One might think they were playing games. Cats go through phases; they invent new games and then tire of them. But Koko also developed a sudden interest in Stalking the Wild Asparagus. Wild coincidence - or what? Was it a coincidence that Koko lost interest in Euell Gibbons and stopped stalking Yum Yum after Onoosh revealed her plight in a frantic letter? Was it a coincidence that Koko howled at the exact moment that Franklin Pickett was shot? Or that he chewed up Lenny's pledge card when the biker was in danger? Or that he campaigned for a ride to the beach on the very afternoon that the mystery woman was trespassing there? And how about the many times Koko pushed A Taste of Honey off the bookshelf?

Polly broke into his reverie. "You're pensive, dear."

"I was thinking... that these pears could use some chocolate syrup."

"There's a rumor that we're getting a Mediterranean restaurant. Do you think Pickax is ready for such exotic fare?"

"They'll like it," he predicted, "especially the meatballs in little green kimonos."

After dinner they joined the other guests around a roaring blaze in the stone fireplace and listened to the innkeeper relating the history of the building. During Prohibition it had been headquarters for rum-runners ferrying whiskey from Canada. There were tales of subterranean chambers with sealed doors and Federal agents who mysteriously disappeared. Hollow footsteps were sometimes heard in the night and apparitions hovered outside the windows.

"Pleasant dreams, everyone!" Qwilleran said, standing up. "We're going for a walk in the moonlight."

It was indeed a moonlit night, highlighting the surf that broke on the beach and giving the craggy inn an eerie otherness. Polly was tired, however. It had been an exciting day; she had walked a great deal; she was still in an early-to-bed hospital mode.

They retired to their rooms. Polly left a window open in order to hear the crashing of the surf. Qwilleran, after replacing a 40-watt light bulb with a 70-watt that he always carried in his luggage, sat up reading. It was quiet - unnaturally quiet - in that fortress of massive boulders, until... he heard a scream!

He rushed into Polly's room. She was sitting in bed, petrified and speechless. In her bed was a large gray cat.

"Easy, Polly! Easy!" he said soothingly as he grabbed the gray hulk. "It's only Dumbo. He climbed up the side of the building. He was looking for a warm bed." Qwilleran put the cat out on the wide sill and closed the window.

"I was sleeping soundly," Polly said. "It was a terrible scare-to wake and see that animal in my bed. I'm still shaking."

"Come and sit with me for a while," he said gently. "Curl up on my sofa. Calm down. I'll read to you."

In the breakfast room on Sunday morning, Qwilleran was in a playful mood, and Polly giggled at all his quips. Their waitress had a spectacular hairdo that looked, he muttered to Polly, like a bale of barbed wire. To the young woman he said, with a show of wonder and admiration, "I like your hair! It's different!"

She beamed with pleasure.

"You must have it done by a very good professional."

"No, I do it myself," she said modestly.

"Remarkable! It must take a long time and a great deal of skill and patience."

Polly was suppressing her mirth with difficulty, while kicking him under the table, but the waitress was overwhelmed. She brought extra muffins, extra butter, and extra preserves to their table, as well as an endless supply of coffee.

After another walk on the beach, they checked out. Monday would be Polly's first day at the library after several weeks of medical leave. She wanted to get herself together and switch roles - from convalescent to boss-lady, as the young clerks called her.

On the way home, they stopped at Indian Village. Since apartment leases stipulated no pets, Polly had bought a condominium. It was a two-story unit, and, Bootsie would have stairs for exercise and a small screened porch for bird-watching. Under consideration was the possibility of acquiring a companion for him.

As they neared Pickax, both of them enjoying the comfortable silence of a happy couple, Polly startled Qwilleran by saying, "Qwill, have you been keeping a big secret from me?"

A dozen possibilities flashed through his mind. "What do you mean? Give me a clue."

"Well, there's a woman in Lynette's bridge club who does the bookkeeping for Scottie's Men's Store, and she says you've just been billed for a tailor-made kilt in the Mackintosh tartan."

He gripped the steering wheel and stared stonily ahead. The gossip was true. In a weak moment, when he feared he was losing Polly, he had ordered a full Scottish kit to please her - perhaps to speed her recovery. Now she was alive and well, but he winced at the thought of wearing a short pleated "petticoat" with gartered socks and bare knees. "Is this a Congressional investigation?" he asked. "I take the Fifth."

"Oh, Qwill! You're an incorrigible tease!" she said. "Well, anyway, you'll look magnificent in a kilt."

After taking her home and witnessing her emotional reunion with Bootsie (they had been apart for twenty-four hours), Qwilleran drove to the barn, where he was met by two cool, calm, and collected cats. It meant they had breakfasted, and it was too early for dinner pangs. It also meant: no message on the answering machine; no domestic crisis; no gunshot or other incident to report.

"Hi, guys!" he said cheerfully. "How's everything? Did Celia take good care of you?" She had fed them before going to church, according to a note left on the kitchen counter.

Koko acknowledged his greeting with two flicks of the tail, and Yum Yum purred when he asked, "Are you still my little sweetheart?"

After changing into a jumpsuit, Qwilleran settled down in the library with a mug of coffee and some cheese and crackers.

"GruyŠre, anyone?" he asked, expecting a yowl from Koko. When there was no response, he said, "All the more for me!... How about some double-cream Brie?" Still there was no reaction. Qwilleran reeled off a list of the world's great cheeses, including goat's-milk feta, but Koko - who had become a cheese gastronome during the Explo - was silent.

What did it mean? He never did anything - hardly anything - without a reason. Abnormal behavior on his part always signified an attempt to communicate information. Now the answers were known; the case was closed; and Qwilleran realized, in retrospect, the meaning of Koko's messages:

The cat had sensed that the evildoer could be identified by a sound like GruyŠre, and Brie suggested the unwitting, unwilling accomplice. To a cat's ear Gruyere, Brie, Greer, and Aubrey would be merely sounds, like TREAT or BOOK; to Koko's ear they had significance. If the scientists Down Below ever found out about the psychic cat, they would charter flights to Pickax to test Koko's brain and count his whiskers... No way! Qwilleran thought.

Then he slapped his forehead as another possibility occurred to him. "Oh, no!" he said aloud. "Feta... Fetter... cookbook... Iris Cobb... meatloaf!" The Siamese had been fond of their former housekeeper, and they missed her special meatloaf, the secret of which...

Qwilleran's ruminations were interrupted by a low rumble in Koko's chest, followed by a leap to the bookshelves.

Okay, we'll have a read. Brekekekex ko-ax ko-ax!" With Koko on the arm of his chair and Yum Yum on his lap, he continued his reading of The Frogs.

The dialogue brought back memories. He had played Dionysus in the college production. His mother was living then, and she had attended three nights in a row. He had never forgotten his line: Who knows if death be life and life be death, and breath be mutton broth, and sleep a sheepskin? He remembered his costume, too: heavy robes befitting an Olympian god, but they were hot under the lights, and he thought he would drown in his own perspiration. That was a long time ago. Now he was living in a barn and reading The Frogs to an audience of two cats.

When he reached his favorite line, he found the translation quite different from the one he had known. He read it seriously, with meaningful pauses: "Who knows whether living is dying... and breathing is eating... and sleeping is a wool blanket?"

"Yow!" said Koko with equal seriousness.

Qwilleran felt a tingle on his upper lip as he guessed the answer to a puzzling question: Why did the bees attack Victor Greer? It was the wool blanket, of course! The old man's heavy woolen blanket from Germany! Did Aubrey realize what he was doing? Did he know the blanket was wool? In the confusion of the situation, did he forget that bees are antagonized by wool?... Or did Aubrey purposely take the wool blanket to the cabin? Later, when he found the body, he wept because, as he said, he would not have to shoot Lenny.

"How about that, Koko? Do you have an opinion?" The cat was sitting in a tall, stately pose on the arm of the chair. He swayed slightly. His blue eyes were large and fathomless.

"Okay, we'll playa game. If Aubrey purposely caused Victor Greer's death, blink!"

Qwilleran stared into Koko's eyes. Koko stared back. It was eyeball to eyeball. The trancelike impasse between man and cat went on and on. Qwilleran forgot to breathe. With all thought and feeling suspended, he was crossing over into hypnosis; he had to blink.

Koko had won. Aubrey was absolved. But then... Koko always won.

The End