The Cat Who Said Cheese

2

Qwilleran was a congenital foodie who needed no coaxing to participate in the Great Food Explo. He hoped it would open up new sources of material for his "Qwill Pen" column. Finding topics for the twice-weekly space was not easy, considering the boundaries of the county and the number of years he had been Qwill-penning.

From the newspaper he walked to Toodle's Market to buy food for his fussy felines. Toodle was an old respected food name, dating back to the days when grocers butchered their own hogs and sold a penny's worth of tea. Now the market had the size and parking space of a big-city supermarket, but not the hypnotic glare of overhead fluorescents. Incandescent spotlights and floodlights illuminated the meats and produce without changing their color or giving Mrs. Toodle a headache. It was she who ran the business, with the assistance of sons, daughters, in-laws, and grandchildren. Qwilleran bought a few cans of red salmon, crabmeat, cocktail shrimp, and minced clams.

His next stop was Edd's Editions, the used-book store. Here there were thousands of volumes accumulated from estate sales in surrounding counties. Color- less books cluttered the shelves, tables, and floor, and Eddington Smith had a dusty, elderly appearance to match his stock. Also blending into the background was a portly longhair named Winston who dusted the premises with sweeps of his plumed tail. There was always an odor in the store, compounded of mildewed books from damp basements, the sardines that constituted Winston's diet, and the liver and onions that Eddington frequently prepared for himself in the back room. On this day the aroma was unusually strong, and Qwilleran made his visit brief.

"I want something for Mrs. Duncan, Edd. She likes to read old cookbooks. She finds them amusing."

"I hope she's feeling better?"

"She's recovered her sense of humor, so that's a good sign," Qwilleran said as he examined, hastily, three shelves of pre-owned recipe books. One was a yellowed 1899 paperback titled Delicious Dishes for Dainty Entertaining, compiled by the Pickax Ladies' Cultural Society. Leafing through it, he noted recipes for Bangers and Beans, Wimpy-diddles, and Mrs. Duncan's Famous Pasties. "I'll take it," he said, thinking, She may have been Polly's great-grandmother-in-law.

Meanwhile Eddington was unpacking a newly arrived carton of old books from a family of dairy farmers and cheesemakers.

Qwilleran spotted Great Cheeses of the Western World-A Compendium. "I'll take this, too," he said. "How much do I owe you? Don't bother to wrap them." He left in a hurry as the store odors became overwhelming.

Memories of the bookstore lingered in his nostrils as he walked home along Main Street, around Park Circle, through the theatre parking lot, then along a wooded trail to the apple barn. The theatre, a magnificent fieldstone building, had once been the Klingenschoen mansion, and the fine carriage house at the rear was now a four-car garage with an apartment upstairs. The tenant was unloading groceries from her car as Qwilleran crossed the parking lot.

"Need any help?" he called out.

"No thanks. Need any macaroni and cheese?" she replied with a hearty laugh. Her name was Celia Robinson, and she was a jolly gray-haired grandmother who supplied him with home-cooked dishes that he could keep in the freezer.

"I never say no to macaroni and cheese," he said.

"I've been meaning to ask you, Mr. Q. What do you think about the mystery woman at the hotel? I think you should investigate." Mrs. Robinson was an avid reader of spy fiction, and twice she had acted as his confidential assistant when he was snooping into situations that he considered suspicious.

"Not this time, Celia. No crime has been committed, and the gossip about the woman is absurd. We should all mind our own business... And how about you? Are you still in the Pals for Patients program?"

"Still doing my bit! They've started a Junior Pal Brigade now, and it's my job to train them - college students who want to earn a little money. Nice kids. They're very good at cheering up house-bound patients." She stopped and sniffed inquiringly. "Did you just buy some rat cheese?"

"No. Only a book on the subject. It belonged to a cheesemaker and acquired a certain redolence by osmosis."

"Oh, Mr. Q! What you mean is - it stinks!" She laughed at her own forthrightness.

"If you say so, madame," he said with a stiff bow that sent her into further gales of laughter.

From there he tramped through the dense evergreen woods that screened the apple barn from the heavy traffic of Park Circle. As he approached the barn, he was aware of two pairs of eyes watching him from an upper window. As soon as he unlocked the door, they were there to meet him, hopping on their hind legs and pawing his clothing. He knew it was neither his magnetic personality nor the canned seafood that attracted them. It was the cheese book! Their noses wrinkled. They opened their mouths and showed their fangs. It was what the veterinarian called the Flehman response. Whatever it was called, it was not a flattering reaction.

Qwilleran gave the cheese book an analytical sniff himself. Celia was right; it had a definite overripe stink - like Limburger cheese. It had been many years since his introduction to Limburger in Germany, but it was memorable. Ripe was their word for it. Rank would be more descriptive.

Limburger, he recalled, was the name of the old man so uncharitably described at the editorial meeting. He sounded like a genuine character. Like most journalists, Qwilleran appreciated characters; they made good copy. He remembered his interviews with Adam Dingleberry, Euphonia Gage, and Ozzie Penn, to name a few. He went into action.

First he relegated the cheese compendium to the tool-shed, hoping it would lose its scent in a few days. Next he consulted the Black Creek section of the phone book and called a number. There were many rings before anyone answered.

A crotchety, cracked voice shouted, "Who's this?"

"Are you Mr. Limburger?"

"If that's who you called, that's who you got. Whaddaya want?"

"I'm Jim Qwilleran from the Moose County Something."

"Don't wanna take the paper. Costs too much."

"That's not why I'm calling, sir. Are you the owner of the New Pickax Hotel?"

"None o' yer business."

"I'd like to write a history of the famous hotel, Mr. Limburger," Qwilleran persisted in a genial voice.

"What fer?"

"It's been a landmark for over a hundred years, and our readers would be interested in - "

"So whaddaya wanna know?"

"I'd like to visit you and ask some questions."

"When?" the old man demanded in a hostile tone.

"How about tomorrow morning around eleven o'clock?"

"lffen I'm here. I'm eighty-two. I could kick the bucket any ol' time."

"I'll take a chance," Qwilleran said pleasantly. "You sound healthy."

"N-n-now!" came a cry not far from the mouthpiece of the phone.

"Whazzat?"

"Just a low-flying plane. See you tomorrow, Mr. Limburger." He heard the old man slam down the receiver, and he chuckled.

Before going to see Polly, Qwilleran read the fact sheet about the Great Food Explo. The opening festivities would center about a complex called Stables Row. It occupied a block-long stone building on a back street in downtown Pickax. In horse-and-buggy days it had been a ten-cent barn: all-day stabling and a bucket of oats for a dime. Later it was adapted for contemporary use, housing stores, repair shops, and offices in ever-changing variety. Now it was embarking on a bright new life. Large and small spaces had been remodeled to accommodate a pasty parlor, soup bar, bakery, wine and cheese shop, kitchen boutique, old-fashioned soda fountain, and health food store.

Special events during the Explo would include a pastry bake-off, a celebrity dinner-date auction, and a series of cooking classes for men only. Qwilleran knew his friends would coax him into enrolling, but he knew all he wanted to know about cooking: he could thaw a frozen dinner to perfection. He opened a can of minced clams for the Siamese and said, "Okay, you guys. Try to stay out of trouble while I'm gone. I'm going to visit your cousin Bootsie."

Qwilleran drove his car to Pleasant Street, a neighbor- hood of Victorian frame houses built by affluent Pickaxians in an era when carpenters had just discovered the jigsaw. Porches, eaves, bay windows, and gables had been lavished with fancy wood trim, to the extent that Pleasant Street had been nicknamed Gingerbread Alley. Here Polly's unmarried sister-in-law, the last Duncan-by-blood, had inherited the ancestral home, and here Polly was recuperating.

On arrival, Qwilleran went slowly up the front walk, gazing up at the architectural excesses with amazement. He was unaware that Bootsie, Polly's adored Siamese, was watching him from a front window. The two males - competitors for Polly's affection - had never been friendly but managed to observe an uneasy detente. Qwilleran turned a knob in the front door, which jangled a bell in the entrance hall, and Polly arrived in a flurry of filmy blue. She was wearing a voluminous caftan that he had given her as a get-well gift.

"Polly! You're looking wonderful!" he exclaimed. It had been painful to see her pale and listless. Now her eyes were sparkling, and her winning smile had returned.

"All it takes is a good medical report plus some blusher and eye shadow," she said gaily. "Brenda came over today to do my hair."

They clung together in a voluptuous embrace until Bootsie protested.

"Lynette has gone to her bridge club tonight, so we can have a tˆte-…-tˆte with tea and cookies. The hospital dietician gave me a cookie recipe with no sugar, no butter, no eggs, and no salt."

"They sound delectable," he said dryly.

They went into the parlor, which several generations of Duncans had maintained in the spirit of the nineteenth century, with velvet draperies, fringed lamp shades, pictures in ornate frames, and rugs on top of rugs. A round lamp table was skirted down to the floor, and as Qwilleran entered the room to take a chair, a fifteen-pound missile shout out from under the skirt and crashed into his legs.

"Naughty, naughty!" Polly scolded with more love than rebuke. To Qwilleran she explained, "He was only playing games."

Oh, sure, he thought. "Lynette wants me to move in permanently, and I'm tempted, because Bootsie loves the house. So many places to hide!"

"So I've noticed. Does he ambush all your visitors? It's a good thing I have a strong heart and nerves of steel."

Polly laughed softly. "How do you like the cookies?"

"Not bad. Not bad. All they need is a little sugar, butter, egg, and salt."

"Now you're teasing! But that's all right. I'm happy to be alive and well and teasable... Guess who visited me today and brought some gourmet mushroom soup! Elaine Fetter!"

"Do I know her?"

"You should. She's a zealous volunteer who works hard at working for nothing. She volunteers at the hospital, the historical museum, and the library. I find her very good on phones and cataloguing, but she's not well-liked, being somewhat of a snob. She lives in West Middle Hummock, and we all know that's a status address, and her late husband was an attorney with Hasselrich Bennett & Barter."

"How was the soup?"

"Delicious, but too rich for my diet. Gourmet cooks have a heavy hand with butter and cream. Incidentally, she grows her own mushrooms - shiitake, no less."

Qwilleran's interest was alerted. Here was a subject for the "Qwill Pen." There was something mysterious about mushrooms, and even more so about shiitake. "Would she agree to an interview?"

"Would she! Elaine loves having her name in the paper."

"When will you feel like restaurant dining again, Polly? I've missed you." Dining out was one of his chief pleasures, and he was a gracious host.

"Soon, dear, but I must be careful to order wisely. The dietician gave me a list of recommended substitutes, and she stressed small portions."

"I'll speak to the chef at the Old Stone Mill," Qwilleran said. "For you he'll be glad to prepare a three-ounce broiled substitute with a light substitute sauce."

She trilled her musical laugh. It was good to hear her laughter again. He realized now that her physical condition had affected her disposition, long before she felt chest pains.

"Did you have any other visitors today?" he asked, thinking about Dr. Prelligate. The president of the new college was being much too attentive to Polly, in Qwilleran's estimation, and the man's motives were open to question.

"The only one was my assistant," she said. "Mrs. AIstock brought some papers from the library for me to sign. She's doing an excellent job in my absence."

"I hope she filled you in on the latest gossip."

"Well - you probably know this - Derek Cuttlebrink is enrolled in Restaurant Management at the college. No doubt it was Elizabeth Hart's influence."

"Yes, a girlfriend with an income of a half-million can be subtly influential. Let's hope that Derek has finally found a career direction... What else did you hear from the library grapevine?"

"That Pickax is going to have a pickle factory. Is that good or bad?"

"Not good. We'll have to choose a Pickle Queen as well as a Potato Queen and a Trout Queen. The whole town will smell of dill and garlic from July to October."

"I thought you liked garlic, dear." She was goading him gently.

"Not as a substitute for fresh air. Can you imagine the TV commercials for Pickax Pickles? They'd be done in animation, of course-a row of pickles wearing tutus and dancing to the Pickax Polka, with pickle-voices screaming, 'Perk up with Pickax Pickles.'... No, tell Mrs. Alstock there's no pickle factory on the K Fund agenda for economic development. The rumor mongers will have to go back to the drawing board."

"Well, are you ready for some gossip that's absolutely true?" Polly asked. "The mystery woman came into the library and checked out books on a temporary card!"

"Hmff! If she's a reader, she can't be all bad, can she? What kind of book? How to build a bomb? How to poison the water supply?"

"Book withdrawals are privileged information," she said with a superior smile.

"So the library knows her name and address."

"No doubt it's in the files."

Qwilleran smoothed his moustache in contemplation and looked at her conspiratorially under hooded eyelids.

She recognized the humor in his melodramatic performance and retorted sweetly, "You're plotting a Dirty Trick! The Pickax Plumbers will break into the library after hours and burglarize the files, and we'll have a Bibliogate scandal."

Before he could think of a witty comeback, the front door slammed. There were footsteps in the entrance hall. Lynette had come home early.

"I didn't stay for refreshments," she explained. "I decided I'd rather visit with you two."

"We're flattered. Sit down and have a cookie," Qwilleran said in a monotone. He was reflecting that Lynette was a decent person - pleasant, helpful, generous, well-meaning, and smart enough to play bridge and handle health insurance in a doctor's office, but... she didn't get it! It never occurred to her that he and Polly might like a little privacy - once in a while.

Polly said to her sister-in-law, "We were just talking about the mystery woman."

Pontifically Qwilleran announced, "I have it on good authority that she's a fugitive from a crime syndicate or a terrorist group. She knows too much. She's a threat to the mob. Her life is in danger."

Lynette's eyes grew wide until Polly assured her he was only kidding. Then Lynette asked, "Does anyone mind if I turn on the radio for the weather report? Wetherby Goode says the cutest things!"

Qwilleran listened politely to the meteorologist's inanities: "Rain, rain, go away; come again another day." Then he made an excuse to leave. Polly understood; she gave him apologetic glances. Bootsie always escorted him to the front door, as if to speed the parting guest. This evening Qwilleran was escorted by a committee of three, and there was no opportunity for a private and lingering goodnight. Polly, he decided, had to get out of that house!

Arriving at the apple barn, Qwilleran stepped from his car and was virtually bowled over by a putrid stench coming from the tool shed, a hundred feet away. He was a man who made quick decisions. The cheese book had cost him six dollars, but he knew when to cut his losses. He turned his headlights on the shed, found a spade, and dug a sizable hole in the ground. Without any obsequies he buried Great Cheeses of the Western World. He hoped it would not contaminate the water table.

The Siamese were glad to see him. They had been neglected most of the day. They had had no quality time with him.

"Okay, we'll have a read," he announced. "Book! Book!"

One side of the fireplace cube was covered with shelves for Qwilleran's collection of pre-owned books from Eddington's shop. They were grouped according to category: fiction, biography, drama, history, and so forth, with spaces between that were large enough for Koko to curl up and sleep. He seemed to derive comfort from the proximity of old bindings. He also liked to knock a volume off a shelf occasionally and peer over the edge to see where it landed. In fact, whenever Qwilleran shouted "Book! Book!" that was Koko's cue to dislodge a title. It was a game. Whatever the cat chose, the man was obliged to read aloud.

On this occasion the selection was Stalking the Wild Asparagus. Qwilleran often read about nature, and he had enjoyed Euell Gibbons's book, even though he had no desire to eat roasted acorns or boiled milkweed shoots. The chapter he now chose to read was all about wild honeybees, and he entertained his listeners with sound effects: Bzzzzzzz. The Siamese were fascinated. Yum Yum lounged on his lap, and Koko sat on the arm of the chair, watching the reader's moustache.

Halfway through the chapter, just as the wild bees were swarming from a hollow tree, Koko's rapt attention faltered, his ears pricked, and his tail stiffened. He looked toward the back door. It was late, Qwilleran thought, for a car to be coming through the woods without invitation. He went to investigate. Standing on the threshold he saw no headlights, heard no motor noise, but unnatural sounds came from behind the toolshed. He snapped on the exterior lights and ventured toward the woods with a high-powered flashlight and a baseball bat.

As he approached the shed, there was scrambling in the underbrush, followed by dead silence, but the putrid odor told the story. A raccoon had dug up the cheese book and left it there, muddy and disheveled. The question now arose: How to get rid of it? Using the flashlight, he scoured the tool shed for containers with airtight lids and consigned the cheese book to a plastic mop pail. O'Dell's janitorial service would know what to do with it.

There was also a metal tackle box, empty and slightly rusted - the kind a mass murderer Down Below had used to send dynamite through the mails. For one brief giddy moment, Qwilleran considered mailing the cheese book to his former in-laws in New Jersey.