The Cat Who Said Cheese

5

Qwilleran sat glumly on the porch overlooking the lake without seeing the infinity of the blue sky, the turquoise expanse of water, and the white ruffles of surf at the shoreline. He was organizing his reactions. He grieved over the senseless death of a hotel employee; in a small town everyone was a friend or a neighbor or a nodding acquaintance or the friend of a friend. Further, he regretted the wanton destruction of the building, no matter how substandard its rating or how disliked its owner. And personally he was disappointed by the sudden departure of the fascinating woman who had said, "Call me Onoosh." An exclusive news story had slipped through his fingers; his vision of a Mediterranean restaurant on local soil had faded away; and he had lost a potential purveyor of meatballs in little green kimonos. All of these considerations added up to a determination to solve the who and why of the bombing. It was none of his business; it was police business. Yet, his curiosity began a slow boil.

Meanwhile, he had unwanted souvenirs of the afternoon's adventure: two pounds of ground lamb, a pack- age of rice, and three large onions. The lemon he could use in Squunk water, an innocuous beverage from a local mineral spring. The rice could be returned to the store; Mrs. Toodle would be glad to give him a refund. As for the onions, he could hurl them into the adjoining woods - to spice the diet of a wandering raccoon.

The problem was... the Iamb. When the Siamese staggered out of the guest room, he offered them a taste; they declined even to sniff it. "You ungrateful snobs !" he scolded. "There are disadvantaged cats out there who don't know where their next mouse is coming from!" He had pointed out that fact frequently, without effecting any change in their attitude. They liked Scottish smoked salmon, oysters, lobster out of the shell, caviar (fresh, not tinned), and escargots.

His next thought - to give the lamb to Polly as a treat for Bootsie - would lead to embarrassing inquiries and awkward explanations. His friend, though a wonderful woman in every way, was inclined to be overpossessive and unnecessarily jealous. That eliminated another solution.

To donate the Iamb to Lois for her ever-bubbling soup pot would create a countywide stir. There were no secrets at the Luncheonette, and two pounds of ground Iamb from the richest bachelor in northeast central United States would be good for two months of delectable gossip.

There remained Celia Robinson. As his so-called secret agent, she had proved an ability to follow instructions without asking questions, and she was probably the only individual in Moose County who could keep a secret. He telephoned her from the cabin, and there was no answer. He decided to put the problematic meat in the freezer. He knew Onoosh would never return, but if she did...

Qwilleran and the Siamese returned to the apple barn. There was no storm damage at the cabin; in fact, there had been no storm. The county was enjoying an exceptionally pleasant September.

He fed the cats a can of red salmon and then went to Lois's for the Friday dinner special, fish and chips. One of the part-time cooks was manning the deep-fryer, and Lois was waiting on tables, taking customers' money, and venting her rage about the bombing. Only a public figure with Lois's thirty years of experience could rave, rant, and rail so histrionically while pouring coffee and making change. Qwilleran's arrival launched another tirade:

"Oh!... Oh!... Did you hear the six o'clock news? D'you know who was killed? Anna Marie! Lenny's girlfriend! Sweet girl - never hurt a soul. Why her? Why her?... Sit anywhere, Mr. Q. Fish and chips special tonight... Only twenty years old! She was gonna be a nurse! Lenny and her were childhood sweethearts. They were goin' to college together. She worked part-time as a housekeeper at the hotel... How many pieces, hon? Two or three? Coleslaw or reg'lar?.. They say the cops are investigatin'. Ha! What the hell good is that? A beautiful girl with her whole life snuffed out! Somebody should sue!... Are you guys through with the ketchup bottle?... Lenny just called me from home. He was lyin' down and heard it on the radio. He's bein' very brave, that kid, but he's hurtin' inside - hurtin' bad. He was the one who got her the job. That makes it twice as bad... Coffee, anybody? New pot.... The blast dumped a light fixture on Lenny's head, but it ain't serious. They stitched him up and sent him home, but he's out of a job till they fix the damage. That'll take forever if they leave it to the ol' coot who owns the place... More bread? Got enough butter? It's the real thing - not that low-cholesterol stuff."

Qwilleran's next destination was Gingerbread Alley. Even as he reached for the doorbell at the Duncan homestead, Polly yanked the door open. She was looking painfully grieved. Lynette, sober-faced, hovered in the background. In unison they said, "Did you hear the latest?"

"Yes," he said. "It's Anna Marie Toms. Did you know her?"

"She worked as a page at the library while she was in high school," Polly said. "Lovely girl - so conscientious."

"Her family lives in Chipmunk," Lynette added, "but they're good people. They go to our church."

"It's unfair to judge one by one's address," Polly protested. "Well, let's go into the parlor."

Qwilleran kept an eye on the skirted table as he seated himself. Lynette served instant decaf and pound cake from the new bakery.

"There's a rumor," she said, "that someone in Lockmaster wanted to buy the hotel, and old Scrooge wanted too much money, so they blew it up in revenge."

Stupid rumor, Qwilleran thought, and yet it was the kind of tale that flourished in scandal-hungry Pickax. He said, "Gustav Limburger is in the hospital. He fell down his front steps this morning. I was interviewing him about the history of the hotel. I'd like to know his condition, but the hospital won't give any information on the phone."

"I can find out," Lynette said. She worked for a clinic and had connections. When she returned, she recited a litany of bad news: multiple fractures, advanced osteoporosis, hypertension, cardiac arrhythmia, and more.

"Oh, dear! I should feel sorry for him," Polly said, "and yet..."

"He's a character," Qwilleran said. "Did you ever meet him?"

"My only contact was by mail. Every year when the library appealed for funds, he returned our envelope with two one-dollar bills. In spite of inflation, it never changed."

"Better than nothing," Lynette said. "By the way, the Toms family are patients at our clinic, and I suppose I shouldn't tell you this - I know you won't either of you repeat it - but Anna Marie was enrolled in prenatal care."

"Oh, dear!" said Polly.

Qwilleran huffed into his moustache as possibilities invaded his mind.

Then she said with an effort to be cheerful, "Well, what did you do this afternoon? Anything interesting?"

"I took the cats for a ride. Koko has been tormenting Yum Yum lately, and that means he's restless."

"Elaine Fetter phoned a while ago and said she saw you at Toodle's, buying ingredients for meatballs, and you're going to contribute your meatball recipe to the community cookbook! Have you been keeping secrets from me, dear?" she concluded with a mischievously oblique glance.

"Mrs. Fetter is confused. You know and I know, Polly, that I'm a culinary illiterate. The day I take up cooking will be the day the sky falls."

"But you were buying ingredients for meatballs!" she continued with the persistence of a prosecuting attorney. She enjoyed putting him in the hot seat, knowing his ability to wiggle out of any uncomfortable situation.

Qwilleran had to think fast; he did that well, too. "I was picking up groceries for Mrs. Robinson. She makes a special meatball for her cat, and I asked her to make a batch for my two gourmands."

"What makes it so special?"

"I don't know. I had to buy lamb, rice, onion, and lemon."

"That sounds Middle Eastern," Polly said. "I'd love to have her recipe. Could you get it for me?"

The situation was becoming sticky. "I'm afraid she doesn't share recipes. She's... uh... going into catering and wants to have a repertory of exclusive dishes." He congratulated himself on that ingenious fabrication but found it advisable to cover his tracks. He left early. He said he had some writing to do. Within minutes he was phoning Celia Robinson, and there was urgency in his voice.

"What's up, Chief?" she asked eagerly.

"I have a favor to ask, Celia - nothing to do with a criminal investigation."

"Aw shucks!" she said with a merry laugh. "First, a question: Do you ever make meatballs with rice?"

"No, I use bread crumbs."

"If you were to make meatballs with rice, would Wrigley eat them?"

"Oh, sure, but he'd throw up. Rice is something he can't seem to digest."

"I see," Qwilleran said. "Well... if anyone asks you, would you be good enough to say that you make meat- balls with rice for Wrigley? And if anyone requests your.. recipe... Just say no!"

"Okay, Chief. It won't be the first fib I've told for you, and I haven't been struck by lightning yet!"

He hung up with a sense of relief. He was covered. He knew that Polly would mention the meatballs to her assistant, Mrs. Alstock, who would mention them to her dear friend, Celia Robinson. It was one of the complexities of living in a small town. In away, life Down Below was simpler, despite traffic jams, air pollution, and street crime. There was a comfortable anonymity in a city of millions.

His next call was to the police chief at home. "Anything good on the tube tonight, Andy?"

"Nab, I turned it off, and I'm reading your column on Nobodies in today's paper. The trouble is, all the Nobodies in Pickax think they're Somebodies and exempt from paying traffic fines... What's on your mind?"

"The explosion. Was it pretty bad?"

"Everything in a certain radius was blown to bits. That poor girl never knew what hit her."

Qwilleran asked, "Am I correct in thinking room 203 was registered to the mystery woman?"

"Right, and she hasn't been seen since."

Qwilleran paused dramatically before saying, "I spent the afternoon with her."

"What! How come? How did you meet her? What do you know?"

"Why don't you put on your shoes, Andy, and come over for a Scotch?"

In five minutes the police chief drove into the barnyard. He was a tall, husky, impressive figure, even out of uniform, and he was especially impressive when he wore a full Scottish kit and played the bagpipe at weddings and funerals. He walked into the barn with a piper's swagger.

Qwilleran had a tray ready with Scotch and cheese, and Squunk water for himself. As the two men settled into big chairs in the lounge area, the Siamese walked into view with a swagger of their own. Corning close to the coffee table, they sat down with noses on a level with the cheese platter. As the guest raised his glass in a Gaelic toast, the two noses edged closer.

"No!" Qwilleran thundered. Both cats backed off a quarter of an inch and continued to contemplate the forbidden food with half-shut eyes.

"Cocky little devils," Brodie said. "Bet you spoil them rotten."

"Try this cheese, Andy. It's a kind of Swiss from the new Sip 'n' Nibble shop in Stables Row. It's run by two guys from Down Below. They like to be called Jerry Sip and Jack Nibble. Jerry's the wine expert, and Jack knows everything about cheese."

"Gimme a slice. Then tell me how you met that woman."

"It was a weird coincidence. I'd never seen her, but they were talking about her at the paper yesterday and mentioned that she drove a dark blue rental car. So, this afternoon I drove to the cabin on a routine inspection, and there was a dark blue two-door in my parking lot! My car almost reared up on its hind wheels! The woman was sitting on my beach at the foot of the dune, reading a cookbook, so I figured she wasn't dangerous."

Brodie grunted at intervals as Qwilleran told the whole story. "So she offered to make some stuffed grape leaves if I'd buy the ingredients, and that's what I was doing when the bomb went off."

The chief chuckled. "She wanted to get your car out of the drive so she could make a getaway."

"That was my first thought. For a few minutes I felt like an absolute dunce. Then I realized - correctly, I believe - that she'd heard the bulletin on the air and had to get out of town fast. Somehow she knew the bomb was intended for her. I called the airport, and they said she'd turned in the car and boarded the shuttle."

Brodie said, "She might have decamped in a hurry be- cause she was a conspirator in the bomb plot. She was conveniently out of the building - and hiding out on your property - when the bomb exploded."

Qwilleran drew a heavy hand over his moustache, as he always did when he was getting a major hunch. A tingle on his upper lip was a signal that he was on the right track. "I maintain, Andy, that she's a fugitive trying to go underground. This neck of the woods is ordinarily as underground as you can get, but there's another clue to consider. When the wind blew her hair away from her face, I saw a long vertical scar in front of her left ear."

"Could be the result of an auto accident," Brodie suggested. "What name did she give you?"

"Only her first name: Onoosh."

"Onoosh? What kind of name is that? On the hotel register she signed Ona Dolman."

A dark brown paw stole slowly over the edge of the coffee table.

"No!" Qwilleran bellowed, and the paw was quickly withdrawn.

"I didn't know cats liked cheese," said the chief, who thought they lived on rodents and fish-heads.

"Since the new store opened, both cats are turning into cheese junkies," Qwilleran said.

"Well, I guess we'll never see Ona Dolman again, but it's no big loss. The hell of it is the murder of that innocent girl - Anna Marie Toms. I know the family - good people! Not everybody living in Chipmunk gets into trouble with the law. She was kind of engaged to Lenny Inchpot, Lois's son. I'll play the bagpipe at her funeral service, if they want me to."

"Do you know exactly how it happened, Andy?"

"It'll come out later, but I'll fill you in now - off the record." Brodie had gradually accepted this journalist from Down Below as trustworthy and useful. Qwilleran's experience as a crime reporter in major cities around the country had given him insights into investigative processes, and his natural instinct for snooping often unearthed facts of value to official investigators. In pursuing his private passion, Qwilleran was quite satisfied to remain in the background, tip off the authorities, and take no public credit. Brodie, for his part, appreciated his cooperation and occasionally leaked confidential information - through his daughter, the designer. It was a casual arrangement, unknown to other local law enforcement agencies.

"Anything you see fit to tell me is always off the record, Andy. That goes without saying."

"Okay. About four o'clock this afternoon an unidentified white male - about forty, medium build, clean-shaven - came in the front door of the hotel with a gift package and some flowers for Ona Dolman. Lenny, on duty at the desk, said she wasn't in but he'd send them up to her room as soon as the porter returned from his break. The suspect said the gift was hand-blown glass, very fragile, and he'd feel more comfortable taking it upstairs himself and putting it in a safe place. He asked for a piece of paper and wrote: OPEN WITH CARE, HONEY. SO Lenny told him to ask the housekeeper on the second floor to let him into 203. When the suspect came back down, he yelled thank-you and went out the back door. The porter was having a cigarette in the parking lot and saw a blue pickup drive slowly down the back street and pick up a man in a blue jacket. So what? Blue pickups and blue jackets are a dime a dozen around here."

Qwilleran asked about witnesses on the second floor. "The manager's office is up there. She didn't see the suspect, but the housekeeper asked where to get a vase for some flowers and later took the vacuum cleaner into 203, saying the flowers had made a mess on the rug. When she plugged in the cord or pushed the machine around, she probably tripped the bomb. Lenny feels he's responsible for her death. That boy's gonna need counseling."

"Bad scene," Qwilleran said somberly. "Can he describe the suspect?"

"Two witnesses got a close look at him-Lenny and the florist who sold him the flowers. The SBI computer is making a composite sketch from their descriptions, but I don't know how they'll find any clues in the rubble. A bomb blows up a lot of evidence."

"Yes, but the forensic people work miracles. Every year there seems to be new technology." Qwilleran poured another Scotch for Brodie and asked how he liked the cheese.

"Good stuff! I've gotta tell the wife about it. What d'you call it?"

"GruyŠre. It's from Switzerland."

"Yow!" came a loud demand from the floor, and Qwilleran gave each cat a tiny crumb of it, which they gobbled and masticated and savored at great length as if it were a whole wedge.

Brodie asked, "Did Ona Dolman say anything at all that might finger the bomber?"

"No, I'm afraid I missed the boat. I intended to ask some leading questions while we were eating our grape leaves. I even picked up a bottle of good wine for her!" Qwilleran said with annoyance.

"Well, anyway, now that we know she left on a plane, we can start a search. If she was in hiding, she falsified information but there'll be prints on the car, if they haven't cleaned it." He went to the phone and called the airport; the car had been thoroughly cleaned when it was returned. Qwilleran said there would be prints on the kitchen sink at the cabin, and he turned over the key to Brodie, along with the folding chair, cookbooks, and straw hat that she had left behind.

"We'll need your prints, too, Qwill. Stop at the station tomorrow."

"I don't envy you, Andy. You don't know who she really is, where she really lives, why she's being pursued, where she went, who planted the bomb, where he lives, what's his motive, how he found her, and who drove the getaway vehicle."

"Well, we should be able to lift her prints, and just about every man, woman, and child in Pickax can describe her...

What did you call that cheese?"

"GruyŠre."

"Yow!" said Koko.

Qwilleran said, "I asked the guy at the cheese store why a cat would prefer this to Emmenthaler, which is also Swiss. He said it's creamier and saltier."

"Is it expensive?"

"It costs more than processed cheese at Toodle's, but Mildred says we should buy better food and eat less of it."

Brodie stood up. "Better be goin' home, or the wife'll call the police."

Just then a low rumble caught the attention of the two men. It came from under the coffee table. As they turned to look, Koko came slinking out, making a gutteral noise, waving his tail in low gear, sneaking up behind Yum Yum.

"Watch this!" Qwilleran whispered.

POW! Koko pounced! WHOOSH! Yum Yum got away, and they were off on a wild chase up the ramp.

"They're just showing off," Qwilleran said. "They do it to attract attention."

The chief went home carrying a wedge of GruyŠre.