The Cat Who Said Cheese

6

On Saturday morning Qwilleran fed the cats, policed their commode, brushed their coats, and combed airborne cat hair out of his moustache and eyebrows. Koko had pushed a book off the library shelf. "Not now. Later," he said. "I have a lot of calls to make. Expect me when you see me." He replaced the playscript of A Taste of Honey on the shelf. Then he thought, Wait a minute! Ores that cat sense that I'm going to interview a beekeeper? And if he does, how can he associate my intentions with the word "honey" on a book cover? And yet, he had to admit, Koko sometimes used oblique avenues of communication.

He went to the police station to be fingerprinted and then to the library for a book on beekeeping. Rather than appear to be a complete dolt, he looked up the definitions of brooders, supers, and smokers, also swarming, hiving, and clustering. While there he heard the clerks greeting Homer Tibbitt, who arrived each day with a briefcase and brown paper bag. Although the sign on the front door specified NO FOOD OR BEVERAGES, everyone knew what was in the paper bag. He was in his late nineties, however, and allowances were made for age. With a jerky but sprightly gait, he walked to the elevator and rode to the mezzanine, where he would do research in the reading room.

Qwilleran followed, using the stairs. "Morning, Homer. What's the subject for today?"

"I'm still on the Goodwinter clan. Amanda found some family papers in an old trunk and gave them to the library - racy stuff, some of it."

"Do you know anything about the Limburger family?" Qwilleran dropped into a hard oak chair across the table; the historian always brought his own inflated seat cushion.

"Yes, indeed! I wrote a monograph on them a few years ago. As I recall, the first Limburger came over from Austria in the mid-nineteenth century to avoid conscription. He was a carpenter, and the mining companies hired him to build cottages for the workers. But he was a go-getter and ended up building his own rooming houses and travelers' inns. Exploiting the workers was considered smart business practice in those days, and he got rich."

"What happened to his housing empire?"

"One by one the buildings burned down. Some were pulled down for firewood in the Great Depression. The Hotel Booze is the only building still standing. The family itself - second generation - was wiped out in the flu epidemic of 1918. There was only one survivor, and he's still living."

"You mean Gustav?" Qwilleran asked. "He has a reputation for being quite eccentric."

"Haven't seen him for years, but I remember him as a young boy, recently orphaned. Pardon me while I refresh my memory." The old gentleman struggled to his feet and went to the restroom, carrying his paper bag. It was no secret that it contained a thermos of decaffeinated coffee laced with brandy. When he returned, he had recalled everything.

"Yes, I remember young Gustav. I was a fledgling teacher in a one-room school, and I felt sorry for him. He'd lost his folks and was sent to live with a German- speaking family. His English was poor, and to make matters worse, there was a lot of anti-German sentiment after World War One. It's no wonder he was a poor student. He played truant frequently, ran away from home a couple of times, and finally dropped out."

"Didn't he inherit the family fortune?"

"That's another story. Some said his legal guardian mismanaged his money. Some said he went to Germany to sow his wild oats and lost it all. I know he sold the Hotel Booze to the Pratts and kept the New Pickax hotel. I hear it was wrecked by a bomb yesterday."

"Apparently Gustav never married," Qwilleran remarked.

"Not to anyone's knowledge. But who knows what he did in Germany? When I was writing the Limburger history, I tried to get him to talk, but he shut up like a clam."

"He's in the hospital now, in serious condition."

"Well, he's up in years," Homer said of the man who was fifteen years his junior.

Driving north to the Limburger house, Qwilleran passed the decrepit Dimsdale Diner at the comer of Ittibittiwassee Road and noted half a dozen farm vehicles in the weedy parking lot. That meant the Men's Dimsdale Coffee and Current Events Smoker was in session. That was Qwilleran' s name for the boisterous group of laughing, gossiping, cigarette-smoking coffee hounds who gathered informally in-between farm chores. He parked and joined them and was greeted by cheers.

"Here's Mr. Q!... Move over and make room for a big cheese from downtown!... Pull up a chair, man!"

Qwilleran helped himself to a mug of bad coffee and a stale doughnut and sat with the five men in feed caps and farm jackets. They went on with their quips, rumors, and prejudices:

"That explosion was an inside job. You can bet on it!"

"They should've dynamited the whole inside and then started over."

"Looks like that foreign babe was in on it."

"Old Gus was taken to the hospital when he heard the news."

"What'll happen to the hotel when he cashes in?"

"He'll leave it to that fella that does his chores,"

"That's a laugh! Gus is too stingy to give a penny away - even after he's dead!"

"He won't die unless he can figger out how to take it with 'im."

"I'll bet he's got a coupla million buried in his backyard, What d'you think, Mr. Q?"

"If you believe everything you hear, there's enough money buried in Moose County backyards to pay the national debt."

With that, they all laughed, pushed back their chairs, and trooped out to their blue pickup trucks.

En route to Black Creek, Qwilleran detoured through the town of Brrr, so named because it was the coldest spot in the county, He wanted to chat with Gary Pratt, partner of the Hotel Booze and chummy host at the Black Bear Cafe. Gary was a big bear of a man himself, having a shaggy black beard and a lumbering gait. He was behind the bar when Qwilleran slipped onto a bar stool.

"The usual?" he asked, plunking a mug on the bar and reaching for the coffee server.

"And a bearburger - with everything," Qwilleran said. The noon rush had not yet started, and Gary had time to lean on the bar in front of his customer. "What are they jawboning about in Pickax today?"

"The bombing. What else?"

"Same here."

"Any brilliant theories as to motive?"

"Well, folks around Brrr think it has to do with that foreign woman. They've seen her sitting on the beach and doing the tourist shops on the boardwalk. That hair of hers is what makes them leery. She'd come in here for lunch, and I'd try to get her into conversation. No dice. Then last Saturday she had dinner with one of our registered guests - a man."

"What kind of guy?"

"Looked like a businessman - clean-cut and about her age - wore a suit and tie. In Brrr, a suit and tie look suspiciously like the FBI or IRS, so he made folks nervous. He checked into the hotel about five-thirty, which looks like he came up on the shuttle flight and she picked him up at the airport. She drives a rental; we've seen it on our parking lot. So, anyway, they had dinner together - sat in a comer booth and talked like long-lost-whatever."

"Intimately?" Qwilleran asked.

"No."

"Furtively?"

"Not that either-more like a serious business deal, but every time I took them another glass of wine or walked by with the coffee server, they were talking about the weather. The thing of it is, how much can you say about the weather? One guy around here has it figured out that the bombing was an insurance scam, and she was a plant; it was set up to look like the bomb was meant for her."

"Gary, can you honestly see that old geezer in Black Creek plotting a sophisticated insurance scam?"

"Not him. They suspect the property management sharpies in Lockmaster. They run the hotel for him. I have a theory myself. It's common knowledge at the Chamber of Commerce that Lockmaster has been trying to get him to sell. He won't. You know how the Germans are about property. Well! Now that the building is damaged, he'll be willing to sell - at their price."

Qwilleran huffed into his moustache as he reflected that everyone in Moose County considered everyone in Lockmaster to be a crook. Likewise, Lockmaster denizens thought Moose County was populated with hayseeds. Race, color, and creed had nothing to do with this absurd bigotry; it was purely a matter of geography. He said to Gary, "This man wearing a suit and tie - was he swarthy like her?"

"No, he had light skin, reddish hair. They were together the next day, too, and then I think she drove him to catch the Sunday-night shuttle. He checked out around four-thirty-paid his bill with cash. Makes you wonder what he had in his briefcase."

The bearburger arrived with all the trimmings, and Gary changed the subject to the Labor Day Bike Race. "I didn't finish - didn't expect to - but it was fun. Have you heard what's next? The Pedal Club's sponsoring a bike-a-thon called Wheels for Meals. It'll benefit the hot-meal program for shut-ins - our contribution to Explo. Sponsors can pledge anywhere from a dime to a dollar per mile. I figure I'm good for thirty miles. After that, they'll have to cart me away in the sag wagon."

"What's the sag wagon?" Qwilleran asked.

"Just kidding. It's not an ambulance. It's a support vehicle with water, energy drinks, first aid, and racks for disabled bikes. No food. No hitchhiking."

"Okay, I'll sponsor you." Qwilleran signed a green pledge card for a dollar a mile. Then he said, "Do you happen to know Aubrey Scotten?"

"Sure. I knew him in high school. I know all the Scotten brothers. They belong to the Outdoor Club. Aubrey comes in for a burger once in a while. Have you met him?"

"Briefly. I'm supposed to interview him about bee-keeping this afternoon. Do you think he'll make a good subject?"

"Oh, he'll spout off, all right. Most of the time he's laid back, but if he likes you, he won't stop yakking. I don't know how much of it you'll be able to use."

"Can you fill me in on a few things?"

"Such as... ?"

"Is he a reliable authority on beekeeping? Is his honey considered good? Was his hair always snow-white?"

Gary looked uncertain and then decided it was all right to talk to this particular newsman. "Well... about the hair: It happened while he was in the Navy. He had an accident, and his hair turned white overnight."

"What kind of accident?"

"Some kind of foul-up aboard ship, never really explained. Aubrey got clunked on the head and dumped in the ocean and nearly drowned. In fact, he was a goner when they hauled him out, but he came back to life.

Those Scottens are a tough breed. It changed his personality, though."

"In what way?"

"For one thing, he'd been a bully in high school, and now he's a kind-hearted guy who won't swat a fly! For another thing, he used to work in the Scotten fishing fleet; now he's terrified of boats, and the sight of a large body of water gives him the screaming-meemies. The Navy gave him an honorable medical discharge and sent him home... Don't let anyone know I told you all this stuff." Gary poured another cup of coffee for Qwilleran. "But there was a plus! Aubrey turned into some kind of genius. He can repair anything - anything! He was never that way before. He fixed the big refrigerator here and my stereo at home."

Qwilleran's blood pressure was rising; a near-death experience would be more newsworthy than the honey-bee business.

Then Gary said, "Aubrey won't talk about his accident, and neither will his family - especially not to the media. Some scientists wanted to come up here and study his brain, but his brothers put the kibosh on that scheme in a hurry."

For the second time in two days, Qwilleran had seen a good lead turn out to be no-story, so... back to the honeybees!

Surrounded by the devastation of Black Creek, the Limburger mansion loomed like a haunted house. Still, Qwilleran thought as he parked at the curb, it could be renovated to make a striking country inn, given a little imagination and a few million dollars. The exterior brickwork - horizontal, vertical, diagonal and herringbone - was unique. The tall, stately windows, with the exception of the Halloween casualty, had stained-glass transoms or inserts of etched and beveled glass.

On the railing of the veranda the row of stones waited for the patient's return, and the reddish-brown mongrel that had provoked the old man's accident was still hanging around.

Qwilleran mounted the crumbling brick steps with caution and rang the doorbell. When there was no answer, he walked around the side of the house, saying, "Good dog! Good dog!" The animal nuzzled and whimpered and looked forlorn; Qwilleran wished he had brought some stale doughnuts from the Dimsdale Diner.

"Hello! Hello? Is anyone here?" he shouted in the direction of the weathered shed. The door stood open, and a bulky white-haired figure materialized from the interior gloom. Aubrey seemed bewildered.

Qwilleran said, "I was here yesterday, when Mr. Limburger fell down the steps. I'm Jim Qwilleran, remember? I told you I'd return to ask you all about beekeeping."

"I di'n't think you'd come back," the young man said. "Folks say they'll come back, and they never show up. A man ordered twelve jars of honey, and I had 'em all packed up in a box. He never showed up. I don't understand it. It's not friendly. D'you think it's a friendly thing to do?" The plaint was recited in a high whining voice.

"Some people don't have consideration for others," Qwilleran said with sympathy. "How is Mr. Limburger? Do you know?"

"I just come from the hospital. He was in bed and yellin' his head off about the food. He likes rabbit stew and pigs' feet and stuff like that. He likes lotsa fat. I seen him eat a pound of butter, once, like candy. It made me sick."

Qwilleran pointed to the shed. "Is that part of your honey operation?"

"That's where I draw the honey off."

"Do you have any for sale? I'd like to buy a couple of jars."

"Pints or quarts? I don't have no quarts. I sold 'em all to Toodle's Market. Mrs. Toodle is very friendly. She knows my mom." He disappeared into the dark shed and returned with two oval jars containing a clear, thick amber fluid.

"Why are honey jars always flat?" Qwilleran asked. Cynically he thought, Makes them look like more for the money; makes them tip over easily.

"Flat makes the honey look lighter. Most people want light honey. I don't know why. I like the dark. It has lots a taste. This is wildflower honey. I took some to Lois, and she give me a big breakfast. Di'n't have to pay a penny. She give me prunes, turkey hash, two eggs, toast, and coffee."

Aubrey rambled on until Qwilleran suggested that they sit on the porch and turn on the tape recorder. First, Aubrey had to find something for Pete to eat. Pete was the reddish-brown dog. Qwilleran waited in Limburger's creaking rocker, which was situated on a squeaking floorboard. He rocked noisily as he thought about the poor old dog, coming every day to be fed at the back door and stoned at the front door - not that the old man ever struck his target. Still, the treatment must have confused Pete, and it was not surprising that he dirtied the brick walk.

When Aubrey appeared, he had walked through the house and come out the front door, carrying a large book which he handed to Qwilleran. It was a very old, leather-bound, gold-tooled Bible with text printed in Old German. The beekeeper explained, "It came from Austria more'n a hunerd years ago. The old man's gonna leave it to me when he kicks the bucket. The cuckoo clock, too. It di'n't work, but I fixed it. Wanna see the cuckoo clock? It's on the wall."

"Later," Qwilleran said firmly. "Sit down and let's talk about bees. Do you ever get stung?"

Aubrey shook his head gravely. "My bees ain't never stung me. They trust me. I talk to 'em. I give 'em sugar-water in winter."

"Would they sting me?"

"If you frighten 'em or act unfriendly or wear a wool cap. They don't like wool. I don't know why. Bees never sting me. I seen a swarm of wild honeybees go inside an old tree, once. I went to look, and they swarmed allover me. I think they liked me. They was all over my face and in my ears and down my neck. It was a crazy feeling."

"I'll bet!" Qwilleran said grimly.

"I went home and come back with an empty hive. I hived the whole swarm. I think they was glad to get a good home. Bees are smart. If there's an apple tree and a pear tree, they go to the apple tree. It's got more sugar. The old man don't like honey. He likes white sugar. I seen him eat a whole bowl of sugar with a spoon, once. It made me sick. Would it make you sick?"

Piecemeal, with numerous digressions, the interview filled the reel of tape: A bee hive was like a little honey factory. Every bee had a job. The workers built honeycombs. The queen laid eggs. The field workers collected nectar and pollen from flowers. They brought it back to the hive to make honey. The door keepers guarded the hives against robbers. The drones didn't make honey; they just took care of the queen. If the hive got crowded, the drones were thrown out to die.

Qwilleran asked, "How do they get the nectar back to the hive?"

"In their bellies. They carry pollen in little bags on their legs."

Skeptically Qwilleran asked, "Are you telling me the truth, Aubrey?"

"Cross my heart," said the big man solemnly. "Wanna see the hives?"

"Only if you lend me a bee veil. They might think my moustache is made of wool."

"If a worker stings you, he dies."

"That's small comfort. Give me a bee veil and some gloves."

They walked down a rutted trail to the river, where all was quiet except for the rushing of the rapids and the cawing of crows. On the bank stood a shabby cabin with a paltry chimney and a hand pump on a wooden platform at the door. A lonely outhouse stood in a nearby field.

Aubrey said, "My family had six cabins they rented to bass fishermen. Two burned down. Three blew away in a storm. I live in this one. The walls were fulla wild bees, and I hadda smoke 'em out and take off the siding, and underneath the walls were fulla honey."

As they neared the cabin, Qwilleran became aware of a faint buzzing; he put on the gloves and the hat with a veil. On the south side of the building, exposed to the sun and protected from the north wind, was a row of wooden boxes elevated on platforms - not as picturesque as the old dome-shaped hives pictured on honey labels. The boxes were Langstroth hives, Qwilleran later learned, designed in 1851.

Aubrey said, "The bees do all the work. I take the trays of honeycomb up to the shed and draw the honey off and put it in jars. Those trays get pretty heavy."

"'Sounds like sticky business," Qwilleran said.

"I hadda crazy accident, once. I di'n't put the jar right under the spout, and the honey ran allover the floor."

The busy bees paid no attention to the journalist. He spoke quietly and made no sudden moves. "What do they do in winter?"

"They cluster together in the hives and keep each other warm. I wrap the hives in straw and stuff. They can get out if they want, but the mice can't get in."

"What about snow?"

"It don't matter if the hives are buried in snow, but ice-that's bad. My whole colony was smothered by ice, once."

It was a fantastic story, if true, Qwilleran thought. He would check it against the bee book at the library. "And now I'd like to see the cuckoo clock," he said. Truthfully, it was the interior of the mansion that interested him: the carved woodwork, the staghorn chandelier, the stained glass. The furnishings were sparse. The old man had sold almost everything, Aubrey said. Only one room looked inhabited. There were two overstuffed chairs in front of a TV, a large wardrobe carved with figures of wild game, and a gun cabinet with glass doors. The pendulum of the carved clock wagged on the wall.

"Who's the hunter?" Qwilleran asked.

"The old man shoots rabbits and makes hasenpfeffer. He shoots crows, too. I used to do lotsa hunt'n' with my brothers. I was a good shot." He looked away. "I don't wanna hunt any more."

The clock sounded cuckoo cuckoo cuckoo, and Qwilleran said it was time to leave. He paid for his honey and left with a new respect for the thick amber fluid. How many bellyfuls of nectar would it take, he wondered, to make a pint of honey?

He propped his purchases in a safe place in his car, where they would not tip or spill. Then he drove to Toodle's Market to buy something fresh for the Siamese and something frozen for himself. On the way he thought about the industrious workers and the hapless drones... about nature's way of converting flowers into food without chemicals or preservatives... and about the mild-mannered beekeeper who talked to his bees. Not a word had been said about the hotel bombing, an incident that was on everyone's tongue.

Arriving at the market, Qwilleran opened his car door and heard a sickening sound as glass broke on concrete pavement in a puddle of amber goo. He looked down at the disaster, then up at the sky and counted to ten.