The Cat Who Said Cheese

7

A jar of honey spilled on a parking lot is not as bad as a jar of spilled honey mixed with broken glass. Qwilleran, having made this profound observation, notified Mrs. Toodle, and she summoned one of her grandsons, The three of them marched single file to the scene of the accident, Qwilleran apologizing profusely and Mrs. Toodle thanking him for reporting it, The situation tickled the funny bone of the young Toodle; it was almost as funny as the time he dropped a crate of eggs.

"You'll have to get every last bit of glass," his grandmother admonished. "If a dog comes along and licks the spot, he could cut his tongue," When her back was turned, Qwilleran slipped the young man a generous tip.

"That's not necessary," she said, having developed eyes in the back of her head after years of running a supermarket.

He bought some corned beef at the deli counter - enough for the cats' dinner and a late-night snack for himself, then drove downtown to buy flowers for Polly. At five o'clock she would be venturing out of doors for her first walk since having surgery. He parked in the municipal lot and walked to the florist shop. Downtown Pickax was a three-block stretch of heterogeneous stone buildings: large, small, impressive, quaint, ornate, and primitive. All were relics of the era when the county was famous for its quarries. Together with the stone paving, they gave the town its title: City of Stone. A Cotswold cottage, the Bastille, Stonehenge, and a Scottish castle did business side by side. To Qwilleran, Main Street was Information Highway; friends and acquaintances stopped him to report the latest scandal, rumor, or joke.

Today he bumped into Whannell MacWhannell, the accountant. Big Mac, a burly Scot, greeted Qwilleran with "Aye! There's a rumor the 'braw laird of Mackintosh' has ordered a kilt, tailor-made! You can wear it to Scottish Night at the lodge and the Highland Games in Lockmaster."

"That is, if I'm' 'braw' enough to wear it at all. It's supposed to be a surprise for Polly, so don't spread the rumor." Even though his mother was a Mackintosh, and even though he had joined the clan as a tribute to her memory, Qwilleran had reservations about appearing in public in a kilt.

The two men stood on the sidewalk and gazed with dismay at the boarded windows of the hotel across the street. "A crying shame!" said the accountant. "It wasn't a good hotel, but it was all we had, and who knows what'll happen to it now? The owner's in the hospital, and the management agency will be dragging its feet. They're based in Lockmaster, you know, and couldn't care less about a little creeping blight in downtown Pickax."

Qwilleran said, "I met the owner just before he had his accident, and he's eccentric, to say the least. I hope his affairs are in order-legal and financial. I hope he has an attorney, and an estate-planner, and a will."

"The problem is that no one wants to work with the scoundrel," Big Mac said. "Our office used to do his tax work, but he was impossible. Didn't keep records. Wouldn't take advice. What does one do with a client like that? I've forgotten whether we fired him or he fired us. His local attorney bowed out in desperation, too. The Lockmaster agency probably handles all his affairs now. They have my sympathy!"

Main Street was crowded with Saturday shoppers, since there was no mall to lure them from downtown, and they were joined by quite a few sightseers, gawking at the scene of the explosion. Among them was Mitch Ogilvie, dressed more like a farmer than a museum manager.

Qwilleran grabbed him roughly by the arm. "Mitch, you dirty dog! What happened to you? I hear you left the museum. You look as if you're going to a costume party!" He was wearing grubby denims, field boots, and a feed cap. He had also grown a beard.

"Yeah, I'm working my way up the ladder," the young man said. "From hotel clerk... to museum manager... to goat farmer! I'm glad I wasn't working here when the hotel blew up."

"Yes, but what's this about goat farming?"

"Kristi started a new herd, and I helped her sell her mother's antiques. She realized enough to make some big improvements in the house and the farm, so I hired on."

"Have you learned how to milk goats?"

"Believe it or not, I'm the cheese-maker. I went to a farm in Wisconsin and took a course. The new cheese shop on Stables Row is handling our product. Maybe you've seen our label: Split Rail Farm. We got rid of the old white fence, and I built one myself out of split rails."

"I've not only seen your label, I've bought your cheese," Qwilleran said. "I've tried the feta and the pepper cheese. Great eating! I'd like to see the cheese operation; I might be able to write about it."

"Sure! Great! Anytime!" Qwilleran suggested the next afternoon. "That is, if you don't mind working on Sunday."

"There are no days off in the goat business, Qwill." Mitch glanced at the hotel. "But it's safer than working at the Pickax Hotel... See ya!"

Qwilleran continued on his way to the shop called Franklin's Flowers. It was across from the hotel and next door to Exbridge & Cobb, Fine Antiques. Susan Exbridge was a handsome match for her upscale establishment. She collected Georgian silver, won bridge tournaments at the country club, received alimony from a wealthy developer, and bought her clothes in Chicago. When Qwilleran happened along, she was standing on the sidewalk, critiquing a display she had just arranged in the window.

Stealing up behind her and disguising his voice, he said, "There's a wrinkle in the rug, and the lamp shade is crooked."

She saw his reflection in the glass and turned quickly. "Darling! Where have you been all summer? The town has been desolate without you!" As one of the more flamboyant members of the theatre club, she over dramatized.

"It's been a hectic summer in many ways," he explained.

"I know. How's Polly?" The two women were not warm friends, but they observed the civilities, as one is required to do in a small town.

"Improving daily. We have to find her a place to live. Her apartment is being swallowed up by the college campus. Temporarily she's staying with her sister-in- law."

"Why don't you and Polly - " she began.

"Our cats are incompatible," he interrupted, knowing what she was about to suggest.

They discussed the possibilities of Indian Village, a complex of apartments and condominiums on the Ittibittiwassee River. There were nature trails; the river was full of ducks; the woods were full of birds.

"The quacking and chirping sometimes drive me up the wall," Susan said, "but Polly would love it." There was a tinge of snobbery in her comment. In Indian Village, the bridge-players never went birding, and the bird-watchers never played bridge. Some day, Qwilleran thought, he would write a column on cliques in Moose County. He might lose a few friends, but it was a columnist's duty to stir things up occasionally.

Susan opened the front door. "Come in and see my new annex."

The premises always gleamed with polished mahogany and shining brass, but now an archway opened into a new space filled with antiques of a dusty, weathered, folksy sort.

"Do you recognize any of those primitives?" she asked. "They were in Iris Cobb's personal collection, and I never had a place to display them until the store next door was vacated. I rented half of it, and Franklin Pickett took the other half. Honestly, he's such a pill! He always wants to borrow antique objects for his window display, but he never offers a few flowers for my shop."

In the archway a rustic sign on an easel announced: THE IRIS COBB COLLECTION. Qwilleran noted a pine cupboard, several milking stools, benches with seats made from half-logs, wrought-iron utensils for fireplace cooking, an old school desk, some whirligigs, and a faded hand hooked rug with goofy-looking farm animals around the border. He picked up a basket with an openwork weave that left large hexagonal holes. It had straight sides and was about a foot in diameter. He questioned the size of the holes.

"That's a cheese basket," Susan explained. "They'd line it with cheesecloth, fill it with curds, and let it drip. It belonged to a French-Canadian family near Trawnto Beach. They were shipwrecked there in 1870 and decided to stay. They raised dairy cattle and made their own cheese until the farmhouse was destroyed by fire in 1911. The daughter was able to save the cheese basket and that hooked rug. She still had them when she died at the age of ninety-five."

Qwilleran gave her a stony stare. "You should be writing fiction, Susan."

"Every word is true! Iris recorded the provenance on the catalogue card."

Qwilleran shrugged a wordless apology to the memory of the late Iris Cobb. She had been an expert on antiques and a wonderful cook and a warm-hearted friend, but he had always suspected her of inventing a provenance for everything she sold. "And what is that?" he asked, pointing to a weathered wood chest with iron hardware.

"An old sea chest," Susan recited glibly, "found in an attic in Brrr. It had been washed up on the beach following an 1892 shipwreck and was thought to belong to a Scottish sailor."

"Uh huh," Qwilleran said skeptically, "and there was a wooden leg in the chest thought to belong to Long John Silver. How much are you asking for the cheese basket and the chest? And are they cheaper without the provenance?"

"Spoken like an experienced junker," she said. "Because you're an old friend of dear Iris, I'll give you a clergyman's discount, ten percent. She'd want you to have it."

Qwilleran grunted his thanks as he wrote the check, thinking that dear Iris would have given him twenty percent. He said, "I don't suppose her personal cookbook turned up, did it?"

"I wish it had! Some of my customers would mort- gage their homes to buy it! The book was a mess, but the recipes she had developed were priceless. She kept it in that old school desk, but by the time I was appointed to appraise the estate, it was gone."

"It was left to me in her will, you may recall-a joke, I presume, because she knew I was no cook and never would be."

"I hate to say this," Susan said, "but I think it was taken by one of the museum volunteers. There were seventy-five of them - on maintenance, security, hosting, cataloguing, etc. Mitch Ogilvie was the manager then, and he put a notice in the volunteers' newsletter, pleading for its return-no questions asked. No one responded.... I'll have my man put a coat of oil on the sea chest for you, Qwill, and deliver it to the barn."

Qwilleran left with his cheese basket and visited the florist next door, pushing through a maze of greeting cards, stuffed animals, balloons, chocolates, and decorated mugs to reach the fresh-cut flowers.

"Hello, Mr. Q," said a young clerk with long silky hair and large blue eyes. "Daisies again? Or would you like mums for a change?"

"Mrs. Duncan has an overriding passion for daisies and unmitigated scorn for mums," he said sternly. "Why are you pushing mums? Did your boss buy too many? Or does he get a bigger markup on mums?"

She giggled. "Oh, Mr. Q, you're so funny. Most people like mums because they last longer, and we have a new color." She showed him a bouquet of dark red. "It's called vintage burgundy."

"It looks like dried blood," he said. "Just give me a bunch of yellow daisies without that wispy stuff that sheds all over the floor."

"You don't want any statice?" she asked in disbelief. "No statice, no ribbon bows, no balloons." Then, having asserted himself successfully, he relented and said in a genial tone, "You had some excitement across the street yesterday."

She rolled her expressive blue eyes. "I was paralyzed with fright! I thought it was an earthquake. My boss was in the back room working on a funeral, and he was as scared as I was." She added in a whisper, although there was no one else in the shop, "The police have been here, asking questions. The man that planted the bomb bought some flowers from us."

"Did you see him?"

"No. I was in the back room working on a wedding. Mr. Pickett waited on him. He bought mums in that new color."

"Well, tell your boss to stock up on vintage burgundy. There'll be a run on it when the public discovers it was the bomber's choice. Don't ask me why. It's some kind of wacky mass hysteria."

Somewhat behind schedule - because of the spilled honey and the unplanned meetings on Main Street and the purchase of the antiques - Qwilleran hastily chopped corned beef for the Siamese. The salty meat seemed to give them a special thrill. Then they inspected the cheese basket on the coffee table, its open weave making a crisp lineal pattern on the white surface.

"We will not chew this basket!" Qwilleran warned them. "It belonged to Mrs. Cobb. You remember Mrs. Cobb. She used to make meatloaf for you. Her basket deserves your respect."

Koko sniffed it and walked away with the bored attitude of a cat who has sniffed better baskets in his time. Yum Yum tried it on for size, however, and found it a perfect fit. She curled into it with her chin resting on the rim, a picture of contentment.

Qwilleran drove to Gingerbread Alley and found Polly dressed for her first walk but apprehensive. "I know it's silly to feel this way, but I do," she said apologetically.

"One turn around the block, and you'll be ready for another," he predicted. He gave her the flowers.

"Daisies!" she cried. "They're the smiley faces of nature! Looking at them always makes me happy. Thank you, dear." She deposited them casually into a square, squat vase of thick green glass that showed off the crisscrossed stems. "Daisies arrange themselves. One should never fuss with them."

Qwilleran noted a large pot of mums in the entrance hall. "Unusual color," he remarked.

"It's called vintage burgundy. Dr. Prelligate sent them. Wasn't that a thoughtful gesture?"

He huffed into his moustache. Previously, Polly had thought the man good-looking, charming, and intellectual; now he was thoughtful as well. Obviously he was trying to keep Polly from moving out of her on-campus apartment-all the more reason why she should relocate in Indian Village.

They walked down the street slowly, hand-in-hand. She said, "You know the neighbors will be watching and circulating rumors. In Pickax hand-holding in public is tantamount to announcing one's engagement."

"Good!" Qwilleran said. "That'll give them something else to think about besides the hotel bombing." He did most of the talking as she concentrated on her breathing and posture. He described his interview with Aubrey and the mysteries of honey production. "The poet hit the nail on the head when he wrote about the murmuring of innumerable bees."

"That was Tennyson," Polly said. "Perfect example of onomatopoeia."

"I won a fourth-grade spelling bee with that word once," he said. "They gave me a dictionary as a prize. I would have preferred a book about baseball."

"How are Koko and Yum Yum?"

"They're fine. I'm reading Greek drama to them - Aristophanes right now. They like The Birds... For sport Koko and I play Blink. We stare at each other, and the first one to blink pays a forfeit. He always wins, and I give him a toothful of cheese."

"Bootsie won't look me in the eye," Polly said. "He's very loving, but eye contact disturbs him."

The excursion was more therapeutic than social, and Polly was glad to return to her chair in the Victorian parlor. Lynette was busy in the kitchen, preparing a spaghetti dinner for the new assistant pastor of their church. Qwilleran was invited to make a fourth, but he was meeting Dwight Somers at Tipsy's Tavern.

Meanwhile, he went home and read some more Aristophanes to the Siamese. "Do you realize," he said to them, "that you're two of the few cats in the Western world who are getting a classical education?" They liked the part about Cloud-Cuckoo-Land, where the birds built a city in the sky. He embellished the text with birdcalls as he read about thirty thousand whooping cranes flying from Africa with the stones; curlews shaping the stones with their beaks; mud-larks mixing the mortar; ducks with feet like little trowels doing the masonry; and woodpeckers doing the carpentry. Yum Yum purred, and Koko became quite excited.

Tipsy's Tavern in North Kennebeck was a roadhouse in a sprawling log cabin-with rustic furnishings, bustling middle-aged waitresses, noisy customers, and a reputation for good steaks. Dwight ordered a glass of red wine, while Qwilleran had his usual Squunk water from a local mineral spring.

"Do you really like that stuff!' Dwight asked. "I've never tasted it."

"It's an acquired taste." Qwilleran raised his glass to the light, then sniffed it. "The color should be crystal clear; the bouquet, a delicate suggestion of fresh earth." He sipped it. "The taste: a harmonious blend of shale and clay with overtones of quartz and an aftertaste of... mud."

"You're losing it!" his dinner companion said.

Chiefly they talked about the plans for the Explo. The bombing had hurt morale downtown, but Dwight had jacked up the hype, and merchants were rallying around. That was the commercial aspect of Explo. There was more. He said:

"The K Fund, frankly, is afraid of being perceived as a year-round Santa Claus. That's why they're encouraging community fund-raising for charity. They're matching, dollar for dollar, all the money raised by the celebrity auction, bike-a-thon, pasty bake-off, etc. All proceeds will go to feed the needy this winter. There'll be more hardship than usual because of the financial scandal in Sawdust City."

"Who are the celebrities to be auctioned?" Qwilleran asked.

"The idea is to have five bachelors and five single women. In some cases, the dinner-date package will include a gift. Everything is being donated by restaurants, merchants, and other business firms. The public will pay an admission fee - high enough to discourage idle sightseers - and that'll add a couple of thousand to the take."

"Who's the auctioneer?"

"Foxy Fred. Who else? He's donating his services, and you know how good he is! People will have lots of fun... Here's a list of the packages being offered." He handed Qwilleran a printout.

1 - Dinner and dancing at the Purple Point Boat Club with Gregory Blythe, investment counselor and mayor of Pickax.

2 - Transportation by limousine to Lockmaster for a gourmet dinner at the five-star Palomino Paddock with interior designer Fran Brodie.

3 - Portrait-sitting at John Bushland's photo studio and a picnic supper on his cabin cruiser, catered by the Nasty Pasty.

4 - A cocktail dress from Aurora's Boutique and dinner at the Northern Lights Hotel with Wetherby Goode, WPKX meteorologist.

5 - A boat ride around the off-shore islands and dinner at the exclusive Grand Island Club with Elizabeth Hart, newcomer from Chicago.

6 - An afternoon of horseback riding on private bridle paths and dinner at Tipsy's with Dr. Diane Lanspeak, M.D.

7 - A motorbike tour of the county and a cook-out at the State Park with Derek Cuttlebrink, former chef at the Old Stone Mill.

8 - A poolside afternoon at the Country Club and dinner in the club gazebo with Hixie Rice, vice president of the Moose County Something.

9 - An all-you-can-eat feast and acoustic rock concert at the Hot Spot with Jennifer Olsen, the theatre club's youngest leading lady.

Qwilleran read the list, nodding at the choices and chuckling a couple of times.

Dwight asked, "How does it strike you? Have we covered the bases? We included Derek and Jennifer to get the young crowd. Derek's groupies will attend en masse, screaming."

"He's not a former chef at the Old Stone Mill," Qwilleran said. "He's a former busboy, who spent two months in the kitchen mixing coleslaw. Girls like him because he's six-feet-eight-and an actor."

Dwight was making notes. "Got it! Any other comments?"

"Everything else looks good. It's well known that Elizabeth Hart has a trust fund worth millions; that'll up the bidding... Greg Blythe will go over big. Bidders will expect to get some hot investment tips as well as the Boat Club's famous Cajun Supreme, which is really carp."

"How does Dr. Diane's package hit you, Qwill?"

"She's a personable and intelligent young woman, and everyone likes Tipsy's steaks, but not everyone cares for riding. Are substitutions allowed?"

"You mean, like a complete set of blood tests and an EKG? I doubt it. But we're advertising the auction in Lockmaster, and their horsy crowd will be up here, bidding."

Then Qwilleran said, "Wait a minute! You have only nine packages on this list."

"Precisely why I'm buying your dinner tonight," Dwight said slyly. "Check this out for number ten: A complete makeup and hair styling at Brenda's Salon, prior to dinner at the Old Stone Mill with popular newspaper columnist, Qwill Qwilleran."

The popular columnist hemmed and hawed.

"You're an icon in these parts, Qwill - what with your talent, money, and moustache. Women will bid high to get you! Bidders would fight even to eat tuna casserole at the bombed-out hotel with the richest bachelor in northeast central United States. Fran Brodie will attract high-rollers, too. She's a professional charmer; the Paddock is self-consciously expensive; and the limousine will be driven by the president of the department store in a chauffeur's cap."

Qwilleran nodded with amusement. "That's Larry's favorite shtick. Where are you getting the limousine?"

"From the Dingleberry Brothers, provided they don't have an out-of-town funeral."

When the steaks arrived, Qwilleran had time to consider. Actually the adventure would be material for the "Qwill Pen." The twice-a-week stint was ceaselessly demanding, and readers were clamoring for three a week. Down Below, in a city of millions, it would be easy, but Moose County was a very small beat. Finally he said, "I hope we don't have to stand up in front of the audience like suspects in a police lineup."

"Nothing like that," Dwight assured him. "We've booked the high school auditorium, and there's a Green Room where the celebrities can sit and hear the proceedings on the PA. Onstage there'll be an enlarged photo of each celebrity, courtesy of Bushy. After each package is knocked down, the winner and celebrity will meet onstage and shake hands - amid applause, cheers, and screams, probably."

"I'm glad you explained all this, Dwight. It gives me time to disappear in the Peruvian mountains before auction night." He was merely goading his friend. Finally he said, "Let me congratulate you, Dwight, on your handling of Explo - and not just because you're buying my steak."

"Well, thanks, Qwill. It was a big job. Only one thing worries me. The timing of the explosion at the hotel could not have been worse; it gives 'Explo' a bad connotation. I can't help wondering if there's an element in the county that opposes our celebration of food. Nowadays we have anti-everything factions, but can you imagine anyone being anti-food?"

"The cranks are always with us," Qwilleran said, "hiding behind trees, peeking around corners, going about in disguise, and plotting their selfish little schemes."

When Qwilleran arrived home, it was dark, and the headlights of his car picked up a frantic cat in the kitchen window - leaping about wildly, clawing at the sash - his howls unheard through the glass. Qwilleran jumped from his car, rushed to the back door, and fumbled anxiously with the lock. In the kitchen, a single flick of the switch illuminated the main floor, and Koko flew to the lounge area. Qwilleran followed. There, on the carpet, Yum Yum appeared to be in convulsions, lashing out with all four legs, trying to turn herself inside out. Her tiny head was caught in one of the holes of the cheese basket. The more she fought the wicker noose, the greater her panic.

Qwilleran was in near-panic himself. He shouted her name and tried to grab her, but she was a slippery handful. Going down on his knees, he seized the basket with one hand and held it steady, at the risk of hurting her. With the other hand he captured her squirming flanks and squeezed her body between his knees. How could he withdraw her head without tearing her silky ears? It was impossible. Incredibly, she realized he was trying to help, and her body went limp. Murmuring words of assurance, he broke the strands of dry wicker with his free hand, one after the other, until her head could be freed from the trap.

She gulped a few times as he clutched her to his chest, massaged her ears, and called her his little sweetheart. "You gave us a scare," he said. After a few moments, Yum Yum wriggled out of his arms, licked a patch of fur on her breast, gave one tremendous shudder, and went to the kitchen for a drink of water.