The Cat Who Said Cheese

8

On Sunday morning the church bells rang on Park Circle - the sonorous chimes of the Old Stone Church and the metallic echo of the Little Stone Church.

Earlier in the morning, Qwilleran had received a phone call from Carol Lanspeak, who lived in fashionable West Middle Hummock. She and Larry drove into town every Sunday with garden flowers for the larger, older, grander of the two places of worship. This time they were bringing a new couple to church, recently arrived from Down Below: J. Willard Carmichael and his wife, Danielle.

"He's the new president of Pickax People's Bank, a distinguished-looking man and a real live wire," Carol said. "His wife is much younger and a trifle - well - flashy.. But she's nice. It's a second marriage for him. I think you'd like to meet Willard, Qwill, and they're both dying to see your barn."

Qwilleran listened patiently, waiting for her to come to the point.

"Would you mind if we stopped at the barn after the service - for just a few minutes?"

Qwilleran could never say no to the Lanspeaks. They were a likable pair - not only owners of the department store but enthusiastic supporters of every civic endeavor. "I'll have coffee waiting for you," he said.

"Then we'll skip the coffee hour at the church and see you about twelve-fifteen. Your coffee is better, anyway. Strong, but better."

It was to her credit that she liked his coffee. Some of his best friends made uncomplimentary remarks about its potency. It was, as Carol said, strong!

To the Siamese, Qwilleran said, "I want you guys to be on your best behavior. Some city dudes are coming to visit. Try not to act like country bumpkins. No picking of pockets! No untying of shoelaces! No cat fights!" Both of them listened soberly, Koko looking elegantly aristocratic and Yum Yum looking sweetly incapable of crime.

When the Lanspeaks' car eventually pulled into the parking area, Qwilleran pressed the button on the automated coffee maker and gave the visitors a few minutes to admire the barn's exterior before going out to greet them. They were introduced as Willard and Danielle from Detroit.

"Grosse Point, really," she said. They had an urban veneer, Qwilleran noticed. It was evident in the suavity of their manner, the sophistication of their dress and grooming, and the glib edge to their speech. He invited them indoors.

Carol said, "We've brought you some flowers from our garden.... Larry, would you bring them from the trunk?"

It was a pot of mums, blooming profusely.

"Thank you," Qwilleran said. "Unusual color."

"Vintage burgundy," Larry said.

Indoors there were the usual gasps and exclamations as the newcomers viewed the balconies, ramps, lofty rafters, and giant white fireplace cube. The Siamese were sitting on top of it, looking down on the visitors with bemused whiskers.

"Handsome creatures," said Willard. "When we're settled, I'd like to get a couple of Siamese. Is there a local source?"

"There's a breeder in Lockmaster," Qwilleran said with a lack of endorsement, referring to the friend of Polly's who had introduced the belligerent Bootsie into his peaceful life.

Danielle, who had been silently staring at the famous moustache, spoke up, "I'd rather have a kinkajou. They have sexy eyes and yummy fur." Her rather tinny voice reminded Qwilleran of the sound track of early talkies. The other members of the party looked at her wordlessly.

"Shall we have coffee in the lounge?" he suggested. As he served, he was thinking that Danielle was hardly Moose County's idea of a banker's wife - or even a Sunday churchgoer; her dress was too short, her heels too high. Everything about her was studiously seductive: her style, her glances, her semidrawl, her flirtatious earrings. Dangling discs twisted and flashed when she moved.

"And what brings you people to the north woods?" he asked.

The husband, who seemed to be in mid-life, said, "I've reached the stage of maturity where one appreciates the values of country living. Danielle is still looking back, like Lot's wife, but she'll adapt... Won't you, sweetheart?"

Sweetheart was pointedly silent, and Qwilleran filled the void by asking her for her first impression of Pickax.

"Well, it's different!" she said. "All those farmers! All those pickup trucks! And no malls! Where do people go to shop?"

He glanced at the Lanspeaks, who wore sickly smiles. "We have an excellent department store downtown," he said, "and quite an assortment of specialty shops. We're old-fashioned. We like the idea of shopping downtown."

The banker said, "I'm surprised that mall developers Down Below haven't latched on to this county. There's a lot of undeveloped land between here and the lakeshore."

Qwilleran thought, This guy's dangerous. He said, "That land was owned by the wealthy Klingenschoen family and is now held in trust by the Klingenschoen Foundation-with a mandate to preserve its natural state in perpetuity."

"I don't care. I like malls," Danielle announced. "I lived in Baltimore before I married Willard."

"Ah! Home of the Orioles! Are you a baseball fan?"

"No. Football is more exciting."

Carol said, "Danielle has stage experience, and we're hoping to get her into the theatre club."

Sure, Qwilleran thought; she could play Lola in Damn Yankees. "Where are you living?"

"In Indian Village until our house is ready. We bought the Fitch house in West Middle Hummock - the modem one. I really love the neat modem stuff in this barn. It's exciting."

"Thank you, but all the credit goes to Fran Brodie, a designer at Amanda's studio on Main Street."

"I'll have to go and see her. Our house needs a lot of doing-over. Nobody lived there for three years. It's funny, but it was built for another banker-but he died."

Qwilleran thought, For your information, sweetheart, he was murdered.

The sharp edge of her voice was disturbing the Siamese on the fireplace cube; they were getting restless. Carol too may have reacted to the tension in the air and Danielle's sultry glances beamed in Qwilleran's direction. She said, "Qwill,

I've been meaning to ask you: How's Polly?" She turned to the Carmichaels. "Polly Duncan is a very charming woman whom you'll meet eventually - head of the Pickax Public Library. Right now she's recovering from surgery.... How soon will she be back in circulation, Qwill?"

"Very soon. I'm taking her for a walk every day."

"Take her to the Scottish Bakery for afternoon tea.

She'll love the scones and cucumber sandwiches."

There was increased activity on top of the fireplace cube. Koko stood up and stretched in a tall hairpin curve, then swooped down onto the Moroccan rug that defined the lounge area. Yum Yum followed, and while she checked the banker's feet for shoelaces, Koko walked slowly toward Danielle with subtle intent. She was sitting with her attractive knees crossed, and Koko started sniffing her high-heeled pumps as if she had a nasty foot disease or had stepped in something unpleasant. He wrinkled his nose and bared his fangs.

"Excuse me a moment," Qwilleran said, and grabbed both cats, banishing them to the broom closet, the only suitable detention center on the main floor.

When he returned to the group, Larry said, "We have something we'd like to discuss with you, Qwill. The recent financial disaster in Sawdust City is going to leave hundreds of families and retirees with no hope of a Christmas, and the Country Club is undertaking to buy food, toys, and clothing for them. We're planning a benefit cheese-tasting; you've probably heard about it. Sip'n'Nibble will supply the cheese and punch at cost, and Jerry and Jack will sort of cater the affair."

A yowl came from the broom closet as Koko heard a familiar word.

"We were wondering how much to charge for tickets, when our new financial wizard came up with an idea. You explain it, Willard."

"It doesn't take a wizard to figure it out," the banker said. "The lower the ticket price, the more tickets you sell - and the more cheese the purchasers consume. You're better off to charge a higher price and attract fewer people. Your revenue remains the same, but your costs are lower. After all, you're doing this to raise money for charity - not to serve a lot of cheese."

Another round of yowls came from the broom closet. Larry said, "We were planning to hold the event at the community hall until my dear wife came up with another idea. Tell him, Carol."

"Okay, it's like this. We could charge even more for tickets if we had the cheese-tasting in a really glamorous place. There are people in Moose County who'd give an arm and a leg to see this barn - especially in the evening when the lights are on. It's enchanting."

"You could ask one hundred dollars a ticket," the banker suggested.

It crossed Qwilleran's mind that the K Fund could write a check to finance all the Christmas charities, but it was healthier for the community to be involved. He said, "Why not charge two hundred dollars and limit the number of guests? The higher the price and the smaller the guest list, the more exclusive the event becomes." And, he mused, the less wear and tear on the white rugs.

"In that case," said Willard, "why not make it black tie and increase the price to three hundred?"

"And in that case," Larry said, "we would have two punch bowls, one of them spiked."

There were sounds of thumping and banging in the broom closet and an attention-getting crash.

"We'd better say goodbye," Carol said, "so the delinquents can get out of jail."

Qwilleran was heartily thanked for his hospitality and his generosity in offering the use of the barn. "My pleasure," he mumbled.

Larry pulled him aside as they walked to the parking area and said, "The Chamber of Commerce has formed an ad hoc committee to inquire into the future of the hotel. We can't afford to have a major downtown building looking like a slum. Not only that, but the city needs decent lodging. The owner is in the hospital, possibly on his death bed. His management firm in Lockmaster is suspect - as to capability and, let's face it, honesty. The committee will go to Chicago to petition the K Fund to buy the hotel, either from the owner or from his estate. I hope you approve."

"Excellent idea!" Qwilleran said. "But when it comes to renovating the interior, we don't want any Chicago decorators coming up here and telling us what to do."

All his guests had parting words. Carol whispered, "Koko's shoe-sniffing act was a riot!"... The banker said, "Let's have lunch, Qwill."... The banker's wife said, "I love your moustache!"

They drove away, and Qwilleran released two poised animals from a closet cluttered with plastic bottles, brushes, and other cleaning equipment knocked off hooks and shelves. Cats, he reflected, had a simple and efficient way of communicating; they were the inventors of civil disobedience. As for Koko's impudent charade with Danielle's shoe, it might be one of his practical jokes, or it might be a sign of a personality clash.

As Qwilleran drove to the goat farm later that afternoon, he remembered only its shabbiness. Now it was registered as a historic place.

The Victorian frame building was freshly painted in two tones of mustard, set off by a neat lawn and a split rail fence. A bronze plaque gave the history of the farm built by Captain Fugtree, a Civil War hero. New barns had been added, goats browsed in the pastures, and a new pickup truck stood in the side drive.

The former hotel clerk and museum manager came out to greet him, looking like a man of the soil. "Kristi will be sorry to miss you. She's in Kansas, showing one of her prize does."

Qwilleran complimented him on the condition of the farm and asked about some shaggy dogs in the pasture with the goats.

"A Hungarian breed of guardian dog," Mitch said. "Do you notice a difference in the new herd? We're specializing in breeds that give the best milk for making the best cheese - two hundred of them now."

"Does Kristi still give them individual names?"

"Absolutely-names like Blackberry, Moonlight, Ruby, and so on, and they answer to their names. Goats are intelligent - also very social."

They were walking toward a large, sprawling barn- new, but with a weathered rusticity that suited the landscape. One side was open like a pavilion, its floor spongy with a thick covering of straw. Several does of various breeds and colors were lounging, mingling sociably, and amusing themselves as if it were a vacation spa. Hens strutted and pecked around a patient Great Dane, and a calico cat napped on a ledge. Qwilleran took some pictures. Two members of the sisterhood nuzzled his hand and leaned against his legs; a half-grown kid tried to nibble his notebook. This was the holding pen; from here the does would go into the milking parlor, fourteen at a time.

The rest of the barn had white walls, concrete floors hosed down twice a day, stainless-steel vats and tanks, and computerized thermometers. Here the milk was cooled, then pasteurized, then inoculated with culture and enzymes; later the curds would be hand-dipped into molds. This was the French farmstead tradition of cheese-making, using milk produced on the site.

"Sounds like a lot of work," Qwilleran observed. "It's labor-intensive, that's for sure," Mitch said. "I mean, feeding and breeding the goats, milking two hundred twice a day, plus making the cheese. But there's a lot of joy in goat-farming, and I'll tell you one thing: The does are easier to get along with than some of the volunteers at the museum. The old-timers resented a young guy with new ideas... Want to go to the house and taste some cheese?"

They sat in the kitchen and sampled the farm's chevre - a white, semisoft, unripened cheese. Mitch said, "It's great for cooking, too. I make a sauce for fettucine that beats Alfredo's by a mile!"

"You sound like an experienced cook," Qwilleran said. "You could say so. It's always been my hobby. I was collecting cookbooks before I owned my first saucepan. I do more cooking than Kristi does."

"Does she still have ghostly visitors during thunderstorms?"

"No, the house isn't so spooky now that the clutter's gone and the walls are painted. We're thinking of getting married, Qwill."

"Good for you!" That was Qwilleran's ambiguous response to all such announcements. "By the way, do you remember the furor over the disappearance of Iris Cobb's cookbook?"

"I sure do. I thought it was quietly lifted by one of the volunteers, and I had an idea who she was, but it would have been embarrassing to accuse her, and I didn't have proof."

Qwilleran went home with a variety of cheeses: dill, garlic, peppercorn, herb, and feta. On the way back to the barn he pondered the fate of the Cobb recipe book. If it could be recovered, he would have the K Fund publish it for sale, the proceeds going to an Iris Cobb memorial. He could envision a chef's school in conjunction with the college, drawing students from all parts of the country and sending graduates to five-star restaurants. What a tribute it would be to that modest and deserving woman! The Iris Cobb Culinary Institute!

It was pie in the sky, of course. Whoever swiped it probably destroyed it after cannibalizing the best recipes. Everyone thought the culprit was a museum volunteer; no one ever suggested that the culprit may have been the museum manager.