Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Tailed A Thief

Wetherby Goode played "Auld Lang Syne" as the new year was ushered in by Amanda Goodwinter. And Qwilleran, with the instincts of a veteran reporter, went around asking for prognostications for the coming twelve months.

"We'll see a sudden end to thievery at the local level," Riker predicted.

"Our First Annual Ice Festival will be a whopping success!" Hixie declared.

"Carter Lee's plans for Pleasant Street will be a national sensation," Willard said.

As the guests started bundling into their storm wear and trooping out into the snow, firecrackers and gunshots could be heard in the distance. Everyone was happy, except Carter Lee James. He discovered his lambskin car coat had been taken from the coatroom.

The New Year's eve incident was reported to the police, and the residents of Indian Village were in a furor. They were embarrassed that it had happened to a visitor from Down Below - and worried that me might decide not to return - and indignant that two such incidents had occurred in their squeaky-clean neighborhood. Qwilleran tried to discuss the matter with Brodie but was brushed off - a sure indication that the police were on the trail of a suspect.

Qwilleran had his own suspicions. George Breze had recently moved into the Village. With his red cap, overalls, and noisy pickup truck, he was an incongruous figure in the white-collar community. On Sandpit Road outside Pickax he had an empire of marginal commercial ventures behind a chain-link fence. It was under seven feet of snow in winter, and only the "office" was accessible - a shack with a pot-bellied stove. Yet in both winter and summer it was a hangout for kids. When the police dropped in from time to time, the kids were always reading comic books and playing checkers, and Red Cap was busy at his desk. On the same property was a large Federal-style house where Breze had lived with his wife until recently, when she went off with a hoe-down fiddle-player from Squunk Corners. That was when he moved to Indian Village.

Qwilleran had a strong desire to investigate this lead, considering Red Cap a latter-day Fagin, but he had to postpone extracurricular activity and work on the "Qwill Pen." Finding subject matter in winter was a greater problem than in summer, and this year he had encountered a few dead ends. The dowsing story was on hold until spring thaw; a piece on mushroom-growing had hit a credibility snag; it was too soon to write about the Ice Festival; Carter Lee was not ready.

In a quandary, Qwilleran paced back and forth across a floor that bounced more than usual. Suddenly there was a crash near the front door, and two cats fled from the foyer, either frightened or guilty. He had hung his snowshoes on the foyer wall, with their tails crossed, and the Siamese had ventured to investigate something new.

First, he phoned Polly at the library, asking if there might be a book on the fine points of showshoeing and, if so, would she bring it home? Meanwhile he gave the sport a try. He was clumsy. He tripped. His right shoe stepped on his left shoe. After he got the hang of it, he enjoyed tramping through the silent woods, although certain thigh muscles protested.

When he wrote his column on the joys of snowshoeing, it began: "Did you ever try walking through snow with your feet strapped to a couple of tennis rackets?"

Qwilleran was one of those invited to join the Nouvelle Dining Club. The prospectus - signed by Mildred Riker, Hixie Rice, and Willard Carmichael - stated; "We are committed to quality rather than quantity, pleasing the palate with the natural flavors of fresh ingredients seasoned with herbs, spices, and the essence of fruits and vegetables."

For each monthly dinner, a committee would plan the menu, assign cooking responsibilities, and provide the recipes. One member would host the event and serve the entr‚e. Others would bring the appetizers, soup, salad, and dessert courses. Expenses would be prorated.

Qwilleran signed up, volunteering for the wine detail, and he and Polly attended the first dinner one evening in January. It was held at the Lanspeaks' picturesque farmhouse in West Middle Hummock. Twelve members assembled in the country-style living room and talked about food as they sipped aperitifs.

Mildred entertained listeners with an account of her first cooking experience at the age of eleven. "I was visiting my aunt and was watching her make BLT sandwiches for lunch. Just as she started the bacon, the phone rang and she left the room, saying, `Watch the bacon,

Millie.' I did what she told me; I watched the strips turn brown and shrink and curl up. She kept yakking on the phone, and I kept watching the frying pan, and the bacon kept getting smaller and blacker. Just as I was opening a window to let out the smoke, my aunt came running. `I told you to watch the bacon!' she screamed."

Everyone laughed, except Danielle Carmichael, who looked puzzled. Foodwise she was at age eleven, according to her husband. Since he and Carter Lee had left for Detroit, she had driven to the dinner with Fran Brodie. Hixie Rice and Dwight Somers had carpooled with the Rikers. The Wilmots lived nearby.

For the sit-down courses, three tables-for-four were set up in the family room. There were place cards, and

Qwilleran found himself seated with Mildred, Hixie, and Pender Wilmot. He noted that Riker and Dwight were the lucky ones, seated with Danielle. At each place there was a printed menu:

Smoked whitefish on triangles of spoon bread with mustard broccoli coulis Black bean soup with conchiglie (pasta shells) Roast tenderloin of lamb in a crust of Pine nuts, mushrooms, and cardamom Pur‚e of Hubbard squash and leeks Pear chutney Crusty rolls Spinach and redleaf lettuce with ginger Vinaigrette and garnished with goat cheese Baked apples with peppercorn sauce

Mildred said, "The menu is built around local products: lamb, whitefish, beans, squash, goat cheese, pears, and apples. It's such a pity that Wilfred couldn't be here. I wonder what he's having for dinner tonight."

"If he's in Detroit," Qwilleran said, "he'll be headed for Greektown."

Hixie asked, "Do you think Carter Lee will ever come back?"

"I hope so," Mildred said. "He's such a gentleman, and that's unusual in one of his generation."

"He has a personality-plus, and he's not married."

"If you're staking out a claim, Hixie, I think you'll have to stand in line."

"Seriously," said Pender, `I see him as a visionary. I hope his plans for Pleasant Street come to fruition. It would be a stimulating triumph for the whole city."

Qwilleran said, "He's like some actors I've known,: laid back but fired with an inner energy that produces a great performance. I'm looking forward to interviewing him when he returns."

Pender asked about the status of the late Iris Cobb's cookbook. The long-lost recipe book was being edited for publication by Mildred. She said, I'm running into a problem. Only about two dozen recipes are original with her; the rest are photocopied from cookbooks by Julia Child, James Beard, and others."

Pender said, "You'll have to get permission to reprint, or risk being sued for plagiarism."

Hixie had an idea. Hixie always had an idea. "Make it a coffee-table book with large color photos on slick paper - large format, large print, and only her own creations. If it's going to be a memorial to Iris, make it spectacular."

Mildred said she would be happy to prepare the dishes. "Do you think John Bushland could shoot them?"

"It would be better to hire a specialist. I used to work with food accounts Down Below, and we'd fly in a photographer and food stylist from Boston or San Francisco. They'd use real food, but they'd glue it, oil it, paint it, sculpture it, spray it, pin it, sew it... "

"Stop!" Qwilleran said. "You're ruining my appetite!" He uncorked the wine and poured with an expert twist of the wrist when the lamb was served.