Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Said Cheese

Meanwhile, Nick's wife, Lori, had submitted an idea to the K Fund which was accepted, and she would open a small restaurant in Stables Row. Details had not been announced.

Qwilleran admired the energy and ambition of the young couple, who were rearing a family of three as well as tackling new challenges. He questioned the wisdom, however, of hiring Aubrey Scotten as maintenance engineer of the Cold Turkey Farm. As soon as he returned to the bam, he called directory assistance for the number of the new enterprise and phoned the manager.

After a few pleasantries, Qwilleran said, "Nick, I just met a man who says he's been hired as your maintenance engineer."

"Aubrey Scotten? Yeah, aren't we lucky?"

"What do you mean?"

"He's a genius at repairing things - anything! Refrigeration, automated machinery, automotive equipment - anything! He has a God-given talent, that's all."

"Well!" Qwilleran said, "I'm surprised, to say the least."

"It's a long story. I'll tell you when I see you," Nick said. "And what do you think about Lori's venture?"

"I haven't heard any details."

"Call her! Call her at home. She'll be tickled to fill you in."

The golden-haired Lori Bamba had been Mooseville postmaster when Qwilleran first met her. Since then she had started a secretarial service and, later, a bed-and-breakfast inn on Breakfast Island, all the while parenting three children and five cats. Now she was opening a restaurant!

"How's it going?" he asked her on the phone.

"Super! We'll be ready to open next Friday."

"What's the name of your restaurant?"

"First, I have to ask you a question. What does spoon-feeding mean to you, Qwill ?"

"Being sick in bed when I was a kid."

"Well, smarty, the dictionary says it means pampering and coddling. My family loves any kind of food that can be eaten with a spoon, so I'm opening a high-class soup kitchen called the Spoonery."

"You mean you'll serve nothing but soup?"

"Soups and stews - whatever can be eaten with a spoon. Eat in or take out. How does it sound?"

"Daring! But if it's good enough for the K Fund, it's good enough for me."

"You 'II like it! I've got dozens of exciting recipes."

"Well, I wish you luck, and I'll be your first customer. Just don't serve turnip chowder or parsnip bisque!"

Koko was antsy that afternoon. First, he walked away from the feeding station when the midday treat was served; he drove Yum Yum crazy by pouncing on her and chasing her up to the rafters; he pushed several books off the library shelves. When he started rattling the handle of the broom closet, Qwilleran got the message. As soon as the door was opened, Koko bounded into the closet and sat on top of the cat-carrier.

"You rascal!" Qwilleran said. "You want to roll on the concrete!"

During the summer he had taken the Siamese to the cabin at the beach on several occasions, where their chief pleasure was rolling on the concrete floor of the screened porch. They writhed and squirmed and flipped from side to side in catly bliss that Qwilleran failed to understand. Yet, he indulged their whims. Soon they were driving to the log cabin he had inherited from the Klingenschoen estate.

It was a thirty-mile jaunt to the lake. In cat-miles it was probably perceived as a hundred and thirty, although the Siamese rode in privacy and cushioned comfort in a deluxe carrier on the backseat. Thoughtfully, Qwilleran used the Sandpit Road route to avoid heavy truck traffic; eighteen-wheelers disturbed Yum Yum's delicate digestive system. Both cats raised inquisitive noses when they passed the Cold Turkey Farm and again when they reached the lakeshore with its mingled aromas of fish, seagulls, and aquatic weeds.

At the sign of a letter K on a post, a relic of the Klingenschoen era, they turned into a narrow dirt lane that wound through several acres of woods, up and down ancient sand dunes, and between oaks and pines and wild cherry trees. That was when Koko became excited; bumping around in the confines of the carrier and rumbling internal noises that alarmed his partner.

Qwilleran recognized the performance; the cat was sensitive to abnormal situations; something unusual lay ahead. He himself noticed recent tire tracks and was annoyed when he found another car parked in the clearing adjoining the cabin. He imagined insolent trespassers, surf-fishing and building illegal fires on the beach and throwing beer cans in the beach grass. When he parked behind the unauthorized vehicle, however, he noted a local license plate and a rental car sticker in the back window of a dark blue two-door.

His reaction was a gradual buildup of dumb disbelief, then amazement, then challenge and triumph! What a coup! He was about to come face-to-face with that woman! And he had her trapped!

4

There was no doubt in Qwilleran's mind: the dark blue two-door with airport sticker in the window had been rented to the stranger who was mystifying Pickax. He had an exclusive news break! His colleagues would be green with envy.

The doors of the cabin were still locked; she would be walking on the beach, he assumed. The cabin perched on the crest of a high sand dune overlooking the lake, and he walked to the edge. At the foot of the weathered wooden steps leading down to the beach, he saw a large straw hat. Under it, with back turned to him, was a figure dressed in black, sitting in a folding aluminum chair - the kind perennially on sale at the hardware store.

He needed only a moment to decide on a course of action. He would avoid frightening her or embarrassing her; he had everything to gain by being pleasant - even hospitable. There were comfortable chairs on the porch; there were cold drinks in the car, as well as two goodwill ambassadors who had winning ways - when they felt like it.

As he started down the steps, his thudding footsteps were drowned out by the splashing waves below and the screaming seagulls above. Halfway down, he coughed loudly and called out in a comradely voice, "Hello, down there!"

The straw hat flew off, and a dark-haired woman turned to look up at him.

"Good afternoon! Beautiful day, isn't it?" he said in the mellifluous voice he used in crucial situations.

She jumped to her feet, clutching a book. "My apology! I not know someone live here."

English was not her native tongue; her accent had an otherwhereness that he considered charming. "That's all right. I live in Pickax and just stopped to check for storm damage. There was a severe wind storm a few days ago. What are you reading?" That was always a disarming question, he had learned.

"Cookbook." She held it up for proof. "I go away now." Flustered, she started to fold her chair.

"You don't need to rush off. Perhaps you'd enjoy a glass of cider on the porch. It has a magnificent view of the lake. By the way, I'm Jim Qwilleran of the Moose County Something."

"Ah!" she said joyfully, focusing on his moustache. "I see your picture in the paper... But you are too kind."

"Not at all. Let me carry your chair." He ran down the few remaining steps. "And what is your name?"

She hesitated... "Call me Onoosh."

"In that case, call me Qwill," he said jovially.

She smiled for the first time, and although she was not a beauty by Hollywood standards, her olive complexion glowed and her face was radiant. At the same time, a gust of wind blew her dark hair away from her left cheek, revealing a long scar in front of her ear. She stuffed books and other belongings into a tote bag, and Qwilleran reached for it.

"Allow me."

As they reached the top of the dune, she exclaimed about the log cabin and the stone chimney. "Beautiful! Is very old?" She pronounced it be-yoo-ti-ful.

"Probably seventy or eighty years old." He ushered her into the screened porch. "Have a chair and enjoy the view, and excuse me for a moment while I unload the car and bring in my two companions. Do you like cats?"