Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 18 Who Said Cheese

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?"

"All animals, I adore!" Her face again glowed with happiness.

She could be in her thirties, he guessed as he went to the car. She could be from the Middle East. She may have lived in France. Her black pantsuit, far from being mourning garb, had a Parisian smartness.

He served the cider and asked casually, "Are you vacationing up here?"

"Yes, but no," she replied cryptically. "I look for place to live. I like to cook in restaurant."

"Where are you staying?"

"Hotel in Pickax."

"Have you been there long?"

"Two weeks. People very nice. Desk clerk give me big room in front. Very good, I talk to chef. I tell him how to cook vegetables, He try, but...not good."

"Yes, we do have friendly people here. How did you happen to find Moose County? It's off the beaten path, and few people know it exists."

Shyly she explained, "My honeymoon I spend here - long time ago. Was nice."

"Honeymoons are always nice," Qwilleran said. "So your husband is no longer with you?" He considered that a good way of putting a prying question.

She shook her head, and her face clouded, but it soon brightened. The Siamese, who had been rolling and squirming on the concrete of the back porch, now arrived to inspect the stranger and leave their seal of approval on her ankles. "Be-yoo-ti-ful!" she said.

"They're especially fond of people who read cookbooks."

"Ah! Cooking I learn very young, but something more is always to learn."

"What do you think of the food in our local restaurants?"

She looked at him askance, from behind her curtain of hair. "Is not too good."

"I agree with you, but we're trying to improve the situation."

Brightening, she said, "Mediterranean restaurant - very good here, I think."

"You mean, stuffed grape leaves and tabouleh and all that? When I lived Down Below I haunted Middle Eastern restaurants. We used to ask for meatballs in little green kimonos."

"Very good," she said. "I make meatballs in little green kimonos." She waved a hand toward a tangle of foliage on the dune. "Wild grapevines you have in woods. Very good fresh. In jars, not so good." She paused uncertainly. "You have kitchen? I stuff some for you."