Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 18 Who Said Cheese

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.

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