Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 18 Who Said Cheese

Next he picked up his fan mail from the office manager, who delighted in handing it to him personally. He knew her only as Sarah, a small woman with steel-gray hair and thick glasses, who had never married. Junior called her "Qwill's number one fan." She memorized chunks of the "Qwill Pen" and quoted them in the office; she knew the names of his cats; she crocheted catnip toys for them. For his part, Qwilleran treated Sarah with exaggerated courtesy and suffered good-natured ribbing in the cityroom about his "office romance."

"Would you like me to slit the envelopes for you, Mr. Q? There are quite a few today." She kept a record of his columns according to topic, plus a tally of the letters generated by each one. She was able to say that cats and baseball were his most popular topics.

"Sarah," he said sternly, "if you don't stop calling me Mr. Q, you'll lose your job. It's a condition of employment here that you call me Qwill."

"I'll try," she said with a happy smile.

"And yes, I'd appreciate it if you'd slit the envelopes."

Next, Hixie Rice beckoned to him from the promotion department. "Sit down," she said. "We have a problem to discuss. Did you see the teasers on the Food Forum in last week's editions? We haven't been getting any results - not one!"

"I remember seeing them," he said. "Show me a copy to refresh my memory." The announcement, which looked more like an ad than a news item, read:

ATTENTION! FOODlES!

Do you have questions about food, cooking, or nutrition?

Are you hunting for a particular recipe?

Would you like to share one of your own? Do you have any pet peeves about food, or food stores, or restaurants?

THE FOOD FORUM IS FOR YOU!

Send us your queries, quips, beefs, and suggestions.

We want to hear from you.

They'll be printed in the

Food Forum on the food page every Thursday.

Hixie said, "Is there something wrong with our readers? Or is there something wrong with us?"

Qwilleran considered the questions briefly. "Well, first of all, our readers may not know what a foodie is. Second, they may not want to be called foodies. Third, you don't state whether their names will be used. Mostly, I would say, they don't quite get the idea, or they're waiting for someone else to start it. This is not Down Below; this is four hundred miles north of everywhere."

"What are you saying, Qwill? That we should run a dummy column on the first food page?"

"Something like that - to prime the pump... Why are you looking at me like that, Hixie? I see a sudden happy expression of premeditated buck-passing."

"Would you do it, Qwill? Would you write some fake letters with fake signatures? You'd be good at it."

"Are you implying that fakery is my forte? I've always left that to the advertising profession."

"Ouch! I don't care. Hit me again. Just do this one favor for me, and I'll be forever grateful. The Food Forum was my idea, and I'd hate to have a complete flop."

At that point Wilfred interrupted; the boss had returned.

"Okay, Hixie, I'll see what I can do," Qwilleran said. "And don't let anyone on the staff know," she cautioned him.

"No problem. I'll hand in my copy disguised as a box of chocolates."

He was still in a bantering mood when he went into the publisher's office. "Were you having another power lunch?" he asked. "Or was it a three-Scotch goof-off?"

Riker rebuked him with a frown. "I was having an important luncheon with the editor in chief of the Lockmaster Ledger."

"At the Palomino Paddock? Who paid?"

There was another scowl. "The Ledger is giving full coverage to the bombing, and we both think it's a two-county story. We're sharing sources. We also discussed the hostility and prejudice that exists between the two counties. We should be working for the same goals instead of sniping at each other at every opportunity."

"Let's not get too brotherly," Qwilleran said. "Sniping is the spice of life."

"Since you're feeling so good," Riker said, "how'd you like to take on an extra assignment - in a pinch?"

Qwilleran's flippancy switched to wariness. "Like what?"

"Wednesday night's the opening session of Mildred's series of cooking classes for men only, and the course is a sellout. We should have a reporter there."

"What's the matter with Roger? He's on nights this week." Roger MacGillivray was a general assignment reporter married to Sharon Hanstable, Mildred's daughter.

"Sharon is assistant demonstrator for the course, so Roger has to stay home and baby-sit Wednesday night," Riker explained. Then his usually bland expression changed to a roguish one. "However, Roger could cover the story, and you could baby-sit. Or Sharon could stay home with the kids, and you could help Mildred with the demonstration."

Gruffly Qwilleran said, "Tell Roger to stay home. What time does the class start? Where's it being held?"

"Seven-thirty at the high school, in the home ec department. Take a camera."

"What's the deadline?"

"Thursday noon, firm. Earlier if possible."

"What is Mildred going to teach these guys? How to make grilled cheese sandwiches?"