Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 18 Who Said Cheese

"A designer pasty! Great-tasting! Very unique! Choice of four crusts: plain, cheese, herb, or cornmeal. Choice of four fillings: ground beef, ham, turkey, or sausage meat. Choice of four veggies: green pepper, broccoli, mushroom, or carrot - besides the traditional potato and onion, of course. Plus your choice of tomato, olive, or hot chili garnish - or all three - at no extra charge."

"It boggles the mind," Qwilleran said with a straight face. "I'll be back when you're open for business. Good luck!"

From there he hurried through the rain to Lori Bamba's brainchild: The Spoonery. It was not yet open for business, but the energetic entrepreneur was lettering signs and hanging posters. He asked her, "Are you serious about serving only spoon-food?"

"Absolutely! I have dozens of recipes for wonderful soups: Mulligatawny, Scotch broth, Portuguese black bean, eggplant and garlic, and lots more. Soup doesn't have to be boring, although I'll have one boring soup each day for the fuddy-duddies."

"What does your family think about it?"

"Nick's very supportive, although he's working hard at the turkey farm. My kids are taste-testing the soups. My in-laws are helping set up the kitchen... How are Koko and Yum Yum? I haven't seen them since Breakfast Island.

"They're busy as usual, inventing new ways to complicate my life."

Lori said with her usual exuberance, "Do you know what I read in a magazine? Cats have twenty-four whiskers, which may account for their ESP."

"Does that include the eyebrows?"

"I don't know. They didn't specify."

"Are there twenty-four whiskers on each side, or is that the total?" he asked.

"I don't know. You journalists are such fuss pots!"

"Well, I'll go home and count," Qwilleran said. "And good luck, Lori! I'll drop in for lunch someday."

It was still raining. He went home to give the Siamese the ham he had begged from Lois, and he found Koko doing his grasshopper act. The cat jumped in exaggerated arcs from floor to desktop to chair to bookshelf. It meant that there was a message on the answering machine. The faster he jumped, it appeared, the more urgent the call. How did the cat know the content of the message? Perhaps Lori was right, Qwilleran thought; cats have ESP whiskers.

The message was from Sarah, the office manager, who had never phoned him at the barn before. "Sorry to bother you at home," said the deferential voice, "but an express letter came for you. I thought I should let you know."

He got her on the phone immediately. "Sarah, this is Qwill. About the express letter, what's the return address?"

"It's just hotel stationery. No one's name. It's from Salt Lake City."

"I'll pick it up right away. Thanks." Qwilleran felt a tingling on his upper lip; he had a hunch who was writing to him. He drove to the newspaper via the back road, to make better time.

Sarah handed him the letter. "Shall I slit the envelope for you?" she offered.

"Not this time, thanks." He carried it to an empty desk in the cityroom and tore it open, looking first at the signature: Onoosh Dolmathakia. The handwriting was hard to decipher, and she spoke English better than she wrote it. She had trouble with verbs, and she was nervous, frightened. The brief note dripped with emotion:

Dear Mr. Qwill

I sorry I leave and not say thank you - I hear it on radio about hotel bomb - I panick he is threttan me many time - he want to kill me - I think it good I go away - long way away - so he not find me

- how he find me in Pickacks is not to

- know - now I afraid again - I not feel safe if he alive - always I run away where he not find me - I leave this hotel now - I sign my right name -

Onoosh Dolmathakia

When Qwilleran finished reading the letter for the second time, he felt his neck flush and beads of perspiration drench his forehead - not at the thought of Onoosh being terrorized by a stalker, but at the realization that Koko had been feeding him this information ever since the bombing, and even before. Koko had been stalking Yum Yum boldly and repeatedly, in a way that looked like a purposeful campaign.

Qwilleran telephoned the police station. "Stay there!" he barked at Brodie. "I have some curious information." A few minutes later, he walked into the chief's office.

"What've you got?" Brodie demanded gruffly.

"A letter from Onoosh Dolmathakia, a.k.a. Ona Dolman. Don't ask any questions till you read it. She addressed it to me at the paper."

Brodie grunted several times as he read it, then threw it down on the desk. "Why the hell didn't she tell us his name - and how to find him? Stupid!"

"Not stupid," Qwilleran protested. "She's in panic. She's not thinking straight."

"We can assume he lives Down Below. That means he transported explosives across a state line - a federal offense. The FBI will get into the act now. My God! Did the guy fly up here on the shuttle with a homemade bomb on his lap - in fancy wrappings? Crazy woman! Why didn't she give us more information? She's left Salt Lake City by now."