Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 18 Who Said Cheese

The Kitchen Boutique, with displays of salad-spinners, wine racks, espresso-makers, cookbooks, woks, exotic mustards, and chef's aprons.

Sip'n'Nibble, with assortments of wine and cheese hitherto unknown to many in Moose County.

The Spoonery, dedicated to fast-feeding with a spoon, either at a sit-down counter or a stand-up bar. Opening-day specials: sausage gumbo, butternut squash soup with garlic and cashews, borscht, and tomato-rice.

For the festivities, the entire block was closed to traffic, and as noon approached, it began to be crowded with downtown workers, shoppers, mothers with preschoolers in tow, and members of the Chamber of Commerce. Voices bounced between the stone facade of the old stables and the rear of the stone buildings facing Main Street. Not all was excitement and anticipation; there were cynical observations and dire predictions:

"They'll never make a go of it-not in this tank town! It's too fancy."

"I hear the prices are jacked up outasight."

"The mayor'll get his ugly mug in the paper again. Did you vote for him? I didn't."

"He's gonna be in that auction. I wouldn't let my wife bid a nickel to have dinner with that four-flusher!"

"Who needs a Pasty Parlor? What we need is a hot dog stand."

"Who's runnin' the soup kitchen? They must be nuts! Whadda they think this is - a hobo camp?"

"Why'd they string up all that ribbon? A coupla yards would be enough. They better not charge it to the taxpayers!"

If the sour comments were heard by Dwight Somers, they failed to dent his professional exuberance. He dashed around and talked on his cellular phone. "The school bus just arrived with the band. Alert the mayor to leave City Hall in five minutes." Then, seeing Qwilleran, he said, "How about this, Qwill? We're halfway through the Explo - and no more bombs, no homicides, no civil disturbance!"

"The game ain't over till it's over," Qwilleran quoted wryly. "The judges at the Pasty Bake-off could get food poisoning."

Larry Lanspeak pushed through the crowd to speak to the newsman. "The Celebrity Auction's a sellout! Carol is gonna bid on all the guys - just to inflate the bidding."

"Tell her to exercise caution," Qwilleran advised. "She might win Wetherby Goode. Are you staying open till nine tonight?"

"Sure! All the merchants are cooperating. Susan Exbridge didn't like the idea of idle browsers in her uppity-scale shop, but we talked her into it."

"Do you have any trouble with shoplifting, Larry?"

"Only in tourist season. One nice thing about a small town: Everybody is watching everybody."

The high school band was tuning up. A police siren could be heard, and the mayor's car approached. No one cheered; rather, the crowd became grimly silent. Then the band crashed into the Washington Post March with the confidence of young musicians who know most of the notes, and a police officer cleared the way for the mayor. Gregory Blythe was a middle-aged, well-dressed stockbroker, handsome in a dissipated way and insufferably conceited. Yet, he was always reelected; after all, his mother was a Goodwinter.

Dwight Somers led the applause as Blythe mounted a small podium and spoke into the microphone. "On this festive occasion I want to say a few words about the future of Pickax."

"Make it short!" someone yelled from the crowd.

"Excellent advice!" Blythe replied with a smile in the heckler's direction. Then he proceeded to speak too long, despite murmurs in the audience and the lack of attention.

Finally a child's shrill voice cried out, "Where's the balloons?"

"Let there be balloons!" the mayor decreed.

Two photographers rushed forward. Scissors were produced. The ribbon was snipped. Then, as the band struck up Stars and Stripes Forever, multicolor balloons rose from behind Stables Row, and the crowd converged on the new shops, which had promised souvenirs and food-tasting.

Qwilleran caught sight of a husky, heavily bearded young man lumbering about like a bear. "Gary!" he shouted. "What brings you to town? Souvenirs, refreshments or balloons?"

"Just checking on my competition," said the proprietor of the Black Bear Cafe. "I think I'll add pasties to my menu, but only the traditional kind. I know a woman who makes the crust with suet."

"What do you think of the Stables?"

"The building's neat. The Spoonery's a good idea. But the Pasty Parlor is off the wall. It's run by a couple from Down Below - nice kids - but they don't know a pasty from a pizza... Well, so long! Don't forget the bike-a-thon Sunday."

Qwilleran observed the crowds for a while and then: went into the shop that was attracting the fewest visitors. The Kitchen Boutique was being managed by Sharon J Hanstable.

"I loved your report on the turkey roast!" she greeted him. "Does it mean you're going to start cooking?"

"Only if hell freezes over. I attended the class under duress." He glanced around at the gadgets so foreign to his lifestyle: garlic presses, nutmeg grinders, pastry brushes. "What are those knives with odd blades?"