Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 18 Who Said Cheese

Then she said, "If it isn't too presumptious, Qwill, I'd like to give you a memento of this occasion." She reached into her handbag and gave him a carved wood button depicting a cat's head.

"Well, thank you. That's a charming thought," he murmured.

"You might like to attend a meeting of the tri-county button club, too. Quite a few men belong."

"That's something to keep in mind... Shall we have dessert?"

The meal ended with crŠme br–l‚e for her and apple pie with cheese for him, and she declared it the most delightful dining experience of her entire life. As he drove her home, the conversation turned to shoptalk: the newspaper's fast-growing circulation, Wilfred's glory as a biker, and Mildred's new Thursday food page.

Sarah asked, "Did you notice the references to Iris Cobb in the Food Forum? She's greatly missed."

"Did you know her?"

"Very well! When I was a volunteer at the museum, she'd invite me to have lunch with her, knowing how I loved her pasties. I have an educated palate, you know - another of Father's legacies." She sighed and went on. "Did you know I was one of the preliminary judges for the pasty contest Saturday?"

"No. Filling or crust?"

"Filling. And now I must confide in you: There was one pasty that was extraordinary! To me it tasted as good as Iris Cobb's! It was made with turkey, which was disallowed, but the other judges and I were mischievous enough to pass it through to the finals." They were turning into the gates of Indian Village. Shyly, Sarah said, "Would you care to come in for a while and see my collection of buttons?"

"Thank you, but I have some scheduled phone calls to make. Another time, perhaps," he said, "but I'll see you safely indoors and say goodnight to Sir Cedric."

The animal holding up the library table, who had been standing on his hind legs for a hundred years, looked eerily alive. There was the shading of the brown coat, with the delineation of every hair, and there was the sad hound-dog expression in the eyes. Qwilleran patted his head. "Good dog! Good dog!"

On the way home he reflected that the evening would have been quite different if his auction package had been knocked down to Danielle Carmichael for her mandated cap of a thousand dollars. The conversation would have been about malls, football, and kinkajous instead of buttons, baseball, and carved wooden dogs, and she would never have referred to minutiae. Instead of a simple dress with Chanel jacket, she would have worn a sequinned cocktail sheath, thigh-high, and the other diners would not have applauded. Rather, they would have gasped, and some would have snickered. (This was Pickax, not Baltimore.) And the Christmas fund would have been five hundred dollars poorer. And he would not have heard the comment on the extraordinary pasty in the bake-off. By raising the ghost of Iris Cobb, Sarah might well be supporting his growing suspicions.

As soon as he arrived home, he made some phone calls. It was late but not too late for certain night owls of his acquaintance.

At the Riker residence, Mildred answered. "How was your fifteen-hundred-dollar dinner date?"

"Never mind that. Read about it in the 'Qwill Pen,' " he replied briskly. "Right now I'm interested in what the accountants' safe divulged. I read the winners' names in the paper today. Who baked the superpasty?"

"If I tell you, will you promise not to leak it? We're planning a feature, you know - the way you suggested."

He promised.

"Promise you won't even tell Polly?"

He promised again.

"Why are you so interested?"

"I'm writing a book on the origin and evolution of the pasty, from miner's lunch to gourmet treat."

"At this time of night? Come on, Qwill! You're keeping secrets."

"You're the one who's keeping secrets. I'm telling you flat-out that I'm writing a book." He was always on the verge of writing a book, but not about pasties.

"Okay. It was Elaine Fetter of West Middle Hummock."

"I suspected as much."

"Do you know her?"

"Everybody knows her. And if I were you, I'd put that superpasty feature on hold."

"What's the matter? What's this all about?"

"Tell you tomorrow. I'm in a hurry. Thanks for the information. Wake up your husband and tell him I said goodnight."

He hung up the phone without further civilities and called Celia Robinson. There had been lights in the carriage house when he drove in, and he knew she would be sitting up, reading the latest espionage thriller. In an undercover voice he asked, "Any luck?"

"You were right. I found what you wanted." She spoke in a hushed voice with abstract references. "There wasn't any name on it, but I checked what you mentioned. It's the real McCoy, all right."

"Good going!" he said. "Talk to you later." And now, he wondered, how do we get our hands on it without embarrassing anyone? He sprawled in a lounge chair with his feet on an ottoman and cudgeled his brain. The Siamese sat quietly nearby, sensing that he was doing some concentrated thinking.