Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 18 Who Said Cheese

"There goes your turkey," Qwilleran said to Koko. To his surprise, the cat seemed unconcerned, sitting on his haunches in his kangaroo pose and grooming a small patch of fur on his chest. Could it be that Koko sensed there was something not quite right about that turkey? Qwilleran himself sensed there was something not quite right at the Cold Turkey Farm. Nick Bamba, he knew, needed a large work force, since young turkeys required much attention. Supervisory and technical posts were held by full-time workers with special skills, but there were jobs for college students and others needing part time employment or a second source of income. Nick's contingency payroll included off-duty police officers, clerks from the public library, the beefy installer from the design studio, an alterations apprentice from the men's store, and two of Mrs. Toodle's grandchildren. Lenny Inchpot wanted to sign on, after his job at the hotel blew up, but his mother vetoed it for reasons of her own.

Did one of these employees shoot the florist and hide the gun in a turkey to be shipped Down Below? Was it assumed that the bird would be lost in a labyrinth of human chaos in some distant metropolis? That was hardly smart thinking; the plastic wrapper clearly identified its source. On the other hand, the lucky recipient might consider it a wonderful Crackerjack prize-something to keep handy for the next prowler, attacker, mugger, burglar, carjacker, or other urban menace.

So... who was guilty of the homicide, and was he the accomplice of the original bomber? Certainly it was not the fresh-faced Toodle grandchildren... nor the fun-loving bumpkin who installed wall-to-wall carpet for Amanda... nor the honeybees' best friend, who was too humane to hook a fish or swat a fly. It was after midnight. Qwilleran wondered if Aubrey Scotten had recovered enough to report to his midnight shift at the Cold Turkey Farm. Or had his mother stuffed him with homemade food and sent him to bed early?

17

The morning after the cheese-tasting and Koko's calamitous catfit, the Country Club sent a crew to remove the folding tables and silver punch bowls and return the furniture to its normal arrangement. Meanwhile, Qwilleran spent the morning in his balcony studio, writing a thousand words about cheese. In two weeks he had learned a great deal from Jack Nibble and quoted him at length: "Never grate cheese in advance... To get your money's worth from cheese, serve it at room temperature... Cheese belongs with a good meal and makes a bad one better."

In the afternoon, Qwilleran went for a long bike ride, hoping to clarify his thinking on various matters; too much had been happening too fast. He walked through the woods to the carriage house, where his bike was parked in one of the stalls, and waved to Celia Robinson. She was having a jolly conversation with Mr. O'Dell, who was there to blow fallen leaves into huge piles for the city's vacuum truck.

"Nice man," she commented to Qwilleran as he tested the air in his tires. "Isn't this a wonderful day for a bike ride? Where are you going?"

"Out Ittibittiwassee Road to the stone bridge and back the same way."

"Oh, my! That's quite a ways! How long will it take?"

"Couple of hours."

"Well, be careful. Get back before dark!"

Ittibittiwassee Road, part of the route for the Labor Day Race, still had the orange-and-white markers planted on the shoulder by the Pedal Club. They would remain in place until November, at which time the county snowplows would send them flying through the air like toothpicks. When Qwilleran turned onto the highway at the Dimsdale Diner, the first milepost he encountered was number 15. From there he ticked off his thoughts by the mile:

Milepost 16: What to write for Tuesday's paper? Should be about food. The dictionary says turnips are edible. How about a thousand derogatory words about turnips? People live on them in times of famine or war; that's why they're such a depressing vegetable. We call a bad play or movie a turkey; in France they call it a turnip. The Larousse Encyclopedia says that turnips can be boiled, scalloped, glazed, stuffed, creamed, molded, pure‚d, or souffl‚d. I say: Any way you mash it, it's still a turnip. Has it ever been used as fertilizer? Brodie says you can make a bomb out of fertilizer. Is there such a thing as a turnip bomb?

Milepost 18: Too bad about the shiitake. It would make a good column, but not until the family situation is straightened out. Are the mushrooms his or hers? Where was Donald during the interview? She never even mentioned him. Is she hiding something? If so, what? Celia says mother and son don't get along well.

Milepost 19: How to handle it tactfully? Down Below they'd try to probe family secrets and make a scandal out of it.

Milepost 20: The shiitake had a great taste. Butter, garlic, parsley, and freshly ground pepper, she said. Polly will be interested, except for the butter.