Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 18 Who Said Cheese

"Need any help?" he called out.

"No thanks. Need any macaroni and cheese?" she replied with a hearty laugh. Her name was Celia Robinson, and she was a jolly gray-haired grandmother who supplied him with home-cooked dishes that he could keep in the freezer.

"I never say no to macaroni and cheese," he said.

"I've been meaning to ask you, Mr. Q. What do you think about the mystery woman at the hotel? I think you should investigate." Mrs. Robinson was an avid reader of spy fiction, and twice she had acted as his confidential assistant when he was snooping into situations that he considered suspicious.

"Not this time, Celia. No crime has been committed, and the gossip about the woman is absurd. We should all mind our own business... And how about you? Are you still in the Pals for Patients program?"

"Still doing my bit! They've started a Junior Pal Brigade now, and it's my job to train them - college students who want to earn a little money. Nice kids. They're very good at cheering up house-bound patients." She stopped and sniffed inquiringly. "Did you just buy some rat cheese?"

"No. Only a book on the subject. It belonged to a cheesemaker and acquired a certain redolence by osmosis."

"Oh, Mr. Q! What you mean is - it stinks!" She laughed at her own forthrightness.

"If you say so, madame," he said with a stiff bow that sent her into further gales of laughter.

From there he tramped through the dense evergreen woods that screened the apple barn from the heavy traffic of Park Circle. As he approached the barn, he was aware of two pairs of eyes watching him from an upper window. As soon as he unlocked the door, they were there to meet him, hopping on their hind legs and pawing his clothing. He knew it was neither his magnetic personality nor the canned seafood that attracted them. It was the cheese book! Their noses wrinkled. They opened their mouths and showed their fangs. It was what the veterinarian called the Flehman response. Whatever it was called, it was not a flattering reaction.

Qwilleran gave the cheese book an analytical sniff himself. Celia was right; it had a definite overripe stink - like Limburger cheese. It had been many years since his introduction to Limburger in Germany, but it was memorable. Ripe was their word for it. Rank would be more descriptive.

Limburger, he recalled, was the name of the old man so uncharitably described at the editorial meeting. He sounded like a genuine character. Like most journalists, Qwilleran appreciated characters; they made good copy. He remembered his interviews with Adam Dingleberry, Euphonia Gage, and Ozzie Penn, to name a few. He went into action.

First he relegated the cheese compendium to the tool-shed, hoping it would lose its scent in a few days. Next he consulted the Black Creek section of the phone book and called a number. There were many rings before anyone answered.

A crotchety, cracked voice shouted, "Who's this?"

"Are you Mr. Limburger?"

"If that's who you called, that's who you got. Whaddaya want?"

"I'm Jim Qwilleran from the Moose County Something."

"Don't wanna take the paper. Costs too much."

"That's not why I'm calling, sir. Are you the owner of the New Pickax Hotel?"

"None o' yer business."

"I'd like to write a history of the famous hotel, Mr. Limburger," Qwilleran persisted in a genial voice.

"What fer?"

"It's been a landmark for over a hundred years, and our readers would be interested in - "

"So whaddaya wanna know?"

"I'd like to visit you and ask some questions."

"When?" the old man demanded in a hostile tone.

"How about tomorrow morning around eleven o'clock?"

"lffen I'm here. I'm eighty-two. I could kick the bucket any ol' time."

"I'll take a chance," Qwilleran said pleasantly. "You sound healthy."

"N-n-now!" came a cry not far from the mouthpiece of the phone.

"Whazzat?"

"Just a low-flying plane. See you tomorrow, Mr. Limburger." He heard the old man slam down the receiver, and he chuckled.

Before going to see Polly, Qwilleran read the fact sheet about the Great Food Explo. The opening festivities would center about a complex called Stables Row. It occupied a block-long stone building on a back street in downtown Pickax. In horse-and-buggy days it had been a ten-cent barn: all-day stabling and a bucket of oats for a dime. Later it was adapted for contemporary use, housing stores, repair shops, and offices in ever-changing variety. Now it was embarking on a bright new life. Large and small spaces had been remodeled to accommodate a pasty parlor, soup bar, bakery, wine and cheese shop, kitchen boutique, old-fashioned soda fountain, and health food store.