Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 18 Who Said Cheese

"Well - you probably know this - Derek Cuttlebrink is enrolled in Restaurant Management at the college. No doubt it was Elizabeth Hart's influence."

"Yes, a girlfriend with an income of a half-million can be subtly influential. Let's hope that Derek has finally found a career direction... What else did you hear from the library grapevine?"

"That Pickax is going to have a pickle factory. Is that good or bad?"

"Not good. We'll have to choose a Pickle Queen as well as a Potato Queen and a Trout Queen. The whole town will smell of dill and garlic from July to October."

"I thought you liked garlic, dear." She was goading him gently.

"Not as a substitute for fresh air. Can you imagine the TV commercials for Pickax Pickles? They'd be done in animation, of course-a row of pickles wearing tutus and dancing to the Pickax Polka, with pickle-voices screaming, 'Perk up with Pickax Pickles.'... No, tell Mrs. Alstock there's no pickle factory on the K Fund agenda for economic development. The rumor mongers will have to go back to the drawing board."

"Well, are you ready for some gossip that's absolutely true?" Polly asked. "The mystery woman came into the library and checked out books on a temporary card!"

"Hmff! If she's a reader, she can't be all bad, can she? What kind of book? How to build a bomb? How to poison the water supply?"

"Book withdrawals are privileged information," she said with a superior smile.

"So the library knows her name and address."

"No doubt it's in the files."

Qwilleran smoothed his moustache in contemplation and looked at her conspiratorially under hooded eyelids.

She recognized the humor in his melodramatic performance and retorted sweetly, "You're plotting a Dirty Trick! The Pickax Plumbers will break into the library after hours and burglarize the files, and we'll have a Bibliogate scandal."

Before he could think of a witty comeback, the front door slammed. There were footsteps in the entrance hall. Lynette had come home early.

"I didn't stay for refreshments," she explained. "I decided I'd rather visit with you two."

"We're flattered. Sit down and have a cookie," Qwilleran said in a monotone. He was reflecting that Lynette was a decent person - pleasant, helpful, generous, well-meaning, and smart enough to play bridge and handle health insurance in a doctor's office, but... she didn't get it! It never occurred to her that he and Polly might like a little privacy - once in a while.

Polly said to her sister-in-law, "We were just talking about the mystery woman."

Pontifically Qwilleran announced, "I have it on good authority that she's a fugitive from a crime syndicate or a terrorist group. She knows too much. She's a threat to the mob. Her life is in danger."

Lynette's eyes grew wide until Polly assured her he was only kidding. Then Lynette asked, "Does anyone mind if I turn on the radio for the weather report? Wetherby Goode says the cutest things!"

Qwilleran listened politely to the meteorologist's inanities: "Rain, rain, go away; come again another day." Then he made an excuse to leave. Polly understood; she gave him apologetic glances. Bootsie always escorted him to the front door, as if to speed the parting guest. This evening Qwilleran was escorted by a committee of three, and there was no opportunity for a private and lingering goodnight. Polly, he decided, had to get out of that house!

Arriving at the apple barn, Qwilleran stepped from his car and was virtually bowled over by a putrid stench coming from the tool shed, a hundred feet away. He was a man who made quick decisions. The cheese book had cost him six dollars, but he knew when to cut his losses. He turned his headlights on the shed, found a spade, and dug a sizable hole in the ground. Without any obsequies he buried Great Cheeses of the Western World. He hoped it would not contaminate the water table.

The Siamese were glad to see him. They had been neglected most of the day. They had had no quality time with him.

"Okay, we'll have a read," he announced. "Book! Book!"

One side of the fireplace cube was covered with shelves for Qwilleran's collection of pre-owned books from Eddington's shop. They were grouped according to category: fiction, biography, drama, history, and so forth, with spaces between that were large enough for Koko to curl up and sleep. He seemed to derive comfort from the proximity of old bindings. He also liked to knock a volume off a shelf occasionally and peer over the edge to see where it landed. In fact, whenever Qwilleran shouted "Book! Book!" that was Koko's cue to dislodge a title. It was a game. Whatever the cat chose, the man was obliged to read aloud.