"The food you ate on the farm."
"Our fish came from Black Creek or the lake, and sometimes we butchered a hog. Anything we didn't eat we took to Little Hope and exchanged for flour, sugar, and coffee at the general store."
"And calico to make dresses for your womenfolk," Rhoda added.
Qwilleran asked, "What happened when the mines closed and the economy collapsed?"
"With no jobs, there was no money for food, and no market for our farm produce. We all tightened our belts."
Rhoda said, "Tell him about the rationing in World War One."
"Oh, that! Well, you see, sugar was in short supply, and in order to buy a pound of it, we had to buy five pounds of oatmeal. We ate oatmeal every day for breakfast and sometimes dinner and supper. I haven't eaten the stuff since! After the war I went away to school and I discovered fancy eating, like creamed chicken and peas, and prune whip. I thought that was real living! Then I came home to teach, and it was back to boiled dinners, squirrel pie, fried smelt, and bread pudding. What a letdown! Then came the Great Depression, and we majored in beans and peanut butter sandwiches."
Qwilleran said, "You haven't mentioned the foremost regional specialty."
The Tibbitts said in unison, "Pasties!"
"If you write about them," Homer said, "tell the green horns from Down Below that they rhyme with nasty, not hasty. You probably know that Cornish miners came here from Britain in the mid-nineteenth century. Their wives made big meat-and-potato turnovers for their lunch, and they carried them down the mine shaft in their pockets. They're very filling. Takes two hands to eat one."
Rhoda said, "There's disagreement about the recipe, but the real pasty dough is made with lard and suet. I don't approve of animal fat, but that's the secret! The authentic filling is diced or cubed beef or pork. Ground meat is a no-no! It's mixed with diced potatoes and rutabagas, chopped onion, salt and pepper, and a big lump of butter. You put the filling on a circle of dough and fold it over. Some cooks omit the rutabagas."
Qwilleran said., "There's a Pasty Parlor opening in downtown Pickax on Stables Row."
"Unfortunately," she said, "pasties are no longer in our diet. Homer and I haven't had one for years... Have we, dear?"
They turned to look at the historian. His chin had sunk on his chest, and he was sound asleep.
Having been briefed in Pasty Correctness by the knowledgeable Tibbitts, Qwilleran went to Stables Row to check out the Pasty Parlor, not yet open for business. Behind locked doors there were signs of frantic preparation, but he knocked, identified himself, and was admitted. A bright young couple in paint-spattered grubbies introduced themselves as the proprietors.
"Are you natives of Moose County?" he asked, alI though he noted something brittle about their appearance and attitude that indicated otherwise.
"No, but we've traveled up here on vacations and eaten a lot of pasties, and we decided you people need to expand your horizons," the young man said. "We made a proposal to the K Fund in Chicago and were accepted."
"What was your proposal?"
"A designer pasty! Great-tasting! Very unique! Choice of four crusts: plain, cheese, herb, or cornmeal. Choice of four fillings: ground beef, ham, turkey, or sausage meat. Choice of four veggies: green pepper, broccoli, mushroom, or carrot - besides the traditional potato and onion, of course. Plus your choice of tomato, olive, or hot chili garnish - or all three - at no extra charge."
"It boggles the mind," Qwilleran said with a straight face. "I'll be back when you're open for business. Good luck!"
From there he hurried through the rain to Lori Bamba's brainchild: The Spoonery. It was not yet open for business, but the energetic entrepreneur was lettering signs and hanging posters. He asked her, "Are you serious about serving only spoon-food?"
"Absolutely! I have dozens of recipes for wonderful soups: Mulligatawny, Scotch broth, Portuguese black bean, eggplant and garlic, and lots more. Soup doesn't have to be boring, although I'll have one boring soup each day for the fuddy-duddies."
"What does your family think about it?"
"Nick's very supportive, although he's working hard at the turkey farm. My kids are taste-testing the soups. My in-laws are helping set up the kitchen... How are Koko and Yum Yum? I haven't seen them since Breakfast Island.
"They're busy as usual, inventing new ways to complicate my life."
Lori said with her usual exuberance, "Do you know what I read in a magazine? Cats have twenty-four whiskers, which may account for their ESP."
"Does that include the eyebrows?"
"I don't know. They didn't specify."
"Are there twenty-four whiskers on each side, or is that the total?" he asked.
"I don't know. You journalists are such fuss pots!"
"Well, I'll go home and count," Qwilleran said. "And good luck, Lori! I'll drop in for lunch someday."
It was still raining. He went home to give the Siamese the ham he had begged from Lois, and he found Koko doing his grasshopper act. The cat jumped in exaggerated arcs from floor to desktop to chair to bookshelf. It meant that there was a message on the answering machine. The faster he jumped, it appeared, the more urgent the call. How did the cat know the content of the message? Perhaps Lori was right, Qwilleran thought; cats have ESP whiskers.
The message was from Sarah, the office manager, who had never phoned him at the barn before. "Sorry to bother you at home," said the deferential voice, "but an express letter came for you. I thought I should let you know."
He got her on the phone immediately. "Sarah, this is Qwill. About the express letter, what's the return address?"
"It's just hotel stationery. No one's name. It's from Salt Lake City."
"I'll pick it up right away. Thanks." Qwilleran felt a tingling on his upper lip; he had a hunch who was writing to him. He drove to the newspaper via the back road, to make better time.
Sarah handed him the letter. "Shall I slit the envelope for you?" she offered.
"Not this time, thanks." He carried it to an empty desk in the cityroom and tore it open, looking first at the signature: Onoosh Dolmathakia. The handwriting was hard to decipher, and she spoke English better than she wrote it. She had trouble with verbs, and she was nervous, frightened. The brief note dripped with emotion:
Dear Mr. Qwill
I sorry I leave and not say thank you - I hear it on radio about hotel bomb - I panick he is threttan me many time - he want to kill me - I think it good I go away - long way away - so he not find me
- how he find me in Pickacks is not to
- know - now I afraid again - I not feel safe if he alive - always I run away where he not find me - I leave this hotel now - I sign my right name -
Onoosh Dolmathakia
When Qwilleran finished reading the letter for the second time, he felt his neck flush and beads of perspiration drench his forehead - not at the thought of Onoosh being terrorized by a stalker, but at the realization that Koko had been feeding him this information ever since the bombing, and even before. Koko had been stalking Yum Yum boldly and repeatedly, in a way that looked like a purposeful campaign.
Qwilleran telephoned the police station. "Stay there!" he barked at Brodie. "I have some curious information." A few minutes later, he walked into the chief's office.
"What've you got?" Brodie demanded gruffly.
"A letter from Onoosh Dolmathakia, a.k.a. Ona Dolman. Don't ask any questions till you read it. She addressed it to me at the paper."