Brodie grunted several times as he read it, then threw it down on the desk. "Why the hell didn't she tell us his name - and how to find him? Stupid!"
"Not stupid," Qwilleran protested. "She's in panic. She's not thinking straight."
"We can assume he lives Down Below. That means he transported explosives across a state line - a federal offense. The FBI will get into the act now. My God! Did the guy fly up here on the shuttle with a homemade bomb on his lap - in fancy wrappings? Crazy woman! Why didn't she give us more information? She's left Salt Lake City by now."
Qwilleran said, "Dolman is obviously an Americanization of Dolmathakia and not the name of her ex-husband. All we know about him is that he might be a fan of the Detroit Tigers, judging by the description of his cap."
"There's gotta be a local connection. How would he know she was here? Who drove the getaway vehicle? Did the same blue truck pick him up at the airport?"
"Well, the ball's in your court, Andy. I have unfinished business at home. Give me Onoosh's letter."
"I'll keep the original," the chief said. "You can have a copy."
Qwilleran went home and counted whiskers. He counted Koko's first and then Yum Yum's. It was just as he had surmised. He telephoned Polly immediately.
At the sound of his voice, Polly was convulsed with merriment. She said, "Lo Phat and Lo Psalt have just arrived, and I laughed so hard I almost ruptured my thoracic incision! When I saw the gift box, I thought it was a bomb, but it came from Amanda's, so I felt safe in opening it. I'm going to hang them in my kitchen. Qwill, you're so clever!"
"Yes, I know," he said tartly. "I should get a job in advertising."
"You sound rushed. Is something on your mind?"
"I want you to count Bootsie's whiskers and call me back," he said. "Include the eyebrows."
"Is this another joke?"
"Not at all. It's a scientific study. I plan to introduce it in the 'Qwill Pen' after the Food Explo. Cats allover the county will be having their whiskers counted."
"I still think you're being facetious," she said, "but I'll do it and call you back."
In a few minutes she phoned. "Bootsie has twenty-four on each side. Is that good or bad? Some are long and bold; others are shorter and quite fine."
"That means he's normal," Qwilleran said. "Yum Yum has twenty-four also. Koko has thirty!"
11
The Great Food Explo was about to blast off, with Mildred Riker's cooking class lighting the fuse:
Wednesday evening: First in a series of cooking classes for men only, sponsored by the Moose County Something.
Thursday: Introduction of the Something's weekly food page, featuring a Food Forum for readers.
Friday noon: Official opening of Stables Row with ribbon-cutting, band music, and balloons.
Friday evening: Open-house hospitality on Main Street, with all stores remaining open until 9:00 P.M. and offering refreshments and entertainment... to be followed by fireworks and a street dance in front of Stables Row.
Saturday: Food Fair and Pasty Bake-off at the county fairgrounds, sponsored by the Pickax Chamber of Commerce.
Saturday evening: Celebrity Auction sponsored by the Boosters Club to benefit the community Christmas fund.
Sunday: Wheels for Meals bike-a-thon staged by the Pedal Club to benefit the home-bound.
Qwilleran was involved in many of the week's activities, not entirely by choice. Reluctantly he had consented to cover the opening session of the cooking class. Without much enthusiasm he would join Mildred Riker and the chef of the Old Stone Mill in judging the Pasty Bake-off. With serious misgivings he would go on the auction block as a potential dinner date for who-knows-whom. In addition, he was committed to writing the "Qwill Pen" with a food slant for the duration of Explo.
Qwilleran's life seldom proceeded according to plan, however. On Wednesday he went to Lois's for lunch. Her Wednesday luncheon special was always turkey, and he always took home a doggie bag. Lois's Luncheonette was on Pine Street not far from Stables Row. and as he approached he saw a crowd gathered on the sidewalk - not a friendly crowd. He quickened his step.
Milling about, waving arms and expounding vehemently, were men in work clothes and business suits. A few women office workers and shoppers wore anxious expressions and raised shrill voices.
Qwilleran asked loudly, "What goes on here? What's happened?" No one answered, but there was a general hubbub of indignation and complaint. Then he saw the hastily crayoned sign in the window: CLOSED FOR GOOD. The protesters were yelling:
"Where'll we get ham and eggs? There's no place for, breakfast!"
"Where'll we get lunch?"
"There's the new soup kitchen, but who wants soup every day?"
"There's the new pasty place, but I get pasties home."
"Who'll have apple pie that's any good?"
Qwilleran asked some of the quieter protesters, "Why did she close? Does anyone know?"
"Could be she's afraid of the new competition," a City Hall clerk suggested.
"If you ask me," said a salesman from the men's store, "she's tee'd off because Stables Row got all slicked up by the K Fund. If she wanted to fix up her place, her customers had to pitch in and do it."
An elderly man said, "Some people in town want her to quit so they can get the building and tear it down."
It was indeed a sad old structure. Qwilleran had often dropped a twenty into a pickle jar near the cash register to help defray the cost of shingles or paint. The labor was willingly donated on weekends by a confraternity of loyal customers. They enjoyed doing it. To work on Lois's beloved lunchroom was the Pickax equivalent of knighthood in the court of King Arthur. There was, in fact, a large round table where the in-group met for coffee and conversation. And now she was leaving the food business after thirty years of feeding Pickaxians. It was a calamity! First the hotel bombing - and now this!
Qwilleran went to the Old Stone Mill for lunch. He said to the excessively tall young man who was his waiter, "I hear you've enrolled in the Restaurant Management course, Derek."
"Yeah, Liz talked me into going to MCCC," said the scion of the Cuttlebrinks. "In two years I can get an associate degree. I'm carrying a full load. The boss here gives me flexible hours."
"I'm glad you've decided to stay in the food business."
"Yeah, Liz thinks I have a talent for it. Acting is something I can do as a hobby, she says."
"What's today's special, Derek?"
"Curried lamb stew."
"Is it good?" Qwilleran was aware that this was a senseless question; what waiter would denigrate the chef's daily special? Yet, restaurant-goers everywhere had been heard to ask it, and now Qwilleran repeated it.
"Do you recommend it?"
"Well, I tried it in the kitchen before I came on duty," Derek said, "and I thought it bombed. You'd be better off to take the beef Stroganoff."
The cooking class at the high school was scheduled for 7:30 P.M., but Qwilleran arrived early, hoping to glean some quotable comments from the participants. Eleven men were present, some of whom he knew; all of them knew Qwilleran, or recognized his moustache. They included the new banker, a commercial fisherman, and even the tall waiter from the Old Stone Mill. They had an assortment of reasons for attending:
Mechanic from Gippel's Garage: "My wife went back to work, teaching school, and she says I've gotta do some of the housework. I like to eat, so maybe I'll learn how to cook."
J. Willard Carmichaeclass="underline" "Cooking has replaced jogging as the thing to do! Besides, Danielle is no bombshell in the kitchen, and it behooves me to set a good example."
Hardware salesman: "I'm a single parent with two kids, and I want to impress them."
Derek Cuttlebrink: "Liz gave me the course for a birthday present."