"Donald lives with her. He was driving the car when it crashed and killed her husband, and he's quite incapacitated. He's confined to a wheelchair, but growing shiitake is his therapy, and it gives him a reason for living."
"Hmmm... that puts a different slant on the story," Qwilleran said. "And actually it's a better story - one that could be rather inspirational. Also, it explains the ramps and asphalt pathways and the spaciousness of the house... Now what to do?"
"Perhaps I shouldn't have mentioned it."
"I'm glad you did - very glad! The question is: Why did she withhold that aspect of the mushroom enterprise? Does Donald avoid publicity because of his physical condition? Or does his mother keep him under wraps? Does she want the publicity for herself?"
"An astute observation," Polly said. "She's a very proud woman, and she has a powerful ego. It makes it hard for her to get along with other volunteers. She's always taking credit for what the others do... What will you do about it?"
"Put the column on hold until I can get to the bottom of the problem."
"I hope you'll handle it tactfully."
"Don't worry, and I won't involve you in any way. But it puts me in a bind. I'd scheduled it for this week, and now I'll have to find another topic in a hurry."
He declined an invitation to have tea with Polly and Lynette. He said he had to make some phone calls. He didn't mention it, but there was more than the shiitake situation that bothered him.
14
Following his interview with Elaine and his enlightening conversation with Polly, Qwilleran hurried home to the barn. He waved at Celia Robinson, getting out of her red car in front of the carriage house. He looked into the sea chest at the back door - empty! He let himself in and went directly to the telephone without even speaking to the welcoming cats. He called Celia.
"Hi, Chief!" she hailed him in her usual cheerful manner. "Were you trying to reach me earlier? I've been out all day. I sang in the choir and then served at the coffee hour. Then Virginia Alstock took me to dinner with her folks, and we took them for a ride. It was a beautiful day! Did you do something special?"
"No, I'm just a working stiff," he said. "I did an interview out in West Middle Hummock. That's why I'm calling. Do you happen to know a Donald Fetter?"
"Sure! I know Donald very well. He's a subscriber to Pals for Patients. He's confined to a wheelchair, you know. It was an auto accident. His father was killed, and he'll never walk again. His mother says he was driving too fast on those winding roads and hit a tree. He's quite young. Why did you ask?"
"It's a long story - too long for the phone. Why don't' you hop into your car and drive down here before dark? I have some new cheese for you to try - "
"Isn't that funny?" she interrupted. "I was just thinking about you when you called. Virginia gave me a new recipe for macaroni and cheese, and - "
"If you need a guinea pig, I'm willing to volunteer. Meanwhile, I may have a new assignment for you."
"Whoops!" she cried in her youthful way. "Give me ten minutes to feed Wrigley, and I'll be right there."
Qwilleran hung up and turned to the Siamese, who had heard the word cheese and were waiting in anticipation. "Our neighbor is coming for a conference, and I want you two heathens to behave like civilized human beings. Or, at least, civilized beings," he corrected himself. He arranged a cheese board for his guest and gave the cats a crumble or two: Havarti for Yum Yum, feta for Koko.
While waiting for Celia, he played the tape of his interview with the Mushroom Queen, as he now thought of her, uncharitably. She gave evasive answers to some questions and textbook answers to others, never striking a personal note. She never said, "I maintain the humidity" or "We inoculate the logs."
Postponing the mushroom column in light of the new information would be an inconvenience, but, for the moment, there was another matter on his mind.
Celia arrived in a flush of smiles. "What's that box outside the door? Where are those good kitties?"
Qwilleran replied, "The kitties, as you call them, are guarding the cheese. The box is a historic sea chest to be used for deliveries of macaroni and cheese if I'm not home."
As she went to the lounge area and dropped her large handbag on the floor at her feet, the Siamese followed her. They knew that handbag! Sometimes it contained a treat. "The autumn color is terrific this year," she said. "Especially on Ittibittiwassee Road. Virginia said it's because of the sharp frost we had... What's the new cheese?"
"Goat cheese from the Split Rail Farm. I wrote about it in my column Friday. This one has garlic... this one is flavored with dill... and that one is fern, quite salty."
"Yow!" said Koko. "When my husband was alive," she said, "we kept a few goats and sold milk to folks in town who had trouble with cow's milk. I loved our she-goats. They're so sweet, the way they look at you with sleepy eyes! I called them April, May, June, and Holiday. The buck was March. My! He was a smelly critter." Celia gazed into space with a bemused expression. "Seems a long time ago." Then she snapped back to the present. "How was the autumn color in West Middle Hummock?"
"Spectacular! I went out there to interview Elaine Fetter about her mushrooms."
"Her mushrooms? Is that what she told you? The whole thing was Donald's idea! He was very depressed until he heard about growing - what do you call them?"
"Shee-tock-ee. They're a Japanese mushroom."
"Well, it gave him something to live for. We send Junior Pals out there, and they help with the heavy work - those big logs, you know, Did you taste the mushrooms? Did you see the kitchen? I wouldn't know how to act in such a big one.
What's his mother like? I only met her once. Donald doesn't get along with her too good."
"She's a prominent club woman and volunteer - accustomed to running the show - somewhat conceited, they say - a gourmet cook - and she's writing a cookbook."
"Did you see the cookbooks she has in her kitchen? I never saw so many!"
"That, madame, is precisely why you are here," Qwilleran said in the declamatory style that always made her laugh.
"Okay. Shoot!" she said merrily. "First, a little background information: Have you heard of Iris Cobb? She died before you moved up here."
"Virginia talks about her. She made wonderful cookies."
"She contributed greatly to the community, but she's chiefly remembered for her cooking, Her collection of personal cooking secrets was left to me in her will, but it disappeared before I could put my hands on it."
"You don't cook, Chief! What good would it do?" "She also left me that pine wardrobe over there, a Pennsylvania German schrank, The cookbook, I think, was supposed to be a joke, but I planned to publish it and donate the proceeds to charity, in her name."
"That's pretty nice, Yes, I like that!" Celia said. "Any notion what happened to it?"
"There are three possibilities: It was in a piece of furniture that was sold to an out-of-state dealer when her apartment was liquidated. Or it was thrown out as junk, being a greasy, spotted, scuffed notebook with a broken spine and loose pages. Or it was simply stolen. A request for its return, with no questions asked, produced no results."
"Sounds like something I wouldn't mind reading myself," Celia said.
"You may get a chance. When I was in Mrs. Fetter's kitchen this afternoon, I noticed a battered black book among all the colorful jackets of slick new cookbooks. I didn't think too much of it at the time; I was concentrating on how to handle all the technical stuff on spawn and inoculation and incubation without boring my readers. Later, though, I remembered that the spine of the black book had been repaired with transparent tape. That's when my suspicions arose." He touched his moustache tentatively. "The next time you go to see Donald - if you do go, that is - you might sneak a peek. Could you manage that?"