"Sounds Utopian. Will it work?"
"If it works, it'll be a prototype for rural communities throughout the country-that is, if they want to thrive and still maintain their quality of life."
"What about tourism?" Junior asked.
"The K Fund soft-pedals the kind of tourism that alters the character of the community. They're bankrolling country inns that operate on a small scale, serve fine food, appeal to discriminating travelers, and get high-class publicity. For tourists on a budget they're promoting small campgrounds that don't clear-cut the woods."
Someone asked about business opportunities.
"Now we come to the point," Dwight said. "If there's one industry that's clean, indispensable, and positive in image, it's food! The county's already known for fisheries, sheep ranches, and potato farms. Now the K Fund is backing enterprises such as a turkey farm and a cherry orchard, ethnic restaurants, and food specialty shops. The Great Food Explo will be a festival of all kinds of happenings related to food." He opened his briefcase and handed out fact sheets. "The Explo opens with a bang a week from tomorrow. Any questions?"
Someone said, "It sounds like it could be fun."
"The trend is to food as entertainment," Dwight said. "There are a lot of foodies out there! People are dining out more often, talking about food, buying cookbooks, taking culinary classes, watching food videos, joining gourmet clubs. Some of the new perfumes on the market smell like vanilla, raspberry, chocolate, nutmeg, cinnamon..."
Riker said, "I wouldn't mind having a Scotch aftershave."
"Don't worry! They'll get around to that."
"Starting next week," Junior said, "we're expanding our food coverage to a full page."
Qwilleran asked, "I suspect the mystery woman is part of a publicity stunt for the Explo."
"No! I swear it on a stack of cookbooks," Dwight said. He closed his briefcase. "I want to thank you, gang, for this opportunity to cue you in. I hope you'll jump on the bandwagon and call me if I can help."
"It's an appetizing prospect," Riker said. "Let's send Wilfred out for burgers and malts!"
2
Qwilleran was a congenital foodie who needed no coaxing to participate in the Great Food Explo. He hoped it would open up new sources of material for his "Qwill Pen" column. Finding topics for the twice-weekly space was not easy, considering the boundaries of the county and the number of years he had been Qwill-penning.
From the newspaper he walked to Toodle's Market to buy food for his fussy felines. Toodle was an old respected food name, dating back to the days when grocers butchered their own hogs and sold a penny's worth of tea. Now the market had the size and parking space of a big-city supermarket, but not the hypnotic glare of overhead fluorescents. Incandescent spotlights and floodlights illuminated the meats and produce without changing their color or giving Mrs. Toodle a headache. It was she who ran the business, with the assistance of sons, daughters, in-laws, and grandchildren. Qwilleran bought a few cans of red salmon, crabmeat, cocktail shrimp, and minced clams.
His next stop was Edd's Editions, the used-book store. Here there were thousands of volumes accumulated from estate sales in surrounding counties. Color- less books cluttered the shelves, tables, and floor, and Eddington Smith had a dusty, elderly appearance to match his stock. Also blending into the background was a portly longhair named Winston who dusted the premises with sweeps of his plumed tail. There was always an odor in the store, compounded of mildewed books from damp basements, the sardines that constituted Winston's diet, and the liver and onions that Eddington frequently prepared for himself in the back room. On this day the aroma was unusually strong, and Qwilleran made his visit brief.
"I want something for Mrs. Duncan, Edd. She likes to read old cookbooks. She finds them amusing."
"I hope she's feeling better?"
"She's recovered her sense of humor, so that's a good sign," Qwilleran said as he examined, hastily, three shelves of pre-owned recipe books. One was a yellowed 1899 paperback titled Delicious Dishes for Dainty Entertaining, compiled by the Pickax Ladies' Cultural Society. Leafing through it, he noted recipes for Bangers and Beans, Wimpy-diddles, and Mrs. Duncan's Famous Pasties. "I'll take it," he said, thinking, She may have been Polly's great-grandmother-in-law.
Meanwhile Eddington was unpacking a newly arrived carton of old books from a family of dairy farmers and cheesemakers.
Qwilleran spotted Great Cheeses of the Western World-A Compendium. "I'll take this, too," he said. "How much do I owe you? Don't bother to wrap them." He left in a hurry as the store odors became overwhelming.
Memories of the bookstore lingered in his nostrils as he walked home along Main Street, around Park Circle, through the theatre parking lot, then along a wooded trail to the apple barn. The theatre, a magnificent fieldstone building, had once been the Klingenschoen mansion, and the fine carriage house at the rear was now a four-car garage with an apartment upstairs. The tenant was unloading groceries from her car as Qwilleran crossed the parking lot.
"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.