"Yow!" came a loud affirmative from somewhere overhead.
When everyone had gone, with promises to send a clean-up crew the next day, Qwilleran changed into a jumpsuit and went into the kitchen. Koko was ahead of him, trying to claw his way into the refrigerator.
"You rascal!" Qwilleran said. "So that's why you wanted everyone to go home! If you'll just cool it, we'll prep the turkey tonight and throw it in the oven first thing in the morning. Stand back!" He opened the refrigerator door cautiously, expecting a flank attack, but Koko knew when the battle was won. He watched calmly as the prepping began.
Qwilleran remembered Mildred's instructions: Remove the plastic wrap; release the legs without cutting the skin; explore the two cavities. He put his hand gingerly into the breast cavity and withdrew a plastic bag containing the neck. Then he turned the bird around and, with more confidence, explored the body cavity. It was cold but not frosty. Koko was watching with ears back and whiskers bristled. Qwilleran groped for the plastic bag. Instead, he found something hard and very, very cold. His first thought was: a block of ice. His second was: a practical joke! He threw everything back into the tray and shoved the naked bird into the refrigerator. Then he called Nick Bamba at home.
"Hope I'm not calling too late, Nick. Just wanted to thank you for the cold turkey. I'm getting it ready to roast tomorrow... Yes, thanks to Mildred, I know how. But I have one question: Was there supposed to be anything special about the bird you delivered to me?... No, there's nothing wrong with it. I just had a... special feeling about it." He tamped his moustache. "Thanks again, Nick. I'll let you know how it turns out."
Hanging up the phone, Qwilleran kept his hand on the receiver. Should he, or should he not, call the police chief at home again? He punched the number that he knew by heart, and when the gruff voice answered, he said, "We had the cheese-tasting here tonight, you know, and Jerry and Jack left a variety of cheeses, Why don't you run over for a nibble-and a sip? Also... I have something peculiar to report - very peculiar!"
"I'll be there in two shakes," Brodie said, He arrived , in a matter of minutes, and his first comment was: "You've got a big box at your back door."
"That's an antique sea chest, It's for package deliveries."
"And you've moved the furniture around."
"That was to accommodate the crowd, We had a hundred guests. The committee is coming tomorrow to put everything back the way it was."
They sat at the bar, where Qwilleran had ready a Scotch and a plate of leftover party cheeses, He pointed out Cheddar, Gouda, Bel Paese, Emmenthaler, Stilton, and Port du Salut.
"Where's the one I like so much?"
"Try the Emmenthaler, Andy. There wasn't any GruyŠre left. Everyone liked the GruyŠre."
"Yow!"
"Including our smart cat."
When Brodie had finished his first Scotch, Qwilleran said, "Before I top your glass, Andy, I'd like you to look at a gift I received Sunday." Keeping one eye on Koko, he brought the turkey from the refrigerator and pushed the tray toward the chief. "What would you say this is?"
"Are you pullin' my leg? It's a turkey!"
"Do you know how to stuff a bird?"
Brodie scowled. "That's my wife's job."
"Well, let me explain. This is the head-end, and that's the tail-end. There are two cavities. Put your hand in the breast cavity and see what you find."
Reluctantly and suspiciously, the chief did as instructed and drew out a plastic bag. "That's the neck! Are you playin' games?"
"Now put your hand in the body cavity. That's where they always store the sack of giblets."
With a glowering glance at his friend, Brodie thrust his hand into the bird. Immediately, a strange expression spread across his craggy face. It was a mixture of shock and disbelief. "What the hell!" he blurted as he drew forth a small handgun. "Who gave you this bird?"
"Nick Bamba. It was frozen solid when it arrived- probably part of a shipment going Down Below. It's been thawing in the fridge for two days, and Koko's been going crazy. Do you want a plastic bag for the evidence?"
"Gimme a trash bag," Andy said. "I'm taking the whole bird."
"There goes your turkey," Qwilleran said to Koko. To his surprise, the cat seemed unconcerned, sitting on his haunches in his kangaroo pose and grooming a small patch of fur on his chest. Could it be that Koko sensed there was something not quite right about that turkey? Qwilleran himself sensed there was something not quite right at the Cold Turkey Farm. Nick Bamba, he knew, needed a large work force, since young turkeys required much attention. Supervisory and technical posts were held by full-time workers with special skills, but there were jobs for college students and others needing part time employment or a second source of income. Nick's contingency payroll included off-duty police officers, clerks from the public library, the beefy installer from the design studio, an alterations apprentice from the men's store, and two of Mrs. Toodle's grandchildren. Lenny Inchpot wanted to sign on, after his job at the hotel blew up, but his mother vetoed it for reasons of her own.
Did one of these employees shoot the florist and hide the gun in a turkey to be shipped Down Below? Was it assumed that the bird would be lost in a labyrinth of human chaos in some distant metropolis? That was hardly smart thinking; the plastic wrapper clearly identified its source. On the other hand, the lucky recipient might consider it a wonderful Crackerjack prize-something to keep handy for the next prowler, attacker, mugger, burglar, carjacker, or other urban menace.
So... who was guilty of the homicide, and was he the accomplice of the original bomber? Certainly it was not the fresh-faced Toodle grandchildren... nor the fun-loving bumpkin who installed wall-to-wall carpet for Amanda... nor the honeybees' best friend, who was too humane to hook a fish or swat a fly. It was after midnight. Qwilleran wondered if Aubrey Scotten had recovered enough to report to his midnight shift at the Cold Turkey Farm. Or had his mother stuffed him with homemade food and sent him to bed early?
17
The morning after the cheese-tasting and Koko's calamitous catfit, the Country Club sent a crew to remove the folding tables and silver punch bowls and return the furniture to its normal arrangement. Meanwhile, Qwilleran spent the morning in his balcony studio, writing a thousand words about cheese. In two weeks he had learned a great deal from Jack Nibble and quoted him at length: "Never grate cheese in advance... To get your money's worth from cheese, serve it at room temperature... Cheese belongs with a good meal and makes a bad one better."
In the afternoon, Qwilleran went for a long bike ride, hoping to clarify his thinking on various matters; too much had been happening too fast. He walked through the woods to the carriage house, where his bike was parked in one of the stalls, and waved to Celia Robinson. She was having a jolly conversation with Mr. O'Dell, who was there to blow fallen leaves into huge piles for the city's vacuum truck.
"Nice man," she commented to Qwilleran as he tested the air in his tires. "Isn't this a wonderful day for a bike ride? Where are you going?"
"Out Ittibittiwassee Road to the stone bridge and back the same way."
"Oh, my! That's quite a ways! How long will it take?"
"Couple of hours."
"Well, be careful. Get back before dark!"
Ittibittiwassee Road, part of the route for the Labor Day Race, still had the orange-and-white markers planted on the shoulder by the Pedal Club. They would remain in place until November, at which time the county snowplows would send them flying through the air like toothpicks. When Qwilleran turned onto the highway at the Dimsdale Diner, the first milepost he encountered was number 15. From there he ticked off his thoughts by the mile: