First he relegated the cheese compendium to the tool-shed, hoping it would lose its scent in a few days. Next he consulted the Black Creek section of the phone book and called a number. There were many rings before anyone answered.
A crotchety, cracked voice shouted, "Who's this?"
"Are you Mr. Limburger?"
"If that's who you called, that's who you got. Whaddaya want?"
"I'm Jim Qwilleran from the Moose County Something."
"Don't wanna take the paper. Costs too much."
"That's not why I'm calling, sir. Are you the owner of the New Pickax Hotel?"
"None o' yer business."
"I'd like to write a history of the famous hotel, Mr. Limburger," Qwilleran persisted in a genial voice.
"What fer?"
"It's been a landmark for over a hundred years, and our readers would be interested in - "
"So whaddaya wanna know?"
"I'd like to visit you and ask some questions."
"When?" the old man demanded in a hostile tone.
"How about tomorrow morning around eleven o'clock?"
"lffen I'm here. I'm eighty-two. I could kick the bucket any ol' time."
"I'll take a chance," Qwilleran said pleasantly. "You sound healthy."
"N-n-now!" came a cry not far from the mouthpiece of the phone.
"Whazzat?"
"Just a low-flying plane. See you tomorrow, Mr. Limburger." He heard the old man slam down the receiver, and he chuckled.
Before going to see Polly, Qwilleran read the fact sheet about the Great Food Explo. The opening festivities would center about a complex called Stables Row. It occupied a block-long stone building on a back street in downtown Pickax. In horse-and-buggy days it had been a ten-cent barn: all-day stabling and a bucket of oats for a dime. Later it was adapted for contemporary use, housing stores, repair shops, and offices in ever-changing variety. Now it was embarking on a bright new life. Large and small spaces had been remodeled to accommodate a pasty parlor, soup bar, bakery, wine and cheese shop, kitchen boutique, old-fashioned soda fountain, and health food store.
Special events during the Explo would include a pastry bake-off, a celebrity dinner-date auction, and a series of cooking classes for men only. Qwilleran knew his friends would coax him into enrolling, but he knew all he wanted to know about cooking: he could thaw a frozen dinner to perfection. He opened a can of minced clams for the Siamese and said, "Okay, you guys. Try to stay out of trouble while I'm gone. I'm going to visit your cousin Bootsie."
Qwilleran drove his car to Pleasant Street, a neighbor- hood of Victorian frame houses built by affluent Pickaxians in an era when carpenters had just discovered the jigsaw. Porches, eaves, bay windows, and gables had been lavished with fancy wood trim, to the extent that Pleasant Street had been nicknamed Gingerbread Alley. Here Polly's unmarried sister-in-law, the last Duncan-by-blood, had inherited the ancestral home, and here Polly was recuperating.
On arrival, Qwilleran went slowly up the front walk, gazing up at the architectural excesses with amazement. He was unaware that Bootsie, Polly's adored Siamese, was watching him from a front window. The two males - competitors for Polly's affection - had never been friendly but managed to observe an uneasy detente. Qwilleran turned a knob in the front door, which jangled a bell in the entrance hall, and Polly arrived in a flurry of filmy blue. She was wearing a voluminous caftan that he had given her as a get-well gift.
"Polly! You're looking wonderful!" he exclaimed. It had been painful to see her pale and listless. Now her eyes were sparkling, and her winning smile had returned.
"All it takes is a good medical report plus some blusher and eye shadow," she said gaily. "Brenda came over today to do my hair."
They clung together in a voluptuous embrace until Bootsie protested.
"Lynette has gone to her bridge club tonight, so we can have a tˆte-…-tˆte with tea and cookies. The hospital dietician gave me a cookie recipe with no sugar, no butter, no eggs, and no salt."
"They sound delectable," he said dryly.
They went into the parlor, which several generations of Duncans had maintained in the spirit of the nineteenth century, with velvet draperies, fringed lamp shades, pictures in ornate frames, and rugs on top of rugs. A round lamp table was skirted down to the floor, and as Qwilleran entered the room to take a chair, a fifteen-pound missile shout out from under the skirt and crashed into his legs.
"Naughty, naughty!" Polly scolded with more love than rebuke. To Qwilleran she explained, "He was only playing games."
Oh, sure, he thought. "Lynette wants me to move in permanently, and I'm tempted, because Bootsie loves the house. So many places to hide!"
"So I've noticed. Does he ambush all your visitors? It's a good thing I have a strong heart and nerves of steel."
Polly laughed softly. "How do you like the cookies?"
"Not bad. Not bad. All they need is a little sugar, butter, egg, and salt."
"Now you're teasing! But that's all right. I'm happy to be alive and well and teasable... Guess who visited me today and brought some gourmet mushroom soup! Elaine Fetter!"
"Do I know her?"
"You should. She's a zealous volunteer who works hard at working for nothing. She volunteers at the hospital, the historical museum, and the library. I find her very good on phones and cataloguing, but she's not well-liked, being somewhat of a snob. She lives in West Middle Hummock, and we all know that's a status address, and her late husband was an attorney with Hasselrich Bennett & Barter."
"How was the soup?"
"Delicious, but too rich for my diet. Gourmet cooks have a heavy hand with butter and cream. Incidentally, she grows her own mushrooms - shiitake, no less."
Qwilleran's interest was alerted. Here was a subject for the "Qwill Pen." There was something mysterious about mushrooms, and even more so about shiitake. "Would she agree to an interview?"
"Would she! Elaine loves having her name in the paper."
"When will you feel like restaurant dining again, Polly? I've missed you." Dining out was one of his chief pleasures, and he was a gracious host.
"Soon, dear, but I must be careful to order wisely. The dietician gave me a list of recommended substitutes, and she stressed small portions."
"I'll speak to the chef at the Old Stone Mill," Qwilleran said. "For you he'll be glad to prepare a three-ounce broiled substitute with a light substitute sauce."
She trilled her musical laugh. It was good to hear her laughter again. He realized now that her physical condition had affected her disposition, long before she felt chest pains.
"Did you have any other visitors today?" he asked, thinking about Dr. Prelligate. The president of the new college was being much too attentive to Polly, in Qwilleran's estimation, and the man's motives were open to question.
"The only one was my assistant," she said. "Mrs. AIstock brought some papers from the library for me to sign. She's doing an excellent job in my absence."
"I hope she filled you in on the latest gossip."
"Well - you probably know this - Derek Cuttlebrink is enrolled in Restaurant Management at the college. No doubt it was Elizabeth Hart's influence."
"Yes, a girlfriend with an income of a half-million can be subtly influential. Let's hope that Derek has finally found a career direction... What else did you hear from the library grapevine?"
"That Pickax is going to have a pickle factory. Is that good or bad?"
"Not good. We'll have to choose a Pickle Queen as well as a Potato Queen and a Trout Queen. The whole town will smell of dill and garlic from July to October."
"I thought you liked garlic, dear." She was goading him gently.
"Not as a substitute for fresh air. Can you imagine the TV commercials for Pickax Pickles? They'd be done in animation, of course-a row of pickles wearing tutus and dancing to the Pickax Polka, with pickle-voices screaming, 'Perk up with Pickax Pickles.'... No, tell Mrs. Alstock there's no pickle factory on the K Fund agenda for economic development. The rumor mongers will have to go back to the drawing board."