Curds and Whey Box Set

by G M Eppers

  I turned my attention to the meeting. “Okay, people. First off, this Dispatch covers our missions from the capture of Boyd in D.C. to the Pappardelle crime family in Italy. Starting with Boyd, he pleaded guilty and was sentenced to eight years. He turned down the offer of a reduced sentence for naming any bigger fish, but there is intelligence that indicates he was a low level operative. While he serves his term he will be repeatedly offered a similar deal in hopes of getting a lead. Following Boyd was the standoff at the Grundy farm. The Myrtles received two years’ probation and time served because it was a first offense for all of them. And I’m glad to note that all of their cows were recovered and are now back home with them on the farm. The senior Grundy is being charged with reckless endangerment and may lose custody of his underage children. That decision is still pending. Casper Ferruz, as you’ll recall, committed suicide at the scene in Paris. The store manager pleaded guilty and was sentenced to 25 years in prison.” Sentencing in France is quite strict. Had he been in the United States, the same crime might have gotten him ten years at the most. “Which brings us to our old friend, Rennet Butler. You’ll remember that his most recent escape happened because of flooding due to Hurricane Scarlett. In an effort to prevent this from happening again, he is being transferred inland to Leavenworth Prison where he will have another twenty years added on due to his escape. That makes his current sentence 275 years. And lastly, General Emilio Gacha has been determined mentally unfit to stand trial. He is currently held at The Hague, but he will be remanded to Holy Mother of the Mind mental institution in Arlington, Virginia and will stand trial when he recovers.”

  “They took his guns away, right?” asked Billings.

  “Now who would let the mentally ill have guns, Billings? That’s idiotic. Of course they took them away. Unfortunately, he’s also lost his commission in the Army and his military pension.”

  “I almost feel sorry for him,” he said sadly. “That’s a lot to lose.”

  “Billings,” I reminded him, “he strung us up like slaughtered pigs.”

  “I said almost.”

  I decided to move on. “Are there any questions on our dispositions?”

  Badger raised a finger, then started talking. “Leavenworth is only medium security. Do they think they can hold Butler?”

  “I can’t speak for them, but it’s not like Butler has made active attempts to escape. His escapes have all been a product of opportunity.” His first two escapes had actually been as a third wheel when his cellmates had masterminded a way out of prison. Rather than being a prison Houdini, he was simply much better at staying at large once he was out. “He’s being placed in a private cell, which should also help keep him in place.” Personally, I would have enjoyed him having a cell mate. Say, the large tattooed gentleman I’d heard about named Cray Cray who once attacked a guard for using only half of his name. The guard can be seen regularly as a victim on Shark Week. The producers save a lot of money because he doesn’t need any gruesome make-up. He just has to take his shirt off.

  “Team B is in Australia tracking an Uber cheddar factory that appears to be on the move constantly. At last report they were somewhere in the outback, but because of their remote location reports have been sketchy.” This was almost literal. An entire page was a pencil drawing of a termite mound and a tarantula eating a lizard. I do NOT want to go to Australia.

  “And why aren’t we the ones in Australia?” asked Sylvia. “That cheddar was our bust. Instead we’re going to Minnesota. In November.”

  “That decision was Miss Chiff’s,” I said. As I mentioned her name, I glanced down to see how she and Knobby were doing with the cats. Knobby had Harelip on his lap and the cat was writhing in attention ecstasy. But Backwash had perched on the seatback in front of Miss Chiff. He faced her, but was trying hard to appear indifferent. As I watched, Miss Chiff slipped a silver flask out of her carpetbag, twisted it open, and took a quick drink before putting it back. I was stunned into silence, not believing what I had just seen. I wasn’t sure what to do about it. Perhaps it was medicine. Cough syrup maybe. I hadn’t heard her coughing or anything, but if she had a tickle in her throat she may have wanted to nip it in the bud before getting to the Mayo Clinic. Many adults didn’t bother measuring the dose with a spoon, but why would she have it in a flask? Or perhaps she was a nervous flier and had just a nip to help her through the flight, and that would be all there was to it. I filed the incident away, hoping I wouldn’t need to do anything, and returned my attention to the Dispatch.

  I waited for any other questions regarding Team B’s activity but there were none, so I moved on. “Team C, as Miss Chiff mentioned, has been in Africa for several weeks.” This was also where previewing the Dispatch was important. The secretary on Team C considers herself quite the creative writer and her mission reports took up several pages. Thanks to her I now know the exact colors of the sunset over the Serengeti, what it’s like to spend a night in the Sahara, and the shape of the snowcaps on Mount Kilimanjaro. On this particular day they looked like a clock in a Salvadore Dali painting. “They recovered the famed Uber Falcon in Morocco.” The Uber Falcon is a large bird carved from a block of caravane and covered with a protective layer of black wax.

  “It’s one of the strongest Uber cheeses known to exist due to the unique mixture of camel milk,” said Sir Haughty. “I’m glad it’s being destroyed.”

  “Oh, it won’t be destroyed,” I told him. “It’s being sent to the Uberheim Museum in Switzerland.” The Uberheim is the home of several Uber artifacts, such as the Great Block of China, the only Uber cheese known to have come from Asia; the original CURDS Constitutional Charter; and the Uber Elvis, found in a bag of cheese curds in a small town near Big Dry Creek, Colorado. “Team C also delivered several kilos of zandam mascarpone to the South African chembassy just last week, before heading into the Congo where they are negotiating with local tribes.

  “Lastly, we have a few heads ups to cover. Last year, as you’ll recall, Team B made the mistake of accidentally running into an unrelated heroin sting operation being handled by the FBI.”

  “I remember that,” said Nitro, wincing in sympathy. “They ruined almost fourteen months of work and the cartel escaped prosecution. It was run by some German family, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, the Zecund family. It seems they are ready to take another crack at them, and so it won’t happen again they’ve agreed to disclose their ‘Stings in Progress’ to us. If we see or hear anything about them, we are to back off, no matter what. In short, Bartholomew Watt is heading the sting on the Zecund family. They are also currently in operations to take down the Herd family and the Firth family. Since crime families tend to have extremely wide influence, we need to be aware of these no matter where we are. The other two stings are being headed by Antoine Eyedeneaux and Sun Li Hu, respectively.”

  “We know Hu!” said Agnes excitedly. “She was in our Ninja class. She earned the coveted Paisley belt used only by our Sensei, Miso Gai.”

  “He believed strongly in rewarding exceptionalism,” explained Avis, “even though the Ninja philosophy devalues pride. But really, there was nothing else to do with Hu. We did a mock attack and she took down every one of us, including Gai. ‘When the student beats the teacher,’ he said, ‘the lesson is complete.’”

  “She beat him with a move she invented called the Hu Hold,” said Agnes.

  I’d heard of the Hu Hold. “That was this Hu?” I asked and they both nodded. We studied the Hu Hold in our hand-to-hand combat lessons at CURDS Academy, but mostly on theoretical terms. It’s a move used to temporarily blind your opponent by causing him or her to sneeze repeatedly as long as you can maintain your grip. Since no one can sneeze with their eyes open, it turns their world, at best, into a strobing nightmare but effectively blinds them. And if you can hold it long enough, they get so weak you can disarm them. Sneezing is very hard work, you know. It takes many months to master the hold and no one in our class was able to produce a sniff
le. It was something used to illustrate what we might face in combat. The instructor couldn’t do it either. She brought in a Kage Ninja to demonstrate, who had the instructor sneezing for more than two minutes straight.

  Avis said “We’re great at the Hu Hold, actually, but it’s not really fair. We have four hands available.” She raised a finger at her sister. “One of these days we should go back and try for the Paisley.” They linked pinky fingers and shook on it.

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” said Badger, trying to type into his phone. “That was a lot of names all at once. Who did you say was on the Herd Cartel?”

  “No, Hu is not on Herd,” I said. “Hu is on Firth.”

  Badger tapped on his phone. “So who is on Zecund, then?”

  “I just told you, Hu is on Firth! Watt’s on Zecund.”

  Nitro was clearly tapping delete repeatedly. “I thought Watt was on Herd.”

  “No, Eyedeneaux is on Herd.” I was trying very hard to be patient.

  “Then who is on Firth?” asked Nitro.

  It sounded more like a statement to me. “Yes,” I said. “That’s right.”

  “What’s right?” Nitro and Badger had both plummeted into full blown confusion. They leaned toward each other over the table to compare notes.

  Billings tried to help. “Watt’s on Zecund. There is no Wright. How do you tie your shoes?” He asked, amazed at the direction this discussion was taking.

  Blinking in innocence, Nitro said, “I wear loafers. I think I missed something. I don’t know.”

  “He’s on Herd,” I responded, gathering the pages and getting ready to dismiss the meeting.

  “Who’s on Herd?” Nitro asked.

  I slapped my folder shut. “Hu is on Firth.”

  He glanced at the screen on his phone. “I lost it. I don’t know who’s on Firth.” His finger scrolled up and down, in search of his place in his notes.

  I crossed my hands on top of the folder. “It’s Sun Li Hu and Antoine Eyedeneaux.”

  “Eyedenwho?” Now, it seemed, Roxy was lost.

  “Eyedeneaux. He’s on Herd.”

  Sylvia stood, sensing the meeting was about over. “If you don’t know who’s on Herd, why do you keep saying it?”

  “Hu is not on Herd. Hu is on Firth.” I recited the whole thing once again. “Hu is on Firth. Watt’s on Zecund. Eyedeneaux is on Herd.”

  That’s when Sylvia broke up. Laughter spurted out of her mouth uncontrollably, and a moment later the rest were laughing too until I finally joined in. “You guys are incorrigible. I hope you’re wearing your parachutes because I’m throwing you all off the plane.”

  Chapter Four

  We adjourned the meeting and moved back down to the lower level. “How are we doing, Knobby? Miss Chiff? Enjoying the flight?” I asked our guests. It was a good way to judge whether Miss Chiff was, in fact, a nervous flyer or not. But she simply nodded, one hand draped over her carpetbag as if she feared someone might take it.

  “I like the cats,” said Knobby, providing Harelip with the best tummy rub she’s ever had. “Everything is better with cats. Except maybe a dog show. That would probably be bad.” Harelip had ceased squirming in delight and was now audibly purring and completely content as Knobby kneaded her belly. She stretched out one paw and spread the toes before curling it back up under her.

  T.B. had followed us down the stairs and climbed up toward Backwash, going nose to nose for a moment. He was probably checking in to find out what he had missed. Backwash jumped down and began making the rounds as the team members took their seats, taking out ereaders, cell phones, and in Roxy’s case, her bag of crochet. “Don’t laugh,” she said. It was the first time she was engaging in the hobby in front of everyone and there were a number of pointed looks. “It’s the perfect hobby for our situation. I can do it for five seconds or five hours and any time period in between. It’s easily portable as long as I don’t do an afghan. Mrs. Montana told me about it.” T.B. jumped down from the seat and went to investigate this new thing on the plane. He sniffed at the bright red yarn as it stretched from the bag to Roxy’s lap, then pawed it curiously. “No no,” she said gently. T.B. sat, watching the yarn the way a four-year-old child watches Saturday morning cartoons.

  I looked at the project in her lap, which was now close to a square. I could see extensions coming off one end of the square. “You doing fringe?” I asked. That seemed rather advanced for someone who just learned it the night before.

  Roxy lifted the square. It didn’t look like fringe. It looked like an udder. “I hadn’t planned on it. I think I might have mixed up the patterns. The pages got scattered last night when I went to my room.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to take it apart and start over? Mom said it was called frogging because you ribbit ribbit ribbit.” I’d often seen Mom pulling apart her projects while muttering an obscene word under her breath.

  “Pull it apart! Heavens no! I worked hard on that. I can’t wait to see how it turns out.” And she continued crocheting, shooing T.B. every thirty seconds or so, consulting the pattern page that was propped up inside the opposite side of the bag.

  “Hey, look at the mighty hunter,” said Badger, having no interest whatsoever in Roxy’s handcraft. I followed his gesture to see Backwash crouching, his rear end wiggling, his tail whipping, staring fixedly at the far edge of the floor near the bottom of the staircase. “He probably sees a bug.”

  “Billings, go see what he’s looking at,” I said, lifting my feet onto the seat of my chair. My immediate thought on hearing of a bug is always that it might be a spider. I’d rather see a gremlin on the wing than a spider on the floor of the plane. At least the gremlin would be outside.

  Miss Chiff poo-pooed me. “Really, Ms. Montana?” Backwash shot forward, pawing frantically at the edge of the floor and trying to bite something, and I hugged my knees a little tighter. With a sigh, Miss Chiff rose and went to investigate, beating Billings to the spot by a fraction of a second. She peered down through her half-spectacles. “Oh, it’s just a loose thread, you silly cat.” Billings reached down, but she blocked his hand. “No, don’t pull it. You’ll unravel the carpet. Miss Dubois, do you have a pair of scissors in that bag?”

  “Of course,” said Roxy, putting down her crocheting to fish for it. She came out with a small pair of scissors. By that time, Billings had come over to retrieve them and T.B., taking advantage of the distracted humans, had hooked a claw into the scarf thing on Roxy’s lap. She leapt up to scold T.B. and tried to get her project back, but T.B. ran, dragging the thing under his feet and stumbling away. Billings, his hand wrapped around the blades of the scissors, used his other hand to grab at T.B., who freaked and raced awkwardly through the cabin, performing an almost spot on shoulder roll which finally extricated his claws. The scarf thing lay on the floor and T.B. ran under the seat I was sitting in.

  I reached down to calm him, while Billings first picked up the scarf thing and gave it back to Roxy, then took the scissors over to Miss Chiff, who I’d caught smiling just a little before her face returned to its usual state of disapproval. She took the scissors and snipped off the loose thread, which was lengthy and gnarled and did indeed look like a spider. With no trashcan in sight, she crumpled it into the palm of her hand and dropped it into her carpetbag.

  Which reminded me about the silver flask hiding in there. I made a mental note to watch Miss Chiff to see if she fingered her throat, as one might do when one has a tickle, or if she did any gesture that might hide a cough. I was kind of hoping for walking pneumonia, rather than what it had looked like. I didn’t want to think about our Miss Chiff having a drinking problem.

  “Are the flights always this disruptive?” Miss Chiff asked, retaking her seat.

  “No, of course not.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. Flights were never boring with three cats on board, but I’m not sure disruptive was the right word.

  Dinny entered the cabin then, pushing a cart piled with covered trays. “Anyone hungry?�
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  There was a series of closely spaced thunks as we all pulled our seat trays into position. She served everyone a small salad and a six-inch submarine sandwich, offering ginger ale and iced tea. Billings traded his salad to Nitro in exchange for another sub and everyone ate. Roxy stuffed her yarn into her canvas bag, worried that the cats would go after it again, but they had sub droppings to entertain them now. It was no contest. Dinny parked the cart in an alcove and actually joined us, taking a spare seat and serving herself a tray of her own. She immediately extricated tiny portions of meat and shared some with each cat. Before long, Harelip was playing with a shard of lettuce and Backwash had commandeered a small hunk of bread, taking it into his mouth and spitting it out several times before chewing it into pieces.

  “I’m sorry you missed so much of Grandma’s visit, Mom,” said Billings, already half finished with his first sub. “She really seemed to click with pretty much everyone. It was something to see.”

  “Really? Knobby told me you had lunch. I’m glad you got to spend the time with her. You don’t get to see her very much. After all, I grew up with her. I’ve done my time. It’s your turn now.” I winked at him.

  “You shouldn’t talk like she’s such a burden. Grandma is a very smart woman. And more progressive than you think. I told her about my engagement to Avis and she didn’t bat an eye. She even encouraged it.”