I agreed. But if Khat was eating Lila’s French fries and cream gravy for lunch, I could see why his low-calorie cat food hadn’t done a thing for him. “If you see him,” I said, “please put him in a closet and call me right away.”
Lila arched her skinny eyebrows. “Put that cat in a closet? It’d be like tryin’ to shut a mountain lion into the privy. But if I see him, I’ll sure let you know.” She poured herself a cup of coffee and dumped sugar into it, giving me a quizzical look. “What’s this I hear about Janet cookin’ up some sort of married cheese stuff for the Friends of the Library?”
“It’s marinated cheese,” I said. “Little balls of mozzarella, soaked in basil vinegar. They go in a salad.”
“Cheese in vinegar?” Lila gave a delicate shudder. “Don’t sound just real good to me. Is that girl sure she knows what she’s doin’?”
“Of course she does,” I said defensively. “Janet’s been to cooking school.”
Lila gave me a look that said, plain as day, that cooking school was part of the problem. She leaned against the counter, sipping her coffee. “Well, if the Friends turn up their noses at married cheese, you just send ’em on over here. Friday is meat loaf. I ain’t no gourmet cook, but nobody ever has a bad word to say about my meat loaf.”
I was taping my flyer in the window when Hark Hibler came along, headed for a cup of Lila’s coffee. Hark is the managing editor at the Enterprise, Pecan Springs’s newspaper, which is owned by the Seidensticker family. A while back, he asked if I’d take over the Thursday Home and Garden page, so strictly speaking, he’s my boss. Of course, he wouldn’t be my boss if the Enterprise had continued to be a weekly, as it had been for decades. But last year, Arlene Seidensticker decided that Pecan Springs deserved a daily, which means that Hark is always hard up for news. He frequents the Diner because it’s the best place in town to plug into the grapevine and get an earful of the local stories making the rounds. Where the grapevine is concerned, Lila is like one of those old-fashioned telephone operators, sitting at a switchboard with a direct line into every household in town. What she doesn’t know isn’t worth knowing.
LILA JENNINGS’ FRIDAY SPECIAL MEAT LOAF
1½ pounds ground beef or ground sirloin
2 tablespoons bread or cracker crumbs
1 egg, beaten
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 small onion, chopped
1 teaspoon chile powder
1 teaspoon salt
Barbecue sauce
Mix all ingredients except for the barbecue sauce. Form into a large loaf and place in a baking pan. Pour barbecue sauce over the top. Bake for 90 minutes at 350°F. Let stand for 5 minutes before serving. Makes six servings.
“Lost your cat, huh?” he grunted, glancing at the flyer I’d just posted. “I’ve got a hole at the bottom of tomorrow’s page three. How about if I run a story on him?”
“Oh, would you?” I said gratefully. I handed him my last flyer. “I’ll go home and get the photo so Ethel can scan it into the computer.” Along with becoming a daily, the Enterprise added a couple of computers. Hark wasn’t happy about that, either, but he and Ethel Fritz, his assistant editor, couldn’t put out even a little daily if they had to do it with old-fashioned equipment.
Hark peered at the photo. “I know this cat,” he said. “He’s not exactly the sort of animal you pass by without noticing.”
“Everybody else in town knows him, too,” I replied testily. “Mr. Cowan throws zucchini at him, Vivian Baxter is waiting with a flyswatter, Mr. Cavette feeds him catfish, and Lila makes sure he gets French fries and cream gravy for lunch.” I was beginning to feel that Khat was public property. “So what’s your connection to him?”
“Oh, no connection. I just mean that I saw him. Last night, maybe? No, it was this morning—I think.”
I stared. “This morning! Where?”
“In a tree. On my way to the gym, maybe? No, on my way to work.” Hark pulled at his moustache. You’d think that a newspaperman would have a head for dates and places, but Hark sometimes has a problem with details. “I can’t remember exactly, but—”
“Try,” I said urgently. Hark’s bachelor pad isn’t far from the Enterprise office, or from the gym, for that matter. Surely it wouldn’t be too hard to remember where he’d seen a big Siamese perched in a tree.
Hark shifted from one foot to the other. “I think it was that pecan tree at the corner of Comanche and Pecos,” he said finally. “Beside the vacant house—the old Gillis house.” He paused, frowning. “Except it’s not vacant anymore. Somebody moved in last week. I saw a moving van parked out front, and a woman carrying some boxes—”
But I was already racing for my bike.
The Gillis house is one of those places you’d love to inherit, if only it wouldn’t take the entire national defense budget to make it livable. It’s been vacant for three or four years, ever since old Mrs. Gillis died, and it needs a new roof, a new front porch, windows, doors, and probably a fortune in paint, plumbing, and wiring. But Hark was right. Somebody had moved into it. Sheets were hanging over the vacant front windows, and there was a pile of empty moving boxes on the front porch. The pecan tree was empty, however, except for a flock of Mr. Cowan’s rabble-rousing grackles. There was no sign of Khat.
I knocked at the front door, waited for a moment or two, and then knocked again. No answer. I went around to the back, and found a car parked in the old garage—risky business, I thought, because the garage roof looked as if it could collapse if so much as a leaf fell on it. I knocked on the back door. No answer there, either. I made a fist and banged, loudly, and this time I thought I heard something. A meow?
“Khat?” I called anxiously. “Khat, is that you?” And then, when I heard a familiar, throaty meow and some urgent scratching on the other side of the door, I cried, “Khat, it is you! What are you doing in this house, you bad kitty? You come out this minute, do you hear? This is not your house. You don’t belong here.”
If you think I’m in the habit of lecturing delinquent cats through the locked doors of other people’s houses, you’re wrong. But in this case, I felt completely justified. And what’s more, I felt equally justified in giving the door a very firm shove with my shoulder.
That did it. The old door opened with a shriek of rusty hinges, and I stumbled inside. The back entry was dark and so full of ancient dust that I had to sneeze. But there was Khat, winding himself around my ankles, butting his head against my calves, and meowing imperiously as if to demand, “What took you so long? I expected you two days ago!”
I bent over, scooped him up in my arms, and snuggled my cheek against his dusty fur. He might have been a bit lighter for having missed out on Lila’s French fries and cream gravy for the last few days, but not noticeably so. He allowed me to caress and croon to him for a moment, and then jumped out of my arms, landing lightly on the floor. With a peremptory crook in his tail, as if to beckon me to follow him, he made for the dark stairway at the end of the hall.
That was when I heard it. A low, distraught moan, almost inaudible. Khat meowed again, more loudly, and again I heard the moan.
“Is somebody here?” I called. I fumbled for the wall switch beside the stairs and a bare bulb came on. “Do you need help? Where are you?”
“Mrrrow!” said Khat, and raised his paw as if to point.
That was how I found her. The narrow stairway to the second floor had collapsed, and the new owner of the old Gillis house—a heavyset woman in her mid fifties—had fallen through, all the way into the crawl space under the house. She was half-sitting, half-lying on the dirt, pinned down by a heavy wooden beam.
It took only a few minutes for the Pecan Springs Fire Department to answer my phone call, and by the time a couple of burly firemen had dug the victim out and hoisted her up, EMS was there to take her to the hospital.
Later, I learned that the woman’s name was Ivy O’Toole, and that she had recently purchased the old house with the intention of fixin
g it up. But on Tuesday afternoon, as Ivy carried a big load of books up the stairs, the rotten wood had given way beneath her. Her injuries weren’t terribly serious—a concussion, several cracked ribs, a broken ankle, and dehydration—but she was convinced that she would have died if it hadn’t been for Khat.
“It wasn’t just that he kept me company the whole time,” she said when Hark, Khat, and I went to visit her in the hospital, “although that by itself was enormously cheering. He’s a very companionable creature with a remarkable vocal range. It’s almost as if he’s talking to you.” She turned to me. “But if you hadn’t come looking for him, China, I have no idea how long it would have been before someone came looking for me.” She gave a rueful laugh. “Weeks, probably. I don’t know a soul in Pecan Springs.”
“Look pretty,” Hark said cheerily, and snapped a photo of Ivy sitting up in her hospital bed with Khat K’o Kung in her arms. Hark was pleased because a dinky little lost-cat story had developed into a much more satisfying cat-saves-human-life story, and was now front and center on Page One, under the banner headline, THE KHAT WHO BECAME A HERO.
When the Enterprise hit the streets the next morning, Khat was an instant celebrity. A day or so later, a television crew from Austin came to interview Ivy and me and shoot some footage of Khat, who assumed an air of imperial dignity, scarcely condescending to glance at the camera. For the occasion, Ivy gave him a new red-velvet cat collar, hung with a gold medallion that said HERO KITTY. Lila Jennings dispatched a plate of freshly fried French fries and some cream gravy, topped with half a jelly doughnut. Junior Cavette drove over on his motorbike to deliver a fresh catfish, Vivian Baxter brought an entire family of catnip mice, and even Mr. Cowan sent something—a half bushel of zucchini. I was just happy to have Khat K’o Kung back where he belonged, as sleek and inscrutable as ever, basking in the morning sunshine on the shop’s front windowsill.
There was only one thing wrong. Janet hadn’t had time to drive to San Antonio to look for the bocconcini, so she bought two pounds of mozzarella at Cavette’s and cut it into cubes before she marinated it in basil vinegar with lemon juice, chopped fresh basil, and dried red pepper. Nobody seemed to notice the difference, although one of the Friends did ask about all those little red flecks sticking to the cheese.
“Looks like red paint,” she said, poking it doubtfully with her fork. “Is it for decoration, or are we supposed to eat it?”
I won’t tell you what Janet said.
The Recipes for Janet’s Luncheon
SPICY TOMATO JUICE COCKTAIL
3 quarts tomato juice
½ teaspoon celery salt
½ teaspoon onion salt
1 tablespoon fresh snipped dill
1 teaspoon prepared horseradish
1 teaspoon lime juice
½ teaspoon Worcestershire sauce
Combine all ingredients in a nonreactive pan (glass or stainless) and heat thoroughly, stirring to mix well. Refrigerate for a day or so to allow the flavors to blend. Serve with a parsley garnish.
HERBED BREADSTICKS
2 cups white flour
About 1½ cups whole-wheat flour
1 package active dry yeast
1 tablespoon brown sugar
1 teaspoon celery salt
1 teaspoon garlic salt
2 teaspoons celery seed
2 teaspoons dill seed
1½ cups warm water
1 large egg
1 tablespoon water
2 tablespoons white sesame seed
Place the white flour, yeast, sugar, celery salt, garlic salt, celery seed, and dill seed in a mixing bowl. Add warm water and beat with an electric mixer for 4 to 5 minutes, until batter is thick and sticky. Mix in whole-wheat flour, ½ cup at a time, until the dough comes away from the sides of the bowl. Turn it onto a floured board and knead until a soft, elastic dough is formed, adding more whole-wheat flour as necessary. Place the dough in a lightly oiled bowl, turning to oil the top, and cover with a damp towel. Let rise in a warm place until double, about 1 hour. Punch dough down and divide into quarters. Divide each quarter into four pieces (making 16 pieces), and these into thirds (48 pieces). Roll the pieces into eight-inch sticks and place on greased baking sheet, one-half inch apart. For egg wash, mix egg and water and brush onto breadsticks. Sprinkle with sesame seeds. Bake in 400°F oven for 12 to 15 minutes. Makes forty-eight.
FRESH GREEN SALAD WITH CHERRY TOMATOES, MUSHROOMS, AND BOCCONCINI
½ pound arugula, fresh spinach, other greens
½ pound cherry tomatoes
½ pound button mushrooms, stems removed, caps wiped
clean and sliced
½ pound bocconcini
3 tablespoons olive oil
4 tablespoons basil vinegar
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
½ teaspoon red pepper flakes
3 tablespoons fresh chopped basil
Croutons for garnish
Mix together the oil, vinegar, lemon juice, red pepper flakes, and chopped basil. Pour over tomatoes, mushrooms, and bocconcini and marinate for several hours. Just before serving, arrange torn greens on chilled serving plates, and add marinated tomatoes, mushrooms, and bocconcini. Garnish with croutons. Serves six.
CHICKEN IN SUN-DRIED TOMATO SAUCE, SERVED OVER PASTA
4 large chicken breasts, boned and skinned,
cut into strips
1 tablespoon olive oil
3 tablespoons butter
3 tablespoons flour, mixed with ½ teaspoon paprika
2 green onions, chopped fine
½ cup sun-dried, oil-packed tomatoes,
drained and chopped
½ cup white wine
2 teaspoons chopped fresh oregano
(or 1 teaspoon dried)
cup half-and-half
Salt and pepper to taste
1 pound fettuccini, linguini, or wide noodles, cooked al
dente in boiling water
Melt oil and butter in skillet. Toss chicken strips with flour-paprika mixture and brown over medium-high heat until just cooked. Remove to a plate. Add chopped green onions to the skillet and sauté over medium heat for one minute. Stir in sun-dried tomatoes, wine, and oregano, scraping up bits of chicken. Stir in half-and-half, bring to a boil, reduce heat, and simmer until the sauce thickens. Return chicken to skillet to reheat. Season to taste. Serve over cooked pasta. Serves four.
GINGER-PEACHY MELONS
6 fresh peaches, medium-size, peeled, pitted, and sliced
1 small cantaloupe, peeled, seeded, and cut into ½-inch
cubes
1 small honeydew melon, peeled, seeded, and cut into
½-inch cubes
½ cup orange juice
2 tablespoons lemon juice
1 teaspoon grated fresh ginger
2 tablespoons candied ginger, chopped fine
1 tablespoon honey
Mint sprigs for garnish
Mix together the orange juice, lemon juice, grated ginger, candied ginger, and honey. Place the fruit in a large bowl and pour the juices over it, stirring gently. Refrigerate until serving time (up to 8 hours). Serves six.
THE ROSEMARY CAPER
COMPARED to my former life as a Houston criminal defense attorney, where every day was a battleground and every encounter a combat, my life in Pecan Springs flows as smoothly as that sweet sorghum molasses they make over in East Texas. But every now and then there’s a hitch in our git-along, as we say around here, and something happens to remind me that ugliness happens in even the prettiest places.
One Tuesday morning last month, for instance, when Pansy Pride came into the store, distraught. Pansy is the president of our local herb club, the Myra Merryweather Herb Guild, which is named for the energetic lady who organized the Guild back in the ’30s and whose memory is still much loved today. Pansy is a short, bouncy woman with short gray curls. She wasn’t bouncy that morning, though. She was wringing her hands.
“China, something awful has
happened!” she cried. “You’ve got to help!”
I went to the hospitality shelf, poured a cup of just-brewed lavender-mint tea, handed Pansy a ginger cookie, and told her to calm down. She was so panicked that getting the story was like teasing a pecan out of a smashed shell. But when I finally pried the details out of her, I had to agree. Something definitely troubling had happened.
That morning, Pansy had gone over to the Guild House, where the club has its office and holds meetings. She didn’t notice anything unusual until she went up to the second-floor library. Most of the books aren’t in the least remarkable—donated cookbooks, herbals, and gardening how-to. But the Guild owns one crown jewel: Myra Merryweather’s Cookery Book, published in 1920. A book dealer in Houston appraised it for ten thousand dollars, because the author herself, a well-known Southern herbalist, had written notes in the margin.
“And that’s the book that’s missing!” Pansy wailed. “Myra’s Cookery Book has been stolen!”
I frowned. “I thought the book was kept in the Guild’s safety-deposit box at the bank.”
“It was, until just a few days ago,” Pansy said. “We took it out to put into the library.”
China likes to offer refreshments to her customers at Thyme and Seasons. Here are the recipes for the cookies and tea she was serving on the day that Pansy Pride dropped in—luckily, as it turned out. As medicinal herbs, both lavender and ginger are often used for their calming, soothing effect.
SPICY GINGER COOKIES
Preheat oven to 350°F. Cream the butter and 1 cup sugar until light and fluffy. Stir in molasses, egg, and vanilla and mix well. Sift together flour, baking soda, spices, and salt. Add by thirds to creamed mixture, blending thoroughly. Sprinkle extra sugar on a baking sheet. Drop dough by tablespoons onto the sheet, and sprinkle with more sugar. Bake approximately 15 minutes, or until golden brown. Cool on a wire rack, and store in an airtight container. Makes about two dozen soft cookies.
An Unthymely Death Page 5
