Curds and Whey Box Set

by G M Eppers

  “They get a lot of business from local farmers,” Zickman explained. “They have to accommodate all kinds of tranportation.” We all exited the limousines and stood on a boardwalk near a large square building marked BEO. It had large double doors and Zickman told us it was a livery. “This is where we part company,” he told me. “You can find lodging at a number of B & B’s near here, and you can find public or rental transport just a few blocks away. I’ll be returning to Cork to my offices. I need to notify the authorities of the fire and compile a list of tag codes to fax to the Bureau in the morning. I appreciate your help, but it looks like this is a matter for local authorities.”

  We shook hands, wished each other luck, and Zickman climbed back into one of the limousines as the rest of us wandered down the rustic street. My stomach was rumbling painfully now. The apples had long since worn off. Because of the twins, we got more than the usual stares from passersby as we walked. There was a sidewalk, but it was spotted with damp dirt, and electric lights shone out of most of the street level windows. It was a street that overlapped both past and present, both old and new. Other horses and wagons clip clopped along, competing with dusty Hondas and rusty Volkswagens. A bus squealed to a stop a block away. Raucous laughter lead us to a likely establishment, the name of which Badger translated as Banshee’s Breath. It had three stories above the pub that we assumed held rooms for rent. Could have also been a brothel, but we decided to take our chances.

  We were such a large group that the room went silent for a moment when we went in, before the ambient noise resumed. The interior was dimly lit and built with dark cherry wood. Wooden booths and benches lined the walls, a few tables with chairs were scattered, and a long bar with a mirror behind it was located along the interior wall. Sturdy-looking staircases rose up along each end of the bar. Patrons were at nearly every seat, but wait staff, no doubt eying a sizable tip from such a large party, jumped to attention. A man and woman, both with greasy aprons, cleared a recently vacated booth, wiped it down, and pulled a table for two next to the edge. Each produced an extra chair and a stack of menus. “Welcome to Banshee’s Breath. What ye be drinking?”

  “I think we should get rooms first. Can everyone stand waiting just a little longer to eat?” Billings suggested.

  “Can we speak to the room clerk, please?” I told the waitress. “Hold the table. We’ll be back shortly.”

  “Aye,” said the man. “I be in charge of rooms. Right this way.”

  We booked three rooms, all on the second floor but not adjoining or even close to each other really. We were kindly informed that our firearms were not welcome in the pub and should be left in the rooms. There were guest operated safes in which to store them. We stripped down to basics, leaving our jackets and bags behind, bringing only our badges, cell phones, and wallets. We took the time to freshen up, and met again at the top of the stairs, then returned to the pub.

  The waitress came to the table and flipped her order pad to a new page. With pen poised, she asked for drink orders. I’d taken an outside seat on the extra table and before we got started I showed her my badge. “Ma’am,” I said, “we’re here representing CURDS and we’d like to ask you a few questions, is that all right?”

  Her head spun around as she checked the room, for what I wasn’t sure. Her hospitable smile vanished, but she said, “Ta,” keeping her voice low.

  Badger indicated that it was an affirmative response. So she understood English, but was uncomfortable speaking it? Badger put down his menu and paid attention, ready to translate. “Have you ever heard of Begorah Farms?”

  She reacted to the name. Her jet black hair slipped in front of one eye as she shook her head. It was clearly a lie. “How about Tevaughn Dunleavy? Do you know him?” It might have helped if we’d gotten a picture of him, but we had nothing of the kind.

  She tensed even further and shook her head again, her gaze sinking toward the floor. “Order, please.”

  “Billings, order my usual. I’m going to use the ladies room. Excuse me,” I said, pushing my chair back and getting up. I stepped away. To be honest, I was lying too. I’d used the bathroom upstairs. Fortunately for my hidden agenda, the waitress pointed across the room. As I maneuvered around the tables, I looked at people, hoping a face, an expression, might jump out at me and say, “he knows something.” There were a few, actually, but as I approached them they deliberately avoided me. One guy dropped his napkin on the opposite side and bent down to pick it up as I went by. Another consulted with a friend about something on the menu. A young woman spilled her water glass and rushed to soak up the liquid with hastily grabbed napkins.

  The bathroom was accessed through a small hallway. I went in to the sound of flushing. There were four stalls, the farthest one was wheelchair accessible. After a moment, an elderly woman came out, moving slowly but without aid. I smiled and started washing my hands. “Hello. Do you live here?”

  “Yes, dear. If you can call what I do living.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .”

  She stepped to a sink and turned on the tap to wash her hands. “Quite all right. It’s called getting old. Everyone does it. Are you enjoying Ireland?”

  “Oh, yes,” I said, soaping up. “It’s a beautiful country. I came to visit a place called Begorah Farms. Have you ever heard of it? It’s supposed to be near here.”

  The woman froze, her hands still under the running water. Suddenly, she turned off the water and grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser. “Can’t help you. Sorry. Pardon me, my friends are waiting.” And she shuffled out of the bathroom.

  Another flush and a woman, a tall brunette with long, straight hair, exited another stall. She caught my eye, then turned away and left without washing her hands. I wiped mine dry and went back to the table.

  “I ordered you an NBR hot dog, Mom. Or the Irish equivalent, I guess.” My guilty pleasure is a hot dog with about twelve pounds of relish on it. Here in Ireland, it was more likely to be a sausage cooked in beer, but it was the relish that was the important part, anyway. “Any luck?”

  “Nada. It’s like the place doesn’t exist.”

  “It doesn’t,” Sir Haughty reminded me. “Anymore.”

  Across from me, Agnes sipped an iced tea. “You know, I just had a thought.”

  “Only just?” asked Roxy.

  Agnes smirked, but didn’t take the bait. “Zickman said this town services the local farming community. Odds are there are people in this pub who know the O’Sheas, or knew, I guess, or know the Dunleavys.”

  Avis picked up her thought and continued, “Obviously, we can’t ask directly. So we build a back door.”

  “Word might get back to Tevaughn,” Billings warned. “Whatever he’s up to, he’ll lay low if he knows we’re still alive.” Some of us were trapped deep inside the booth, but those who could took a moment to scan the room, studying faces the way I had on the way to the restroom.

  “He’s not here. We may have to take that chance.” I pulled out my cell phone. “Before we do anything of the sort, we need to check the news feeds.” President Glenarrow had promised transparency, but I knew the police always held something back. “If Zickman is right and this all about jealousy, we may not need to stay involved.” Also, we’d been out of touch for several hours. Badger also took out his phone, as did Sir Haughty. The rest watched us. I saw I had a text message, and since everyone who normally texts me was at the table, I was curious. I tapped the app and saw that the text was attributed to Miss Chiff. Keeping my expression neutral, I opened it.

  Contact me at earliest convenience. Private. Not case related.

  My heart skipped a beat. My first thought was that something had happened to my mother, or to Butte, or both. But it didn’t sound like an emergency. She would have left a voice message. I glanced at Billings, but he had refrained from using his phone. The message appeared to be directed to me alone. Later, I told myself.

  “Well, President Glenarrow is true to her word,” s
aid Badger, our de facto secretary, as he scanned his feed. “Body found in Big Block of Cheese. Identity withheld pending notification of next of kin.” He paused as he continued reading. “They held back COD, implying, but not saying, that he drowned in it while the cheese was in its liquid state.”

  “Can you understand any conversations, Badger?” I asked quietly. “Is anyone talking about it?”

  He held still, listening to the drone of nearby patrons chattering away in Irish, then shook his head. “Not any that I’m catching. Nothing about cheese.”

  Nothing? The biggest news story of the year and nothing? Granted the year was only about three weeks old, but this should have been front page, even here in Ireland. I was starting to feel like it wasn’t about jealousy after all. That theory wasn’t sitting right with me, even though it was mine. “Keep an ear out.” He nodded. “Anything new from Roger?” I double checked my text app, but there was nothing else on my phone.

  His thumb danced on the screen as he checked email and texts. “Yes,” he said, blushing. “But it’s personal.” Tucking his phone back in, he added, “It’s still a bit early for the bones to be cleaned. There might be something tomorrow.”

  The food was delivered and we ate ravenously for several minutes. I ate fast enough to get a stubborn case of the hiccups and discreetly held my breath. Suddenly, Badger raised his head. “Ssh.” None of us had been talking and I was still holding my breath. It didn’t feel like it had been long enough to cure the hiccups. After a moment, Badger said, “I think I heard someone at the bar mention the O’Sheas, but I didn’t get the context.” He relaxed. “I’ll keep at it.” I let out my breath finally and was relieved to find my cure had worked. No hiccups.

  Sylvia was eating a burger with everything, which Nitro, sitting a bit too near, avoided looking at while spooning his ragout. “I have an idea, but we’re going to have to break a few rules.” Sylvia explained what she wanted to do, and yes, technically, it was breaking some CURDS rules, but it had the potential of getting us some information. It took a little prep work, which was easily accomplished as we ate our meal. As Badger tutored Roxy, she asked, “Can I pretend to be your girlfriend?”

  “How about you pretend to be my transvestite boyfriend,” countered Badger.

  Roxy wiggled in her seat, excited. Lowering her voice, she asked, “How’s this?”

  “Not that low. You sound like Clint Eastwood. Can you do Alan Rickman?”

  “Not as a transvestite. No.”

  I interrupted. “Skip it. Just be friends.”

  When everyone had finished eating, we paid our bills and patted our stomachs, expressing compliments to the chef. “Chef?” said the waitress with a smile. “Don’t let him hear you call him that. He’s a cook.” She leaned in conspiratorially, “He HATES the French.”

  “Whatever he wants to call himself, our compliments. The food was superb,” said Sir Haughty. We made a bit of noise extricating ourselves from the booth, exiting near the area of the bar where Badger thought he had heard something. As we slowly made our way toward the stairs, Sir Haughty said, “I believe I will stay for a drink.”

  Sylvia slapped the end of the bar, stopping herself right at the bottom of the stairs. “That sounds like an excellent idea. Always room for a drink, right?” She joined Sir Haughty as the rest of us melted into the corner. “The usual, Francis?”

  “Barkeep! Whiskey. Straight.” Just the sound of it made me cringe.

  “The same,” said Sylvia. She stared down Sir Haughty with her one real eye. The artificial eye was looking over his shoulder, but I’m not sure it was noticeable to anyone who didn’t know to look for it.

  There were no seats at that part of the bar, but we didn’t want to move down, so Sir Haughty and Sylvia stood there waiting for their drinks. The patrons sitting there watched them curiously.

  “A toast!” said Sir Haughty vigorously, raising his shot glass.

  At that point, as coached by Badger, Roxy spoke up. In Irish.

  Badger responded, translating the proposal for a toast. In this way, we made sure everyone would understand what was said, whether they spoke Irish or English. Standing near the staircase with me, Nitro turned his back to them. “Didn’t we do this same thing in Germany about four years ago?”

  “Yes. You ate too much sauerkraut and had to leave before we finished.”

  “I like sauerkraut.”

  “It’s a side dish, not an entrée.”

  “Relish is a condiment, not a side dish.”

  “Touché.”

  “Don’t let the cook hear you say that. He HATES the French.”

  Meanwhile, Sir Haughty had continued. “A toast to the end of cheese! It will soon be gone for good.”

  Sylvia only had one line left, but she sold it. In Germany, I had played her part. “Why do you say that?” She took a sip of her drink, barely touching the glass to her lips.

  “Well,” said Sir Haughty. He stared uncertainly at the shot glass for a moment. Drinking on the job was not kosher, but he was supposed to be lamenting the end of an era. Finally, he downed half his drink, “between Uber and the body in the Big Block of Cheese, no one is going to want anything to do with it. I’m certainly done with it.”

  Badger translated, apparently for Roxy but actually for the nearby patrons in the pub.

  Roxy said her line, coming down a bit hard on the accent, but Badger ran over it. He pointed to Roxy. “She doesn’t agree with you. Cheese is here to stay.”

  Slamming his now empty shot glass on the bar, Sir Haughty called for a refill. I was hoping someone would take the bait before he got too plastered. “Not a chance. It’s only a matter of time. Dead body! In the cheese! And made right here!” The bartender refilled the shot glass, and Sir Haughty picked it up but didn’t drink. Come on, I thought at him. Don’t get carried away.

  Sylvia produced a shudder. “It is pretty disturbing. I wonder who he was? Which farm was it again?””

  “Begorah Farms,” replied Sir Haughty. “I bet you the health department is going to look into this. I have half a mind to call them myself.” He downed his second shot in one gulp, silently asking for another with the empty glass. The bartender, happy to oblige, stood by with the bottle of whiskey, ready to keep it coming. “Or better yet, we should go there. All of us. Tell that farmer fellow his carelessness is destroying a major food group. Yes, I said it. Cheese is its own food group. You know that. And it’s ruined now. Ruined!” Again, he drank the entire shot. I wanted to intervene, but didn’t dare. He was actually doing very well. It was only my sense of responsibility that made me want to grab the glass away from him. The patrons in the bar were all paying attention as Badger translated the tirade into Irish.

  A man got off his stool and came toward us. “Here now, don’t talk like that.”

  Sir Haughty swiveled and faced him. I couldn’t tell if he was actually inebriated or just playing it up. It wasn’t like he’d never drank alcohol before, but it happens about once a year. “Like what? Didn’t you hear about what they found in America?”

  “Of course, I heard.” The man waved the bartender away and Sir Haughty looked appropriately miffed. “The cheese industry has been through worse than this. Your lady friend is quite correct. Now, save your liver and call it a night before you do something you’ll regret in the morning.” The man placed his hand over the full shot glass to show he was not going to allow Sir Haughty to drink it.

  That was my cue. “Come, Francis. It’s late.”

  Digging into his pocket, stumbling about it, Sir Haughty pulled out a large denomination bill and slapped it onto the bar next to the full shot of whiskey he’d been denied. “Begorah Farms better look out for me,” he said, swaying. “I’ll get them for this. Body in the cheese. Criminal negligence, if you ask me.”

  Badger and Nitro each grabbed one of Haughty’s arms and led him to the stairs as he made more threats to confront the owners of Begorah Farms. Once upstairs, I opened the first of our booked ro
oms that we came to, where Roxy, Sylvia and I would spend the night. “Are you all right, Sir Haughty? Nitro, get him some coffee.”

  Sir Haughty shook his arms free, straightened his dinner jacket, and stood firmly. “Quite all right, Helena. No coffee necessary.” He turned, tripped on his own feet, and fell to the floor. “See?”

  Exchanging glances, Badger and Nitro helped their inebriated roommate to his feet and they went down the hall. Billings and the twins watched them get safely inside before proceeding to the third room around the corner. If we had played it right, we would either be warned away from Begorah Farms, or be the victims of attempted assassinations before morning. I couldn’t wait.

  There were two beds in the room. Roxy and Sylvia agreed to share a bed and let me have one to myself, and I agreed to use the shower last. I stretched out on the bed, took out my phone and charging cord and plugged it into an outlet. When Sylvia moved her vest to the end of the bed, the brown paper bag from the farmer’s market fell out of the inside pocket. “Darn,” she said. “I totally forgot I had that.”

  “What is it?”

  “Protein.”

  “What?”

  “A supply of jerky. The booth called it Squerky. It’s supposed to be squirrel. Might be goat for all I know. Anyway, it’s a good thing it’s preserved because I’m not eating any now. I’m still so full I’m a little uncomfortable.” She tucked it back into the hidden pocket. “I would have been happy to share with Billings. Don’t tell him. He’ll think I was holding out.” She pulled a short nightgown out of her go bag and a clean pair of panties. “I’m hitting the shower.”

  While Sylvia got in the shower and Roxy went down the hall in search of ice, I decided to see what Miss Chiff had to say.

  “I wanted to give you a heads up, Helena. The brass has gotten wind of your son’s upcoming marriage,” said Miss Chiff upon hearing my greeting.