An Unthymely Death

by ALBERT, SUSAN WITTIG

  1. You will be tying five clusters of three peppers on each string. To assemble the clusters, hold three peppers by their stems and wrap the string around the stems twice. Pull the string upward between two of the peppers and pull it tight. Make a half-hitch with the string, loop it over all three stems, and pull it snug. Make the next cluster above this one. Continue making clusters about every three inches on the string, until you have made five. Then make two additional strings.

  2. Suspend the untwisted coat hanger from the back of a chair. Form a large loop in the bottom end to keep the peppers from sliding off. Then twist or “braid” the pepper strings around the wire, pushing them down toward the loop. You will be working from bottom to top, layering trios of peppers on top of trios of peppers. Distribute the peppers for a balanced effect, and continue twisting until you’ve used all the peppers. Don’t worry about the loops of string between the clusters—they’ll be hidden in the center of the ristra. Cut off the excess wire at the top, make a loop for hanging, and decorate your ristra with a raffia bow.

  3. Hang your ristra outside in the sun to dry, and bring it indoors if the weather is wet. (You don’t want those peppers to mold.) As they dry, the peppers will lose most of their weight. When dry, you can remove them from the ristra as you need them for cooking.

  Except that something was definitely missing from this state of perfection, and I was worried about it. Khat’s kitty dish was full of his low-calorie kitty food, his catnip mouse was lurking in the corner, and his favorite kitty cat-nap pillow was waiting on the windowsill. But Khat himself was nowhere to be found.

  Khat—an inordinately large Siamese who looks out on the world with a serene air of imperial authority—has been Top Cat at Thyme and Seasons for the last four or five years. He originally belonged to a lady who had the misfortune to die under mysterious circumstances. Alone in the world, without someone to look after, he appointed himself my guardian and declared that he intended to spend all of his nine lives making sure that I behaved properly.

  At the time, I could take cats or leave them (preferably the latter), but my wishes apparently don’t count for much. When Khat makes up his feline mind to something, no mere fallible human can dispute him. I did, however, reserve the right to give this animal a new name. His deceased owner had called him Pudding, which suited him about as well as a filmy Victoria’s Secret bra suits me. But nothing else came to mind, and I fell into the habit of calling him Cat, or The Cat, which seemed perfectly appropriate. When Ruby objected that The Cat was not sufficiently distinctive for an animal with such a sovereign air, we compromised on Khat, which Ruby instantly amended to Khat K’o Kung. She is a great fancier of Koko, Qwilleran’s talented Siamese cat-sleuth in the Cat Who mysteries, and has always wanted a cat who could tell time, read backwards, and had fourteen tales.

  Khat K’o Kung adopted me when I still lived in my bachelor quarters behind the shop. After McQuaid and I moved together to the house on Limekiln Road, I tried to take Khat with me. But after a week’s trial, he announced that he refused to share any part of his life with Howard Cosell, McQuaid’s crotchety old basset hound, and preferred to live in the shop from here on out, thank you very much.

  So that’s the way it is. Every morning, I unlock the door, step inside, and Khat wraps himself around my ankles, purring loudly enough to be heard at the Alamo. If I’m late, he’s waiting impatiently on the front stoop, charcoal tail wrapped around his four charcoal feet, blue eyes blinking his displeasure at my dismal lack of punctuality. Next stop, kitty food bowl, and just a little extra liver, please, to make up for your lateness.

  Except that this morning, Khat wasn’t waiting on the stoop, or in the store, or next door, in Ruby’s Crystal Cave. He wasn’t chasing grasshoppers in the gardens, either, or terrorizing mice in the stone stable behind the shop, where I sometimes teach herb classes. At first, I hadn’t been very worried. But it was almost closing time, and since Khat was not only about to miss his breakfast, but dinner as well, I was beginning to get concerned.

  “Here’s the menu for the Friends luncheon on Friday, China.” It was Janet, the cook who manages the kitchen at Thyme for Tea, the tearoom that Ruby and I opened nearly two years ago. Short and dumpling-shaped, with merry hazel eyes and a cheerful face framed by curly brown hair, Janet has the look of a cherubic Munchkin. A couple of months ago, she went to Dallas to a week-long school for gourmet cooks, and ever since, she’s been trying out the new dishes she learned. From the look of her menu, she was about to spring some gourmet surprises on the Friends of the Pecan Springs Library.

  Janet’s Menu for the Friends of the Library Luncheon

  Spicy Tomato Juice Cocktail Herbed Breadsticks

  Fresh Green Salad with Cherry Tomatoes, Mushrooms, and Bocconcini

  Chicken in Sun-Dried Tomato Sauce, Served over Pasta

  Ginger-Peachy Melons

  “Makes me hungry just to read this, Janet,” I said, scanning the items. I squinted at the salad. “Bocconcini? What’s that?”

  “Mozzarella balls,” Janet explained. “Marinated in olive oil and basil vinegar, with red pepper flakes.” She looked smug. “One of the gourmet tricks I learned in school.”

  “Maybe it’s a little too gourmet for the Friends of the Library?” I suggested tentatively.

  “We have to raise their standards,” Janet replied. “Otherwise, I’d be flippin’ burgers and fryin’ up onion rings, like Lila Jennings over at the Diner.” She frowned. “I hope I don’t have any trouble finding those little balls in Pecan Springs. Guess I better give young Mr. Cavette a call and see if he can get them.”

  “Speaking of finding,” I said, handing the menu back to her, “have you seen Khat? He wasn’t here when I opened this morning.” I gestured toward his dish. “His breakfast is still waiting.”

  “Oh, dear.” Janet looked distressed. “Poor kitty, he’ll starve.”

  “Not for a few months yet,” I said dryly. Khat tops the scale at eighteen pounds, and although I feed him a low-calorie cat food and watch the snacks, he never seems to lose any weight. A few missed breakfasts might be a blessing in disguise. “But it would be nice if he’d check in so I could quit worrying about him,” I added.

  “I’m sure he’ll be here in the morning,” Janet said reassuringly. “You know how he feels about his security job.”

  I nodded. At night, Khat likes to pretend he’s a Rottweiler, as one startled Pecan Springs patrolman discovered when he thought he saw somebody lurking in the shadows after midnight. Khat leaped off the arbor and sank his claws into the cop’s shoulder. Trespassers, beware. Thyme and Seasons is patrolled by an attack cat who takes his work seriously.

  But on Wednesday morning, Khat was still AWOL. I left Ruby to mind the store for an hour, climbed on my bike, and rode around the neighborhood, looking and calling. As I biked past old Mr. Cowan’s house, Miss Lula, his yappy little Peke, dashed out of the shrubbery and snapped at my sneaker. I said a few nasty words under my breath, and Mr. Cowan rose up out of the bushes, a pair of binoculars in one gnarled hand and a bird book in the other.

  “Don’t you kick poor little Miss Lula,” he cried.

  I braked. “I wasn’t going to kick her,” I replied warily, as the dog danced around me, cursing me in Chinese. Miss Lula is about the size of a half-grown possum, but her teeth are like needles. “I’m looking for my cat. Have you seen him?”

  “Nah,” Mr. Cowan said. He pulled down the brim of his Texas Rangers baseball cap. “Lost, is he? Run away from home? Got smashed flat by a car, mebbe?”

  I shuddered. “I hope not, but I haven’t seen him since yesterday.”

  “Good riddance, if ya ask me,” Mr. Cowan said cheerfully. “The birds around here ’ud be a whole lot chirpier if that durn cat was to take a hike. Why, just last week, I caught him stalkin’ a grackle out in the alley. Woulda got him, too, if Miss Lula hadn’t of broke it up.” He cackled. “Damn funny, it was. The grackle squawkin’, the cat cussin’ and gnashin’ his t
eeth, and Miss Lula so proud of herself she could spit. I heaved a zucchini at him.”

  Since the Pecan Springs City Council spends ten thousand dollars a year to make life unpleasant for the grackles, I hardly thought it was sporting of Mr. Cowan and Miss Lula to keep Khat from doing his little bit in defense of clean windshields. But I only sighed and said, “If you see him, let me know, will you?”

  “Don’t count on it,” Mr. Cowan said. “I got a soft spot in my heart fer grackles.” He frowned. “Janet said she wanted some of my cherry tomatoes for that party on Friday. Tell her she better get herself over here and pick ’em ’fore the coons do. I got a mama coon and two babies livin’ under the garage. Cutest little guys on four feet—’ceptin’ fer you, Miss Lula,” he added hastily.

  “I’ll tell her,” I said, wondering if the presence of a mother raccoon in the neighborhood might have anything to do with Khat’s extended absence. I don’t think a coon would attack a cat, especially one as large and formidable as Khat K’o Kung, but you never know. I shook my head. It was something else to worry about.

  Mr. Cowan sat back down in the bushes. Licking her doggie chops, Miss Lula watched me out of sight.

  A block farther on, I saw Vivian Baxter out in her garden, hoeing. She wore a wide-brimmed straw hat and was completely enveloped, chin to ankles, in a brown cotton smock that made her look like Brother Cadfael. I climbed off my bike and leaned it against a tree.

  “I’m looking for Khat,” I said. “Have you see him?”

  Vivian’s face darkened. “If I had,” she said shortly, “I’d have taken the flyswatter to his royal backside.” She gestured. “Just look.”

  “Oh, dear,” I said. I bent over and peered at a dozen small green plants—broken, mangled, and flattened, their roots drying pitifully in the sun. I picked a leaf and sniffed it. “Catnip,” I said.

  “You don’t have to tell me what they are,” Vivian said resentfully. “I planted them myself, a whole dozen, just yesterday. And this isn’t the first time they’ve been destroyed. Last year, I put a few in a window box, but the cats climbed the wall and uprooted every plant in the box, along with two scented geraniums and some parsley. Last month, I set out another batch, and the next morning, the bed looked as if a tornado had romped through it. This time, I put chicken wire over the plants, but the durn cats tore up the wire, hid it behind the garage, and then tore up the catnip.” She made a plaintive noise. “Wretched beasts. Why can’t they leave it alone?”

  Catnip (Nepeta cataria), is a member of the mint family. This perennial has been cultivated for centuries for both culinary and medicinal use. In England during the Renaissance, the fresh leaves were sprinkled on green salads and the dried herb, mixed with sage and thyme, was used as a seasoning rub for meats. Before Chinese tea became available, everyone drank a tea brewed from the catnip they grew in their gardens. In contrast to the stimulant quality of Chinese tea, catnip tea had a calming effect and was used to induce sleep, quiet upset nerves, and soothe upset stomachs. It was also used to treat colds and flu, reduce fevers, and bring on menstruation. (It shouldn’t be used by pregnant women.)

  All felines, from tiny housecats to large lions, are attracted to catnip by a chemical called nepetalactone, which induces a harmless physiological reaction that seems to be psychosexual. That is, catnip has both a euphoric and an aphrodisiac effect. Susceptibility, however, seems to be genetic, and varies from cat to cat. Some cats just don’t get turned on, while others go . . . well, bananas.

  English colonists brought catnip to North America. It adapted easily to its new home and now grows wild across the continent.

  In the seventeenth century, it was thought that the root of catnip made people angry and fierce. Public hangmen were given the root to chew before they carried out their duties.

  “On behalf of Khat and his colleagues,” I said ruefully, “I apologize. But the problem is that cats can’t leave it alone, Vivian. They’re genetically programmed to react to the volatile oils. If you want catnip, you might try raising it from seed.”

  Vivian leaned on her hoe, frowning. “From seed?”

  I nodded. “Ever heard the old saying, ‘If you set it, the cats will get it. If you sow it, they won’t know it’?” When she looked doubtful, I explained. “If you set out transplants, the leaves inevitably get bruised. The oils are released and the cats come running. If you start catnip from seed, the plants may be able to grow to maturity before some passing kitty discovers them.”

  “I guess I could give it a try,” Vivian said. She glanced at me from under the brim of her hat. “You say you’ve lost your cat? That big, beautiful Siamese?” She sighed. “He’s no gentleman where catnip is concerned, but otherwise, he’s a charmer.”

  “I haven’t seen him for two days and I’m really worried,” I said. “Call me if he comes around, will you?”

  “Sure,” she said. “By the way, would you tell Janet I’m looking forward to Friday’s luncheon. I hear she’s serving marinated bocci balls.”

  “Bocconcini,” I said. “Mozzarella cheese balls.”

  “Is that what they are?” Vivian said dubiously. “Well, I’m sure people will like them just the same.” She frowned. “Probably.”

  By Thursday morning, I knew I had to do something more productive than simply riding my bike around the neighborhood. I scanned a photo of Khat into the computer, ran off several dozen flyers, and began posting them. My first stop was at Cavette’s Grocery, a couple of blocks down Crockett Street.

  Cavette’s is one of those old family markets that have been almost completely obliterated by the Safeways and Krogers of this world—a small shop with wooden bins and wicker baskets of fresh fruit and veggies lined up on the sidewalk. The Cavettes buy organic produce from local growers, newly baked tortillas from Zapata’s Tortilla Factory, and fresh herbs from my garden, in season. It always gives me a lift to see cellophane packages of fresh rosemary and basil and sage, prettied up with a green ribbon and the Thyme and Seasons label.

  “Hello, China,” young Mr. Cavette wheezed, straightening up from a box of fresh Fredericksburg peaches he was putting out. Young Mr. Cavette must be close to seventy and is bald as an onion. His father, old Mr. Cavette, who sits behind the old-fashioned cash register and rings up all the sales, recently celebrated his ninetieth birthday. The youngest Mr. Cavette, whom everybody calls Junior, is middle-aged and makes deliveries on his red motorbike. The three Cavettes, father, son, and grand-son, live next door to the store.

  “Hello, Mr. Cavette,” I said. I held up my flyer. “Have you seen my cat?”

  He took the flyer and held it up to his nose, peering nearsightedly at it. “Well, sure,” he said. “This cat shows up whenever Old Pete brings in a batch of fresh fish. Has a special liking for catfish.” He grinned and handed back the flyer. “Doesn’t care for shrimp, though, or scallops. Just catfish.”

  “Have you seen him lately?” I persisted. “He’s been lost since Tuesday.”

  “Oh, too bad,” Mr. Cavette said, sounding sincere. “Lost, huh? Good-lookin’ cat like that, somebody prob’ly cat-napped him.” He looked down at the peaches in his hand. “Say, didn’t Janet tell me she wanted me to save her some fresh peaches and melons for that lunch y’all are havin’ on Friday?”

  “I guess,” I said, dispirited. I hated to think that anybody would be nasty enough to steal Khat. But it’s certainly true that customers admire him. When they bend over to pet him, lots of them croon, “Would you like to come home with me and be my very own kitty?” Maybe somebody thought he said, “Yes.” But I couldn’t let that possibility stop me. “Is it okay if I post this flyer in your window?”

  “Sure,” Mr. Cavette said. “Pete’s bringin’ in some catfish this afternoon. If your cat shows up, I’ll tell him to scat on home.” He picked up a bag. “How many peaches do you reckon Janet wants?”

  “A dozen,” I hazarded.

  He handed me the bag. “Tell her I couldn’t get any of that bocorooni stuff
she wanted.”

  “Bocorooni?” I asked. “Do you mean bocconcini?”

  He frowned. “Whatever. Olives I can get, artichoke hearts, no problem. I even got them sun-dried tomatoes she wanted, even though they don’t look like much to me. We got fresh ones a lot nicer. But botticelli, no way. Janet wants weird specialty stuff like that, she’s going to have to drive to San Antonio.”

  “I’ll tell her,” I said.

  An hour later, I had worked my way to Courthouse Square, posting flyers as I went. I only had two left, so I stopped at the Old Nueces Street Diner and asked Lila Jennings if I could put one in her front window. The Diner, which has a fifties look, is where you go when you’re hungry for down-home Texas cooking. You can get breakfast all day, or meat loaf and gravy, chicken and dumplings, pot roast, fried catfish, and Lila’s famous jelly doughnuts.

  In answer to my question about posting the flyer, she said, “You just go right ahead, honey bun, and tape up that flyer.” She swiped at the red Formica counter with a wet rag. With her ruffled pink nylon apron, red lipstick, and penciled eyebrows, Lila also has a fifties look. “I been missin’ that sweet ol’ tomcat, too,” she added. “I always put out a little something for him around lunchtime.”

  “You do?” I asked, surprised. I hadn’t realized that Khat was such an all-around Pecan Springs favorite.

  “Why, sure. He’s crazy about French fries and cream gravy. Goes after it like he ain’t had a good meal in a week.” She frowned. “He hasn’t been around for a few days, though. Don’t suppose he crawled off sick somewhere, do you? He could stand to lose a few pounds, if you ask me. It ain’t good for cats to be too heavy, you know.”