Footprints in the Butter (6 page)

“The gambling. He said life was one humongous gamble. At first he suggested we toss his ashes over Monaco and sing ‘True Love,’ you know, that Bing Crosby-Grace Kelly ditty? He said the first person he wanted to greet on the other side was Princess Grace. But I said Monaco was a tad far away, not to mention expens—”

“Wait a sec! Did Wylie know he was going to die? Did he have some fatal disease, Patty?”

“Yes. It’s called screwing around. Although he carried condoms like other men might carry handkerchiefs, Wylie was scared of catching a fatal sex disease.”

Well, that explained Patty’s sad eyes, and opened Pandora’s box. How many rejected women waited patiently for the chance to bash Wylie’s head in? Was Alice one of them? Did Dwight know about Alice’s secret desire? And let’s not forget the masochistic cheerleader, the one who spurned Dwight and was spurred on by rowdy Clint. Could Wylie have rejected her?

“I’d really love to sit here and chat,” said Patty, “but I have a million things to do. Wylie’s parents are deceased, but his sister lives in Houston. Remember Diane?”

“Of course. We called her Woody.”

Patty opened a floral box, pulled out a single rose, and extended it toward me. “I’ve received flowers and telegrams from a bunch of celebs who collect Wylie Jamestone portraits,” she bragged. “Susan Sarandon and Tim Robbins, Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell…”

While she name-dropped, I stroked velvety rose petals. When she finally paused for breath, I said, “Are you planning to hold a memorial service, Patty-Cake?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like me to sing?”

“Dylan’s already volunteered.”

“Bob Dylan?”

“No, Dylan Thomas. Of course, Bob Dylan. Remember the portrait Wylie did of him?”

“How could I forget? It was one of my favorites.”

The bubble above Dylan’s head had stated: NO ONE’S FREE, EVEN THE BIRDS ARE CHAINED TO THE SKY.

“Speaking of portraits,” said Patty.

“Okay. Yes.” Suddenly I was anxious. Let the treasure hunt begin.

Patty led me through an archway into a studio roughly the size of a large utility room. Sunlight slashed the glass of several small square windows, set just below the ceiling. The furnishings were sparse—a stool, an easel, a nondescript table, an army cot. Sinead was trespassing again. Asleep on the cot, she looked like a calico wreath. I smelled lingering traces of linseed oil and turpentine. Stacked against one wall were a few canvasses, covered by a white sheet.

Patty sneezed, glared at the cat, and gestured toward the window wall.

I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t Doris Day.

Wylie’s painting was approximately four feet by three. Doris Day’s freckled face grinned impishly. Her head reclined against colorful pillows and her bubble stated: THE REALLY FRIGHTENING THING ABOUT MIDDLE AGE IS THE KNOWLEDGE THAT YOU’LL OUTGROW IT.

My eyebrow instinctively assumed a curvature. “What does that mean? Could Wylie,” I said, thinking out loud, “have decided he didn’t want to grow old and killed himself?”

“Hardly. He was hit on the back of the head. How could he kill himself? It would be like trying to clean the wax from your ears with your toes.”

My eyebrow continued rising until it merged with my bangs. “Jeeze, Patty, how can you make jokes?”

“If I died, Wylie would crack wise.”

“That’s different. Goofy shticks were Wylie’s defense mechanisms. Remember Dwight? And Stewie?” I took a deep breath. “Did you love Wylie, Patty?”

“Define love.”

I looked down at my rose. “Duke Ellington said that love is supreme and unconditional.”

“Yeah, but Jimi Hendrix said that the story of love is hello and goodbye.”

“Were you planning to say goodbye?”

“If you mean divorce, no.”

“Was Wylie planning to say goodbye to you?”

Her lips curled. “That’s a stupid question.”

“Here’s another stupid question. Don’t you wonder who really killed your husband?”

“They caught his killer.”

“Right.” My gaze touched upon the painting and I wondered why Lieutenant Miller hadn’t asked my opinion. Hell, if I knew cops, and I did, Miller was scouring Colorado Springs, searching for a silver-blonde, statue-hefting Doris Day. I looked back at Patty. “Did Wylie have an affair with a woman named Doris?”

“I don’t know. Probably. I’m surprised at you, Ing. Wylie never made his treasure hunts that easy.”

“True. I remember when we all invaded the Chief Theatre. Wylie’s clue was buried inside a box of popcorn.”

“No. Crackerjacks. The Chief’s feature film was
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
. Damn! I think I’m going to cry.”

“Good. Tears hurt, but they also heal. It’s like pouring peroxide over an open wound. At first it stings something awful, but—”

“Such a beautiful moo-moovie,” she said in between sobs. “Remember how it was raining and Audrey Hepburn hugged her wet pussy?”

I had a fleeting image of Wylie cleaning wax from his ears with his toes before it dissolved into the image of Audrey Hepburn trying to hug her wet pussy.

“Then George Peppard kissed Audrey,” Patty continued, “while the puss played peek-a-boo from the lapels of her trench coat. It was so romantic. That scene always makes me cry.”

“Gosh, I remember your supreme, unconditional feelings for ‘Moon River,’ ” I said sarcastically.

“Moon, oh God, River. After Dylan does his thing, would you sing ‘Moon River’ at Wylie’s memorial service? Please, Ingrid, please?”

“I’d rather sing Janis Joplin’s ‘Piece of my Heart.’”

Unexpectedly, I felt the nape of my neck prickle. Because I heard a distant echo. The words could have come from Doris Day’s painted lips.

Are you dying, Wylie?

And the reply might have come from Joplin, chained to the sky.

We all die by bits and pieces
.

But the third refrain sounded just like Wylie. Maybe he was chained to Janis.

How do you make a statue of an elephant?

Chapter Six

“She was hugging her wet pussy?”

Ben’s voice sounded amused, and even though I had conjured up the same mental image, I said, “Wet cat, honey.”

Hitchcock growled. His knowledge of human speak wasn’t very extensive, maybe eight words—sit, stay, friend, dogbiscuit, baddog, gooddog, getdownoffthecouchyousonofabitch, and cat. When I wanted him to leave the family room, I’d verbally bribe him with: “Look, Hitchcock, there’s a cat, chase the cat.” It worked every time.

“In retrospect,” I said, “this afternoon’s Breakfast-at-T’s crying jag was Patty’s way of expressing genuine sorrow. When JFK was assassinated, everybody else wept buckets. But Patty was dry-eyed until we watched
The Miracle Worker
shortly thereafter. Patty Duke said wah-wah for water and our Patty burst into tears. ‘Oh God,’ she wailed, ‘why can’t miracles happen in Dallas, too? Why couldn’t he be crippled or blinded? Why did he have to die?’ She said virtually the same thing when Stewie died, but only after Warren Beatty, as Clyde Barrow, was riddled by bullets.”

“Enough, Ingrid.” Ben knelt on the family room’s carpet and tousled Hitchcock’s shaggy, maple-leaf ears. “We don’t have to obsess over Wylie’s demise or Patty’s grief.”

“You sound so unemotional. I thought you and Wylie made up during Sunday morning’s phone call. Before I left for the game, you even said something about kidnapping Wylie and buying him dinner. Did you do it?”

“Did I do what? Kill Wylie?”

“No, dopey, buy him dinner.”

“Ingrid, he died.”

“Dinner doesn’t necessarily mean night fare, especially on a Sunday. Dinner means the principal meal of the day.”

“Are you asking if I saw Wylie before he was killed?”

“Yes.”

I recalled Cee-Cee’s wheedle with sex remark—roast beef, booze, and a lack of panties. But I hadn’t worn undies, even provocative undies, in years. Also, I couldn’t cook worth a damn and it was supper time, so I sat on the edge of my lime couch, scrutinizing several Chinese take-out containers. The food was real Chinese, seasoned to perfection, ordered from a hole-in-the-wall restaurant that Wylie had recommended. Nana Ana would have eaten there because the place looked and smelled, even sounded authentic. In fact, when the man at the counter handed me our to-go package, the only word I could decipher was “cookie.” I thought he appeared disgruntled, as if fortune cookies were too American.

Ben bit into a fried wonton, chewed, swallowed, said, “I went to Wylie’s house around eleven but I never saw him.”

“He wasn’t there?”

“He was busy painting. Patty offered me a Bloody Mary.”

“Before noon?”

“Alcohol doesn’t necessarily mean night fare,” Ben mimicked, “especially on a Sunday. Anyway, Patty had already downed a few.”

“What? Patty never drinks, not since our senior prom.”

“She was upset.”

I finally made my selection; hot and spicy bean curds. I felt hot and spicy, so I unbuttoned my blouse down to where my bra would have been, had I been wearing a bra. “Why was she upset, Ben? The reunion dance?”

“Of course. Wylie ruined it for her.”

“Wylie ruined it for everybody. I wonder if that was Patty’s tusk.”

“What do you mean?”

“Patty was supposed to be crowned Queen of the Elephants.”

Rising, Ben walked across the room. Hitchcock followed. Ben stoked the fire. Hitchcock stroked Ben’s denim crotch with his tongue, then rolled over on his back and waved his paws.

“You’re right, Ingrid, that’s exactly why she was so upset.” Hunkering down, Ben scratched Hitchcock’s belly. “I wanted to sober her up, so I suggested we take a stroll outside. There’s a wooded area behind the house.”

“Yes, I know. That’s how I made my escape. From Tonto, the saw-toothed dog next door. The foliage grows wild for three full blocks, and Patty’s house isn’t fenced. Well, the neighbors have fenced it in on one side, but there’s a clear path to the trees and—”

I hesitated, aware that I was babbling. The bean curds suddenly looked unpalatable, so I grabbed a sweet and sour shrimp with my chopsticks, walked across the room, and glared down at Ben until he stood, facing me. Hitchcock felt my vibes, sensed a silent baddog, and slunk toward the fireplace tiles. “Patty seduced you, right?”

“Wrong!”

“You seduced her?”

“No. I don’t take advantage of drunk—”

“Baloney! You took advantage of my nebulous state during Stewie’s wake.”

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

“Because I love you!”

Those four words momentarily halted my verbal onslaught. Then, still seething, I said, “What happened between you and Patty?”

“Nothing happened.”

“Patty just stood there contemplating her navel? Or maybe she was contemplating yours.”

“My navel was hidden by my shirt, belt and jeans.”

“Aha! What about Patty’s navel?”

“She took her clothes off. But nothing happened.”

“She stripped in the middle of a deserted forest and you just watched?” I orchestrated my rage with the chopsticks, and the prawn rode dead air until it landed inside my blouse. “Women seem to do that a lot when they’re around you, Ben. I remember your comatose date at Stewie’s wake. She was naked as a jaybird.”

“Damn it, Beaumont, you’re fixated on Stewie’s wake!”

Ben’s anger was beginning to match mine, but I ignored his dark, blazing eyes. “I can’t believe you screwed Patty.”

“I can’t believe you screwed Wylie.”

“He screwed
me!
”

“That’s not what
he
said.”

“I thought you didn’t see him. I thought he was busy painting.”

“On the phone, Ingrid. Wylie insisted that you got drunk, weepy, very…shall we say aggressive?”

“Say anything you like. It’s a lie.”

“Okay. Sorry.”

“No, you’re not. Was Patty as good as she looks, Ben? Does a butterfly achieve more than one orgasm?”

“Nothing happened,” he said for the third time. “I gave her my jacket.”

“Oh, sure. You covered her beautiful body with your jacket and led her back inside.” Suddenly I realized that Ben’s sheepskin jacket had been missing since yesterday. It wasn’t in the bedroom or the kitchen or the front hall closet. “Where is your jacket, Ben?”

“At Patty’s house. She insisted on having it cleaned.”

“Why? Did you roll around in the dirt?”

“No. She threw up. I held her head. Then I did lead her back inside, and brewed some coffee.”

“That’s the truth?”

“I swear.”

“Where was Wylie all this time?”

“Working.”

“He didn’t emerge once? Out of curiosity? I mean, we’re talking about a puking wife. Or had she finished?”

“She finished at the kitchen sink. Christ, she’d downed five or six Bloody Marys. When I refused her, uh, generosity, she screamed bloody murder. It must have primed the pump. In the middle of a rather profane double-whammy, she erupted like a volcano.”

“Lava mixed with Tabasco sauce. No wonder she insisted on having your jacket dry-cleaned.”

“I thought she had finished, but when we reached the kitchen she started all over again. She was edgy, and it wasn’t me, or even the dance. I think she thought Wylie might continue his abuse from the night before.”

“Abuse? What abuse? He exposed our hypocrisy, that’s all. Okay, here’s the scenario,” I said slowly. “Patty nude beneath your jacket, puking into the kitchen sink. You holding her head. Again. May I assume there was no background music?”

“No, you may not assume. There was music. It came from Wylie’s studio. Very loud. That’s probably why he didn’t hear Patty.”

“Ray Charles, right?”

“No. Henry Mancini.”

“Wylie was playing Mancini? Moon River Mancini? Never mind. What happened next?”

“Patty showered and got dressed while I drank coffee. Then I drove her to the Dew Drop Inn.”

“And all the time Patty washed and primped, you never said boo to Wylie?”

“I guess I felt guilty.”

“But you’ve just sworn that Patty instigated the seduction. Nothing happened, you said.”

“I felt a certain remorse, regardless.”

Lifting the chopsticks to my lips, I realized that the shrimp rested between my cleavage and my waistline. Something smelled sour, and it wasn’t my saucy breasts.

“Ben, are you absolutely certain that Wylie was working inside his studio?”

“Well, I never actually saw him. Why do you ask?”

“The music and—wait a sec! Why did you drive Patty to the Dew Drop? Where was her car?”

“In the garage. I drove because I wanted to watch the football game, I knew the reunion crowd was planning to meet there, and Patty still looked a tad green around the gills. What’s your point?”

“A thief thought the house was vacant because Patty had the rental car.”

“She didn’t, Ingrid. I drove us. But if the car was in the garage, a thief might still believe it was gone.”

I tried focusing on a thought that wouldn’t stay put. “Did Patty say good-bye to Wylie?”

“Of course. I heard her. She even kissed him.”

“How do you know?”

“Her lipstick was smeared.”

With a shrug, I returned to the couch. “C’mere, Hitchcock, good dog.”

My ganglionic mutt wagged his tail, and every other portion of his body, as he bounded across the room, skidded to a halt, and snuffled my sweet and sour blouse.

“Sit, Hitchcock,” said Ben, joining us. “Stay! Leave Ingrid alone. You’re trespassing on my property.”

“I’m not your property, Cassidy. My breasts are not your property, either.”

“Who paid for the Chinese take-out, Beaumont?”

“You did.”

“Then I have proprietary rights, exclusive and absolute. For instance, that shrimp belongs to me.”

Sitting, Ben pulled my body across his lap, unbuttoned the rest of my blouse, and captured the prawn with his teeth. Then he tossed the prawn toward Hitchcock.

Hitchcock didn’t catch the shrimp, of course. Hitchcock couldn’t catch a rubber ball unless you wedged it between his jaw and muzzle. After sniffing the floor, he gulped it down in one swallow—the prawn, not the floor.

Ben swallowed slowly, leisurely licking sauce until his tongue reached my heart breast.

I pressed my breasts together so that Ben could suck both nipples at the same time. That left his hands free to unzip my jeans and roll them down. “Your crotch is soaked,” I gasped, as my bare butt encountered wet denim.

“Hitchcock has a very large, very wet tongue.” Ben shifted my body from his lap to couch cushions, and took off his own jeans. Kneeling, he spread my legs, lowered his face between my thighs, and began to caress.

“So do you, Cassidy. Oh!” I spasmed six or seven times. “Oh, God, I’m sorry.”

I felt his grin spread across my belly-button. “Don’t ever apologize for multiple orgasms,” Ben said.

“But I came without you.”

“Not quite. I was definitely involved. It’s very satisfying, almost narcissistic for a man to evoke that kind of response. In fact, my ego’s swollen with pride.”

But, in fact, it wasn’t only his ego that was swollen.

Afterwards, he said, “You talk tough, Beaumont, but you’re soft, smart, talented, forgiving, independent, and consumed with guilt. My daughter would say you have the smart guilties. In other words, you have a conscience.”

“Except for politicians and serial killers, everybody is born with a sense of right and wrong,” I said. “Don’t you agree?”

“Nope.”

“You believe in that bad seed crap?”

“No, not really. But I do believe that brains are like a ruffled tuxedo shirt, and sometimes God forgets to iron one flounce.”

“Name somebody who lacks a moral sense.”

“That’s easy. Hitler, Manson, Bundy—”

“Somebody we know personally.”

“Alice Shaw Cooper.”

I blinked. “But Alice doesn’t have anything to be guilty about.”

Rising to his feet, Ben stepped into his jeans. “I once had a patient,” he said, zipping his fly, “a Cocker Spaniel named Suzy Q. Her owners wanted to breed her. But every time a male Cocker Spaniel approached, Suzy snarled and sat on her rump. Then one day this brute of a Rottweiler leaped into Suzy’s yard. The only thing they had in common was a stubby tail. Suzy’s owners finally separated the two dogs with cold, gushing water from a garden hose.”

“And?”

“After Suzy’s litter arrived, they had her spayed.”

“I don’t understand. Are you suggesting that Alice would fool around with a Rottweiler?”

“No,” Ben said with a smile. “But she does assume this virtuous facade.”

“Alice can’t possibly have a wrinkled ruffle, Ben. If she did, she’d send her brain out to be pressed. Or,” I added thoughtfully, “she’d be the prime suspect in Wylie’s murder.”

“The police caught Wylie’s killer. It was on the news. So were you, honey. They showed highlights of the Broncos game, and there you were, hefting your sign. Thanks for—”

“Whoa. Didn’t you see it yesterday?”

“Sure.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Okay, I missed it. I heard all about it, though. Patty told me.”

I had a vision of Patty draping her lithe body across Ben’s broad shoulders and whispering: “Ing printed our names together, darling. How appropriate.”

Since the vision really bothered me, I blurted the very next thing that popped into my head. “Ben, how do you make a statue of an elephant?”

“Well, I guess you’d buy some clay and sculpt an elephant. If you really wanted to be creative, you’d add ivory tusks, although people with a
conscience
shun ivory.”

“Tusks. I wonder if Wylie’s riddle involved tusks.” Rising from the couch, donning Ben’s shirt, I rushed toward my bookcase. “Where’s the dictionary? Here it is. Tsetse fly, turnover, turtleneck, tusk.” I scanned Webster’s definition. “Basically, it’s a long protruding tooth. Do we know anyone with prominent canines?”

“Yup. Me.”

“Teeth, not dogs.”

“Okay. Theodora Mallard.”

“Who?”

“She was better known as Tad. Dwight’s—”

“Cheerleader girlfriend. Of course. At the reunion dance, she criticized Wylie’s Lone Ranger remark.” My mind conjured up a picture of Theodora Mallard. “She doesn’t have elongated teeth.”