Footprints in the Butter (7 page)

“She did. Wylie nicknamed her ‘The Vampire.’ Inside the locker room we joked that she could pierce a certain organ with her teeth, like you’d pierce ears. We thought we were so funny. We didn’t know that one day kids would hang hoop earrings from every orifice. By the way, Tad now wears braces.”

“I didn’t notice braces.”

“That’s because you didn’t dance with her.”

“When did you dance with her?”

“After Wylie and Patty left, while you were calming Alice down.”

“Was Tad freaked out?”

“Define freaked out.”

“God, I sound like Alice. Disconcerted. Traumatized. You know, because of Wylie’s sermon. Everyone was upset, but Tad and Junior were really pissed, and Alice said Dwight was brooding. No. Sulking. Which, I suppose, is the same thing.”

“Dwight wasn’t sulking. He was thoughtful, nostalgic. And Tad wasn’t traumatized. She was, er, tipsy.”

“Don’t be such a gentleman, Ben. If she was drunk, say drunk.”

“Okay. Drunk. She danced like a pretzel, looping her body around mine. I had to dig my fingers into her shoulders to keep her at a discreet distance.”

“I’ll bet she enjoyed that.”

“Why?”

“She’s a tad masochistic.”

“Tad bragged about her braces because she got them through Workers’ Comp. She’s a waitress at the Olive Garden restaurant and another server smacked her in the mouth with a tray. She was injured on the job, you see, so the orthodontist didn’t cost her a cent.”

“What a bitch. She was always a bitch.”

“True, Ingrid, but she’s a bitch with sharp canines. Hey, that’s not a bad pun. I sound like Wylie.”

“I wish you thought like Wylie. I wish I thought like Wylie. I wish I could figure out the answer to his damn riddle.”

* * *

Soaking in my antique tub, with Ben’s butt between my legs and his thick wet hair resting against my breasts, I said, “Maybe the riddle has nothing to do with anything. Maybe I should focus on the painting.”

“Focus on my back, babe.”

Ben squirmed to a sitting position, spreading my legs wider, and I felt shivery all the way down to my toes. Was there a lyric that rhymed with orgasm? Yup. Spasm. How about hump? Easy. Pump, bump, plump.

Swishing the washcloth across Ben’s bronzed shoulders, I thought:
Plump
.
Plump cushions
.
No
.
Plump pillows
.
Doris Day’s head reclined on pillows
.
Hadn’t Wylie once—

“Ingrid, you’re scarring my spinal column with your fingernails.”

“I just thought of something, Ben.”

“Me, too. It’s been fifteen years since I had the urge to come twice. Well, maybe the urge, but not the stamina. Or if I had staying power, my wife lacked enthusiasm.”

“Always? Even in the beginning?”

“In the beginning I thought she lacked experience. Toward the end I realized she just wanted to get the dirty act over with. Sperm was so sticky. My wife would have loved a Teflon penis.”

“Then she would have loved my husband,” I muttered under my breath.

Later, toweling Ben’s body, I said, “Cassidy, you make me feel as if I’ve stared at the sun too long.”

“That’s because I’m sunshine. At first I resented Wylie for giving me that tag. I thought it was a dumb designation for a guy, until I read about Ra and Sol and Helios.”

“Ra was the Egyptian sun-god and chief deity. Crossword puzzles,” I added diffidently.

“The sun-gods were very macho. Sol was the Roman sun-god, Helios was Greek.”

“That makes you Egyptian, Roman, Greek, Irish and Cherokee, while I’m just a plain old rose.”

“A rose is a flower, Ingrid. Do you know what the word flower means?”

“I left my dictionary in the family room.”

“A flower means the best of anything. For example, the flower of our youth.”

“Please, Ben, I’m not used to compliments. Anyway, if I’m a flower, you’re the sunshine that makes me bloom.”

“You may not be used to compliments, Ingrid, but you sure know how to give them. Thank you.”

“Welcome,” I said, cheeks burning. Because I wasn’t used to giving compliments either. My world was tough, male-oriented, and I had to fight to get every good film I scored. I had to accept rejection with gruff grace and assume responsibility when things went askew. I had once overheard somebody describe me as “Mickey, Spillane not Mouse,” and at the time I thought it was the highest accolade I’d ever receive.

Until Ben uttered his flower remark.

So I kissed him. Then, breathlessly, I said, “Would you care to try for three?”

“Three what?”

I felt an unfamiliar blush spread across my face. “Three orgasms.”

“Three orgasms in a row?”

“Naturally.”

“That’s not natural, honey, not at my age. Still, I’d be willing to give it a shot if I could have some sustenance first.”

“I’m afraid our dinner is cold and—ohmigod! Hitchcock!”

Together, we raced toward the family room.

It smelled like soy sauce and looked like the Chinese Air Force had made a surprise attack on Colorado Springs, bombing the inside of my house with snow peas, cashews and water chestnuts.

Hitchcock knew a baddog was inevitable, but he had weighed the consequences and opted for instant gratification. Lo main noodles dangled from his snout like Christmas tree tinsel, pork fried rice dotted his paws, and he was joyously lapping from a container that contained the last of our egg drop soup.

“Bad dog,” I said mournfully. “Oh, such a bad, bad dog.”

Repentant, Hitchcock carefully jawed a container filled with broccoli in garlic sauce, toted it across the room, and offered it to Ben.

Hitchcock’s expression seemed to suggest that Ben counter with at least one gooddog. But Ben was too busy laughing.

“It’s not funny,” I wailed. “That food cost a fortune.”

“Have a fortune, Ingrid.” On his knees, Ben dug beneath the coffee table until he found and tossed me a cookie.

I pulled out the tiny strip of paper. Once upon a time, fortune cookies had real fortunes. Now they usually had dumb sayings. Only this one wasn’t dumb.

“No individual raindrop is responsible for the flood,” I read out loud. “No individual soldier is responsible for the mud. Those are the words from ‘Clowns,’ my song. How many cookies came with our order, Ben?”

“Four packages, four cookies.”

“Is there another cookie, or did Hitchcock get to it?”

“He got to the cookie, but spit out the paper. See?”

“What does it say?”

Ben glanced down at the soggy strip. “The biggest farce of man’s history has been the argument that wars are fought to save civilization.”

“I wonder who bakes the cookies.”

“Chinese elves,” said Ben, “who live in hollow trees.”

“I’m serious. Isn’t there usually an address on the cellophane wrapper?”

“Maybe, but there’s no cellophane. Hitchcock ate it.”

“He spit out the paper but ate the cellophane? Bad dog!”

“Why do you want the address, honey?”

“I don’t know. A hunch? Woman’s intuition? Wylie recommended the Chinese restaurant and—look, there’s another cookie!”

“I suppose you want me to read the fortune. Okay, here goes. Wise man say intuition is something women have in place of common sense.”

“You just made that up, didn’t you? The grin on your face is a dead giveaway. Bad Ben!”

Hitchcock’s ears, which had drooped at the word bad, practically levitated at the word Ben.

“C’mon, Cassidy,” I urged. “What does it really say?”

“Peace is a thing you can’t achieve by throwing rocks at a hornet’s nest.”

“Chinese elves didn’t create those fortunes, Ben. They were written by an antiwar advocate.”

“Or an aging hippie.”

“What makes you think it’s an aging hippie?”

“Your song, honey. I’ll bet there’s another strip of paper that says something about answers blowing in the wind.”

As if on cue, a gust of wind blew rain and nature’s debris through my open window. I ran behind the couch and tugged at my stubborn window pane. Unfortunately, the answer to Wylie’s death didn’t mingle amid the swirling leaves and water.

Staring down at the floor, I tried to determine which raindrop was responsible for the murder.

Patty?

Dwight?

Alice?

The nympho cheerleader, Theodora “Tad” Mallard?

Poor, pathetic, disgruntled Junior Hartsel?

Or maybe it was merely a pissed off “lost boy” in that cellulose, cellular Never-Never Land of petered, panached reunionites.

Which meant that I had at least 75 suspects.

Me. Ingrid Anastasia Beaumont. Who had never solved a mystery in her life. Who always guessed wrong when reading books or watching TV. Who, at this very moment, felt like Audrey Hepburn’s wet, confused pussy.

What was the name of Audrey’s cat?

Oh yeah, Cat.

As in curiosity killed the.

Chapter Seven

On our knees, we searched for the fourth cookie.

Hitchcock decided this was a fun game. He duplicated the position of our rumps and let loose with doggie gas that sounded like human burps and smelled like moo goo gai pan.

Rising, I extended my first finger. “Look, Hitchcock, there’s a
cat
. Chase the
cat
.”

My gullible mutt bounded toward the kitchen while I closed the connecting door. Then I retrieved Ben’s jeans and shirt from the bathroom, handed him the jeans, and put on the shirt.

“Ingrid,” he said, “what happened to my shorts?”

“You weren’t wearing shorts. Maybe,” I said, “you left them at Patty’s house to be dry-cleaned.”

“Maybe I left them inside your dryer. Look, if this Patty thing is going to become an issue, I’ll reclaim my hotel room. I didn’t really check out, you know.”

“Ben, I’m sorry. God, I sounded like my ex.”

“He was jealous?”

“Yes. And scared. Afraid I’d leave him. We fought all the time, but the biggie was my prom picture. He insisted I destroy Wylie. Remember the photo with all of us together?”

Stupid question. I’d seen it while scanning Ben’s wallet. But I couldn’t admit that, so I waited for his nod. “My ex thought Wylie Jamestone was the love of my life.”

“Why didn’t you set him straight?”

“Because he would have wanted me to destroy
you
. I threatened divorce if he didn’t seek help. Instead, he stole the photo, disappeared, and I haven’t seen or heard from him since.”

“When did he sign the divorce papers?”

“He didn’t.”

“You’re still married?”

“Yes. I use my maiden name and call him my ex, but I’m still married.” I felt stupid tears drench my lashes. “Do you want to go back to the hotel?”

“Come here.” Ben extended his arms, and I hid my face against his warm shoulder. “Poor sweet baby,” he crooned.

“Don’t, Ben. It’s harder for me to accept sympathy than compliments.”

“You’ll have to deal with both. I love you, babe, and I have no intention of leaving.”

“Your practice—”

“Is being handled by my assistant. I haven’t had a vacation in years.” He tilted my chin. “I plan to make up for lost time.”

“Speaking of lost,” I said, walking toward the fireplace. “Did you find the fourth fortune?”

“Nope. Just three pennies, two nickels, a Canadian dime, and one of those subscription postcards that always fall out of magazines.”

My gaze encompassed the room. “Maybe if we clean up Hitchcock’s mess first.”

“I’ll clean while you make us a broccoli omelet. That seems to be the only container that wasn’t punctured by your canine’s canines.”

“Ben, I can’t cook.”

“We’re talking eggs, Beaumont.”

“We’re talking burnt, Cassidy.”

“Okay. You clean while I cook.”

On his way out, Ben halted to thumb away the tears that still stained my lashes.

“I love you,” he repeated softly.

“I love you, too.”

After stoking fireplace logs, I entered the den, planning to confiscate its wastepaper basket. Originally a dining room, my comfy lair was furnished with a desk, a chair, a sofa bed, a large metal cabinet, a stereo, woofer, tweeter, baby grand, and Wylie’s painting.

It had been a hassle, carrying that painting back to my car, but Doris Day seemed to enjoy the ride. Reclining against her pillows, she had smiled passively. She was probably smiling at the sight of my elbows scraping against tree bark. Or maybe she smiled at the Oz-like branches that attacked my hair. Or the birds who tried to blitz me with poop grenades.

Arriving home, I had immediately pigeonholed Doris inside my cabinet. Which hadn’t bothered her, I noted, opening the cabinet door. She still smiled brainlessly, and I had the insane notion that Doris Day had once smoked lots of pot.

Gazing at her freckled face and silver-blonde hair, I finally focused on the vague concept that had caused my fingernails to pockmark Ben’s back.

Patty was right. Doris wasn’t the clue, per se.

I raced toward my desk, opened its deep middle drawer, retrieved an old shoe box, and pulled out a letter. Wylie had sent the letter after I had scored a buddy-cop movie whose white hero looked like Rock Hudson. In fact, the lead actor’s name was Rock
Hutt
son. Originally titled
Death Is Psychosomatic
, the sleazy film was released sparingly. Years later it appeared in video stores under its new title,
Killer Shrink!

But Wylie had caught the real McCoy at a Manhattan theater, God knows why. Maybe, in retrospect, he was humping some Rock Huttson fan. In any case, Wylie subsequently dispatched an acknowledgment suggesting that the recurrent pattern of my simplistic, albeit haunting melody would make a supreme song for Diana Ross. On a second sheet of paper he had depicted the genuine Hudson, who, along with Doris Day, crouched atop a huge pillow. Behind Rock and Doris stood Oscar Levant, the piano player who always dangled a cigarette from his lower lip. Oscar’s hands were raised as though giving a benediction and his bubble stated: I KNEW HER BEFORE SHE WAS A VIRGIN.

* * *

“What does it mean?” Ben asked for the second time.

Standing by my antique half-moon spinet, he chomped a stalk of broccoli. Two plates of garlic-flavored eggs decorated the family room’s Hepplewhite coffee table. So did Wylie’s drawing.

“You’ll never be President,” I grumbled. For some dumb reason, the blues had set in. Maybe it was because the original wind and rain have given way to a thunderstorm. Maybe it was because broccoli gave me heartburn, yet I ate the darn stuff to prevent clotting arteries. Maybe it was the almost overwhelming scent of garlic. Vampires wouldn’t be caught dead outside Ingrid Beaumont’s front door. Or even Hitchcock’s doggie door.

Ben’s craggy brow furrowed. “Why can’t I be President? I’ll confess up front that I smoked grass, lusted after women, bought useless real estate, and—”

“I was talking about your broccoli fetish, Ben. Your extravagant irrational devotion to functional florets.”

“You’ve lost me, babe.”

“Remember President Bush and broccoli?”

“Of course.”

“Remember
Pillow Talk
?” I gestured toward Wylie’s caricatures. “Rock Hudson pretends to be this shy Texan—”

“Ingrid, Our Gang saw that movie together. Alice thought it was cute. Patty said it was ‘romantic.’ Stewie fell asleep. Wylie hated it. Correction. He loved Rock’s redecorated apartment, which was supposed to be grotesque.”

“Did we love it or hate it?”

“We argued. You said it poked fun at gays and I said you shouldn’t take everything so seriously.”

“What a memory! Okay, Mr. Total Recall, who did we know before she was a virgin?”

“You.”

“Who else?”

“Patty.”

“Who else?”

“The whole senior class,” Ben said, his voice filled with amusement.

“Except Alice. According to Patty, Alice is still a virgin. Unless…”

“Unless what?”

“Unless Wylie deflowered her.”

“What? You’re nuts.”

“Wylie could have been Alice’s Rottweiller. She, in turn, could have bopped him over the head. Rodin’s
The Thinker
split his skull. Isn’t that an Alice weapon? And she’d mentally erase the dirty deed, just like she did after her first-floor suicide leap. You even pinpointed her as a person without a conscience.”

“Why are we debating this, honey? Wylie’s clues are moot. The cops already traced his murderer.”

The phone rang, effectively silencing my denial. I raced toward a small gate-legged table and fumbled for the receiver.

“Hi, Ingrid, sorry to call so late,” said Cee-Cee.

“That’s okay. Ben and I were defining virgins.”

“For what it’s worth, I wheedled more information out of Bill,” Cee-Cee said, ignoring my enigmatic virgin remark. “The perp finally admitted that he planned to rob the house, with an accomplice no less, but he swears the blood was already pooling beneath Wylie’s bald head.”

“Aha!”

“The police don’t believe him. Both Bill and Lieutenant Miller believe he’s trying to avoid a murder rap.”

“Who’s the accomplice? Maybe it’s someone who knew Wylie and used the robbery as a cover-up.”

“The perp wouldn’t say. He seemed scared of reprisals. Then his lawyer arrived and he promptly shut up.”

“Did the cops question the neighbors? Maybe they saw something.”

“Yes. Football. Every neighbor was glued to his or her TV set, watching the Broncos.”

“What about Kim O’Connor? She looks more the MTV type.”

“Miller told Bill that Kim wasn’t talking, that she had guilt written all over her face. Miller thinks she was sneaking boys into the empty house next door, before Wylie and Patty showed up. That would explain why the cat was so familiar—”

“Kim’s thirteen, fourteen, fifteen tops!”

“Have you seen the stats on teenage pregnancies?”

“Right. Do you think I should question her?”

“You can try, but you might not get much information. Bill says Kim’s grounded. Her parents were furious because she talked to reporters. The O’Connors shun publicity, unless it’s a posh society event.”

“Do you know them?”

“I’ve met Mary. She did some volunteer work for Canine Companions before she decided the organization wasn’t prestigious enough. Dogs don’t genuflect. They use their tails and tongues to express appreciation.”

I glanced over at Ben, petting Hitchcock.

“Mary’s gems weigh almost as much as she does,” Cee-Cee continued, “and she’s paranoid about being robbed.”

“Tonto.”

“Who?”

“She has a Loch Ness monster dog named Tonto. If the perp tried to rob her house, he wouldn’t get very far.”

“Mary’s also paranoid when it comes to kidnappers. Kimberly attends private school and is chauffeured every day, so it might be difficult to question her, especially alone. Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

“By the way, who’s on the painting? I forgot to ask Bill.”

“Doris Day.”

“Good grief. Miller would call her a famous blonde. He’s a tad anachronistic.”

“Speaking of Tad, that’s the nickname for Dwight’s cheerleader, the one I told you about. I plan to question her too, just for grins. She doesn’t seem the killer type.”

“Please be careful, Ingrid. Sleuthing can be dangerous. I’d help, but I have to deliver a dog to Aspen and train its new owner.”

“Who’s watching Sydney?” I blurted.

Sydney is Cee-Cee’s Australian Shepherd, and a real bitch. She could never be a Canine Companion. She’s too independent, too growly, and definitely a one-woman dog. Last year Cee-Cee left Sydney with a couple of servants. Sydney pooped the parlor and chewed up everything within reach. The servants quit two days before Cee-Cee’s return, so I played dog-sitter. “It’s awfully hard to find good servants,” Ceese had sighed, tossing Sydney a chew bone. A perfect little lady, the dog’s one blue eye and one brown eye had gazed adoringly at her mistress.

“Sydney will stay with Bill,” Cee-Cee replied. “She tolerates him. I’m leaving tomorrow, Ingrid, so I’ll give you my Aspen phone number. Don’t hesitate to call. Promise?”

“Yup. Hold on.” I retrieved my Visa bill from the mail stacked atop the table, found a pen, turned over the envelope, and jotted down the number. “Please don’t worry, Ceese. I’ve already outwitted Tonto, Kim’s no threat, and Tad says things like eat shit and die. If she bopped Wylie over the head, she’d claim Workers’ Comp for a broken fingernail.”

“Did you decipher Wylie’s painting?”

“Maybe.” I told Cee-Cee about the virgin bit. “I feel as though I’ve been taken advantage of. If Wylie had a premonition, why didn’t he simply say so-and-so wants me dead? I prefer a treasure hunt that leads to some treasure. I mean, the prize at the end of this one is a killer, not money or a vacation or even tickets to a Broncos play-off game.”

“Oops. Bill’s awake, raiding the refrigerator. Sex gives him the munchies. Gotta go. Good luck, sweetie.”

Hanging up the receiver, I felt stern eyes, and my reaction was not unlike Hitchcock’s when he senses a baddog coming.

“What the hell was that all about?” Ben’s body language suggested I might consider slinking toward fireplace tiles with my tail between my legs.

“The thief swears Wylie was already dead.”

“The thief’s name is Cee-Cee?”

“Of course not. It’s really quite simple. My good friend, Cee-Cee Sinclair, has an ex-husband named Bill Lewis. Bill’s retired, but he was once a big-shot homicide detective. His protégé is Lieutenant Peter Miller, the cop who’s investigating Wylie’s murder. I met Cee-Cee for breakfast this morning and she said she’d query Bill.”

“I don’t call that simple, Ingrid. I call it amateurish snooping, chitchatting over toast.”

“Bagels, you rat!”

“Why are you so angry?”

“You must be kidding! Chitchatting?” I counted to ten and reached eight. “Why don’t you want me to find Wylie’s killer?”

“It’s not your job. That’s why God invented cops.”

“I suppose God invented the Dallas police department?”

“What?”

“Police sometimes screw up.”

“Are you comparing Wylie’s murder to Kennedy’s assassination and the subsequent elimination of Oswald?”

“Yes. No. I’m comparing police bureaucracy to riddles.”

“Ingrid, I’m trying to follow your logic, and I apologize for the chitchat remark, but—”

“Do you honestly believe our Colorado Springs homicide division has the time or even the inclination to decipher elephant jokes? Wylie used to spout them at the drop of a hat. How does an elephant charge or how do you make an elephant float or—pillows! Maybe the painting has nothing to do with Rock and Doris. How do you get down off an elephant, Ben?”

“A ladder? Parachute?”

“I never realized you were so literal.”

His craggy jaw jutted. “I’m not good at riddles.”

“You don’t get down off an elephant. You get down off a goose.”

“Right. Now everything’s perfectly clear. A goose killed Wylie.”

“You said Wylie dubbed Tad Mallard ‘The Vampire.’”

“Okay, vampires killed Wylie.”

“Ben! Shut up and listen! Wylie used to call Alice ‘Mother Goose.’ ”