Footprints in the Butter
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Authors: Denise Dietz
Footprints in the Butter
By Denise Dietz
Copyright 2010 by Denise Dietz
Cover Copyright 2010 by Dara England and Untreed Reads Publishing
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.
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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Footprints in the Butter
An Ingrid Beaumont Mystery
Costarring Hitchcock the Dog
By Denise Dietz
Table of Contents
Chapter One
My name is Ingrid Anastasia Beaumont. My ex used to say that my initials stood for “I’m a bitch.” True.
I was delivered by an usher at the Chief Theatre. My mother had been watching Alfred Hitchcock’s
Notorious
when she went into labor, and she wouldn’t budge until the movie ended. I can’t really blame her. You see, Ingrid Bergman, beautiful and rich, had been poisoned by her insensitive husband, and Cary Grant was about to come to her rescue. I mean, we’re talking Cary Grant—suave, cleft-chinned, urbane, aristocratic.
Except for my cleft chin, I don’t possess Cary’s attributes. Nor Ingrid’s. My mother always tells everybody that my middle name, Anastasia, was for Ingrid Bergman’s Academy Award performance. Baloney! When Bergman won her 1957 Oscar, I had just turned ten. The Anastasia was for my grandmother, who’s half Russian, half Chinese. From Nana Ana, I inherited eyes that tilt slightly north, and I was born in the Year of the Rat. Which, says Nana Ana, means that I’m ambitious, honest, and compatible with Dragons, Monkeys, and other Rats. I should have heeded Nana Ana’s words. My ex was a Cock.
For the record, I’m not a detective or even an amateur sleuth. I adore riddles and crossword puzzles, but I despise mysteries. So I guess God was playing one of his/her practical jokes when Wylie bit the dust.
Chapter Two
“Kill the Cowboys!”
It was Sunday afternoon, the day after my high school reunion dance, and I was at Mile High Stadium, watching the Denver Broncos get massacred by the Dallas Cowboys.
In Colorado Springs, seventy miles away, Wylie Jamestone took his last breath.
Wylie’s severed pate spurted blood while I screamed bloody murder: “Kill, kill, kill! Blitz, you donkeys,
blitz!
”
The Broncos blitzed. The Cowboys fumbled. The Broncs recovered. I roared my approval and performed a high-five with the fat man sitting next to me, even though he flaunted a Minnesota Vikings sweatshirt. He fumbled for my breast, I don’t know why. I’m not a ravishing beauty, quite the opposite, yet men always try to ravish me. I’ve been told I look like Bette Midler. When people tell me this, they usually stare at my bust. Then, embarrassed, they raise their eyes to my slightly crooked front teeth, which are frequently clenched. You see, I’ve heard that Bette Midler rubbish a thousand times, and honestly, I don’t see the resemblance.
I slapped the fat man’s hand away. Undaunted, he said, “What’s your name, darlin’?”
“Hannibal Lector,” I growled. “The Purple People Eater.”
It went way above his head, like a Hail-Mary pass.
“But…but you’re a girl,” he stammered, his vodka-spiked cocoa sloshing from his thermos and puddling on his purple sweatpants.
“I am woman, mister, hear me roar.” Although my door-prize ticket sandwiched me somewhere between Heaven and Mile High Stadium’s manicured football field, I leaned forward, jiggled the orange and blue pom-pom somebody had handed me at the gate, screamed, “Bite the dust, you frickin’ Cowboys,” and thrust my middle finger skyward. Admittedly, it was a childish gesture for someone facing decade five.
The Broncos’ offense, bless their eleven hearts, responded to my badmouthing with a vengeance. Trampling Cowboys beneath their cleats, they scored three times and won the game.
Talk about an air-tight alibi! My friends later informed me that TV cameras had panned in close. My blondish curls, they said, had spilled over my forehead, hiding my hazel eyes. Beer had geysered, landing in the shape of a giant turkey’s wishbone across my lucky orange sweatshirt. My cardboard sign read: HI BEN AND PATTY. WELCOME TO COLORADO. But it was my middle finger gesture that provoked applause from patrons at the Dew Drop Inn.
Later I found out that Lieutenant Peter Miller had missed the last two minutes of the televised game, the part where Coloradans have heart attacks and nobody goes to the bathroom. Lieutenant Miller, a homicide detective, was much too busy inspecting the crime scene, searching for clues. Unfortunately, Wylie was much too dead for questioning, even if, as usual, he had all the answers.
The AFC playoffs, not Wylie, were on my mind as I navigated Interstate 25, driving toward Colorado Springs. There’s a long stretch between Castle Rock and Monument where my radio broadcasts the cold hiss of static, so I turned it off. Therefore, I missed the first news flash about the murder, the one where they keep the victim’s identity a secret, pending notification of the immediate family. In this case, Wylie’s immediate family was a sister in Houston and his wife, Patty.
“We’re number one!” I kept shouting through my Jeep’s open window. My voice, already raspy, was almost guttural by the time I reached my cozy turn-of-the-century house and discovered that my significant lover’s rental car was missing. Damn! I wanted to celebrate the Broncos victory with a few ticklish tackles of my own. Vaguely, I remembered Ben saying something about kidnapping Wylie and buying him dinner.
Hitchcock greeted me with a joyful whimper and a gyrating butt. I returned the salutation, then found my remote where he had buried it. Tonight it was easily discovered beneath a lime green couch cushion. Sometimes it’s wedged beneath my ersatz Oriental carpet. Mostly it’s in the back yard, just outside the doggie door. Wiping away dog drool with my thumb, I turned on the TV and clicked to ESPN.
There had been a brief electrical outage, so my answering machine looked even more inanimate than usual. Every Sunday its red button blinks in a mesmerizing rhythm of continuity, since a certain Hollywood producer likes to call during football games, when he knows I’m not home or won’t answer. That way he can leave caustic messages without repercussions.
Hired to compose the score for a pending slasher flick, my deadline loomed closer and closer, and my bad guy’s theme still sounded like melting ice cubes. I’m not a procrastinator, quite the opposite, but I had been totally distracted by my high school reunion.
I was in the process of recording a new “leave your name and number at the sound of the stupid beep” when my doorbell rang.
Part Irish Setter, part Lab, part Great Dane, and bigger than my couch, Hitchcock issued forth his warning bark, which usually sent solicitors, not to mention potential rapists, scrambling for distance. Not this time. The doorbell rang again. Between barks, a man shouted, “Is Ms. Beaumont home?”
“That all depends. Who wants to know?”
“Lieutenant Peter Miller. C.S.P.D.”
“Police?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Just a sec. Sit, Hitchcock! Stay!”
The man who stood on my front porch was attractive. About my age, he had dark hair and a silver-streaked mustache. He also possessed an identity packet.
“Are you Ms. Beaumont?” he asked.
“Yes. Delete the Ms, okay? It sounds like it’s short for misanthrope. I distrust mankind, but I don’t hate it.”
“Sorry,” he said, and even though it was nice of him to apologize, he sounded as if my Aunt Lu had been steamrolled by a San Francisco trolley. Except my Aunt Lu, who lives in San Francisco, is a rather hefty woman who could probably steamroll a trolley.
As I stared at Miller, it suddenly occurred to me that I hadn’t had a confrontation with uniformed authority in twenty-plus years, not even a speeding ticket. On the other hand, Miller wasn’t wearing a uniform, and that bothered me. When I’m bothered, I usually say the first thing that pops into my head, which in this case was, “Am I under arrest?”
“Why would you think that?”
“You’re not wearing a uniform.”
Puzzled by my reply, Miller’s fingers brushed nonexistent lint from his charcoal suit jacket and gray slacks. “Right,” he agreed. “I’m in Homicide, Ms. Beaumont. Sorry.”
This time, I wasn’t sure if his sorry referred to homicide or Ms. Then it struck me. “Oh my God! Did something happen to Ben?”
Puzzlement gave way to perplexity. “Who’s Ben?”
“Ben Cassidy, an old friend.” I heaved a sigh of relief. If Miller didn’t know Ben, Ben was okay. Unless, of course, Ben had lost his wallet and his voice. But I didn’t want to ponder that happenstance, so I did what I do when I don’t want to ponder nasty happenstances. Looking down at my bare feet, I seriously considered polishing my toenails.
“It’s cold,” Miller hinted, huffing on his fingertips.
“Come in, Lieutenant. Hitchcock,
friend!
”
Despite the recent lack of police opposition, I felt both jittery and defiant. Habit.
“Do you have a weapons permit, Ms…uh, Miss Beaumont?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The dog,” he said, entering and shedding his Hush Puppies in what I liked to call a vestibule.
“Hitchcock? His bark’s worse than his bite. If I don’t scream, he’ll sniff your crotch and roll over, begging to have his belly scratched.” I sneaked a peek at the cop’s argyle socks, took a couple of steps into my family room, snatched up my remote, and pressed MUTE. “What brings you to Ingrid Beaumont’s neighborhood, Lieutenant?”
“I’m here because…” Miller glanced toward my TV screen, where Dolphins were sacking Raiders. “Football fan, Ingrid?”
“Fanatic.”
“You saw the Broncos play today.”
Was that a question?
“Yes, Lieutenant. In fact, I was at Mile High Stadium. That’s why my voice sounds so hoarse. During the game I cheered. After the game I shouted at fellow fans, you know, through the window of…” I swallowed the rest of my babble and looked down at my toes again. For some dumb reason I felt like bursting into frustrated tears, most likely because I suspected that Miller’s switch from Ms. to Ingrid had something to do with a nasty happenstance.
“Why are you here, Lieutenant?” I challenged, lifting my cleaved chin and trying to square it. “I’ve scored enough buddy-cop movies to know that your visit’s unofficial. Otherwise, you’d have a cohort standing by your side, for instance Jodie Foster or Wesley Snipes.”
Miller said, “Were you alone?”
“Huh?”
“Alone,” he repeated. “At Mile High Stadium.”
“No. There were probably sixty-thousand people—”
“I meant—”
“Look, I usually watch with my friends at the Dew Drop Inn. I’m not a fair weather fan and I love my Broncos, win or lose. I won the ticket during my high school reunion dance. Door prize.”
“Hey, I didn’t mean to suggest—”
“Yes, you did! Alone?” I mimicked. “You sound like my ex-husband.”
“I won’t take up much of your time,” said Miller, seemingly unperturbed by my hostility or the unflattering comparison. “You probably want to be left in peace so that you can—”
“Get to the point, Lieutenant! What’s this all about?”
“Wylie Jamestone, of course.”
The perplexity was back. In fact, Miller looked as if he had memorized a script and forgotten his lines.
“Wylie hates football,” I said, knowing the statement was irrational. “He doesn’t
do
sports. He even made fun of jocks in high school.”
“Is that where you met? High school?”
“Yes. I just told you. The reunion. Oh, God! Did something happen to Wylie?”
“Ingrid, I thought you knew.” This time Miller looked stricken, as if he had begun to sing
The Star Spangled Banner
and suddenly realized he couldn’t reach the rockets-red-glare high notes. He glanced around for his invisible cohort. Then, with a cop’s subtlety, he blurted, “Wylie Jamestone is dead.”
I wanted to scream no, no, that can’t be true, but it emerged as one long, drawn-out moan. “Noooooooooo.”
Hitchcock rushed forward, fangs bared.
Miller retreated until his butt pressed against the front door. “Ms. Beaumont, Ingrid,” he begged, “please call off your…Hitchcock,
friend!
”
My ganglionic mutt flopped to the floor. He was well trained, but had never been able to distinguish voices, just smells. Which didn’t bother me, since I seriously doubted that any intruder would have the smarts to shout “Hitchcock friend!” during a busy rape or pilferage. Also, a burglar would smell sweaty. Lieutenant Miller smelled like Oreo cookies and Juicy Fruit gum.
“I’m sorry, Ingrid, I thought you knew,” he repeated, and I realized that his original sorry had referred to Wylie, not Ms.
“If I knew about Wylie, why would I ask about Ben?”
“Your question caught me off guard,” he admitted somewhat sheepishly. “But people say strange things when confronted with the death of a loved one.”
It was a lousy excuse, a typical police goof justification. Loved one? Where did Miller get the impression that Wylie was a loved one? If he had said buddy, pal, or even kindred spirit, I might have bought it.
Stumbling backwards, my jean-clad rump found and dented a couch cushion. “I assume Wylie died today since he was in perfect health last night. How did he die? Ohmigod! Homicide! Wylie was murdered, wasn’t he?”
“Yes. Naturally, I assumed somebody called you.”
“I’ve been home fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, and my answering machine…elec…electrical outage,” I stammered, then burst into tears.
An agitated Hitchcock tried to lick my face while Miller fumbled through his jacket pocket until he retrieved a clean handkerchief.
My crying jag was volatile but brief. I blew my nose. “Is that why you asked if I was alone at Mile High Stadium?”
“No. I asked because I was trying to eliminate possible suspects. If I thought you had anything to do with Wylie Jamestone’s murder, I would have brought my partner along.”
“For your protection?” I asked, not bothering to hide my sarcasm.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, and I realized that he meant legally, not physically. “In any case,” he continued, “you have an alibi.”
“Baloney! I could have won the ticket and decided not to attend. I could have sold the ticket and watched the game from any watering hole in town.”
“You could have, but didn’t.”
“And what led you to that conclusion?”
“The, uh, victim’s wife, Patty Jamestone, swears she saw you on TV. You were high up in the stands. You made an obscene gesture. There was even a crudely lettered sign that said—”
“Why’d you ask Patty about me?”
Miller reached into his pants pocket and retrieved a pack of Juicy Fruit, then an obese knife, the kind with corkscrew and nail file, then, finally, a piece of paper. Thrusting forth the paper, he said, “This is from Jamestone. It’s a hand-printed copy. Forensics has the original.”
I scanned Wylie’s brief message. “‘Give this to Ingrid,’” I read out loud. “‘Let the treasure hunt begin.’”
“Do you know what it means?” asked Miller.
I shook my head. “Give what to Ingrid?”
“A painting.”
“Who’s on the painting?”
“I thought
you
could tell
me
.”
“How? I never visited Wylie’s studio. Jeeze, Lieutenant, are we playing
Murder, She Wrote
?”
“A famous blonde.”
“What? Oh. The painting. Is it Bette Midler?”
“I thought Bette Midler had red hair.” Hunkering down, Miller offered Hitchcock an Oreo, retrieved from yet another pocket. Although he had been trained never to accept food from strangers, Hitchcock eagerly slobbered, chewed, swallowed.
“Bad dog,” I chastised, thinking
bad Lieutenant
. Despite the white cream on his fuzzy black chin, Hitchcock looked both guilty and smug, and I recalled that Wylie had worn that very same expression last night at the dance.
“Ingrid,” said Miller, “I’m curious. Why did your sign read ‘Hi Ben and Patty, welcome to Colorado’?”
“That’s a stupid question.” I dabbed at my eyes with Wylie’s note, caught myself in time, and switched to the handkerchief. “Ben and Patty are both from out of state. They came for the reunion. If TV cameras happened to scan the stands, I thought maybe they’d get a kick out of my sign.”
