Footprints in the Butter (17 page)

“Rats,” I said. “There’s one listing for John, but it’s the wrong street. No Mary, no Kimberly. Maybe we should call your daughter, Ben. Wait a sec! Here it is. O’Connor, Tonto. Clever Mary. She didn’t want to pay for an unlisted number, so she used her dog’s name.”

“I assume you plan to ask Kim if she knows the answer to Wylie’s elephant-statue riddle.”

“Yes. Are you going to get angry again?”

“No. But I’m going to leave again. I have an appointment with my attorney. By the way, thanks. She’s great. Reminds me of Debra Winger.”

“God, Ben, you’ve never told me what happened at the police station.”

“I’m a ‘person of interst,’ Ingrid. However, my jacket’s not enough. Debra Winger says—”

“Your lawyer’s name is Debra Winger?”

“No. Susan Goldstein. I tease her with Debra. She says they have to prove opportunity, motive, maybe even find an eye witness who—”

“Why the appointment?”

“Susan phoned the Broadmoor this morning while I was jogging, and she left a message to meet her around four o’clock. She said it was urgent but I shouldn’t worry.”

“That sounds like lawyer-speak.”

Ben walked over to the spinet and picked up a small vase that held one ceramic rose. “I think you’re right, Ingrid. I think Patty killed Wylie. You see, I’ve been trying to reach her. I pounded on her door twice last night. She wasn’t there, or wouldn’t respond. I’ve called at least a dozen times and left messages on her answering machine. I don’t understand why she’s acting this way unless she killed Wylie. Remember when I told Miller that anyone could have left the Dew Drop and returned very quickly, very quietly?”

“Yes. I said Patty could have slipped away. But how could she, Ben? In what?”

“My rental car.”

His eyes looked mournful, as if a trustworthy bitch had nipped his ankle, and I recalled an old Ben habit. He would leave his keys in the ignition. Because, he used to say, who’d want to steal this piece of junk? But that was thirty years ago!

“Ben, did you leave your keys in the car?”

“Yes.”

“So Patty could have driven it.”

“Yes.”

“And the police might have found somebody who saw your car and jotted down the license number.”

“Yes.”

“Okay, Ben. Let’s not panic and let’s not jump to conclusions.” I joined him at the spinet, removed the vase from his tight grip, and clasped his hands in mine. “I’m almost positive Wylie meant to lead me to his virgin clue, which specifies Alice. So does the clarinet and Woody’s painting.” I told Ben about the clarinet and Woody’s painting. “After the murder, when I called Alice, she said she was at the Dew Drop Inn. Was she?”

“Absolutely.”

“How did she behave? Subdued? Agitated?”

“Neither. She was whooping it up.”

“Define whooping.”

“You know Alice. She was collecting tidbits for her next newsletter, and she kept insisting that Dwight regale us with his old football stories.”

“Speaking of old football stories, was Junior there?”

“Very there. He and Tad were practically doing it under the table. Then Junior dumped Tad, literally. She was sprawled across his lap. He began to hustle Patty. I heard him say something about making it real.”

“Making what real?”

“I don’t know. Patty shook her head. ‘That’s the way the cookie crumbles,’ she said. Junior promptly shut up. Then he joined Tad, who was crying.”

“I’m beginning to feel sorry for Tad.”

“Don’t bother. Soon she and Junior were doing it again. But those were all isolated instances, babe. The Dew Drop was packed. Anybody could have slipped away and returned without drawing attention.” Ben twisted our hands and glanced down at his watch. “Damn! Now I’m running late.”

“Where’s your luggage?”

“In the car. I wanted to patch things up.”

“Consider them patched.”

“Before I leave, please tell me one thing.”

“What?” I asked, and heard the suspicion in my voice.

“Why do girl elephants wear angora sweaters?”

“Huh?”

“Before, when you talked about Wylie haunting you, you said—”

“Oh. Right. Girl elephants wear angora sweaters to tell them apart from boy elephants.”

“I’m sorry I asked.” Ben untangled our hands, gave me a kiss that virtually seared my lips, and raced toward the door.

I was exhausted, both emotionally and physically, but I had to solve a murder. Fast. Forget Wylie haunting me. Ben was now my prime concern. So I reached for the phone to call Tonto O’Connor, changed my mind, glanced down at my utilities envelope, and called Aspen.

“It appears that Ben threatened Wylie,” Cee-Cee said after we had exchanged hello-how-are-yous. “That’s what Bill told me the last time we talked on the phone. But he said Miller sounded desperate because Wylie was so famous and all the tabloids…well, you know.”

Did Cee-Cee sound a tad hesitant? I remembered a portion of my dialogue with Miller.
What makes you think the police arrived after Jamestone was killed? Patty mentioned it
. Yeah, right. I should have said Sinead the cat mentioned it. I should have kept my mouth shut.

“Ceese, did I get you in hot water with Bill?”

She sighed. “Bill’s an old-fashioned teeter-totter, Ingrid. One moment he’s telling me I have a logical mind, the next he’s telling me to mind my own business. That’s one of the reasons we got divorced. Obviously, Miller shares with Bill.
Everyone
confesses to Bill, even criminals. He’s kind of priest-like.”

“I’m sorry, Ceese.”

“It’s not your fault.”

Yes, it is
. “How’s your Canine Companion doing?”

“Great. I should be home soon.” She sighed again. “Dwight Cooper heard Ben say something about burying a hatchet in Wylie’s balls.”

“That was during the dance, Ceese, and it was a figure of speech. I wish I had a dollar for every time I’ve cussed out a producer or musician, not to mention my ex. Remember what I told you at breakfast? I threatened to bash Wylie’s head in.”

“Take it easy. Obviously Ben’s taunt isn’t enough to indict, but it does make him—”

“A person of interest. I’ve got to touch base with Miller, Ceese, because I discovered that Junior Hartsel, the ex-jock, has a motive, and according to Kim O’Connor he visited Patty, and he was at the Dew Drop, and he said something to Patty about making it real. She said, ‘That’s the way the cookie crumbles.’ Do you think they planned Wylie’s murder together, and making it real meant making it happen? Also, a mysterious woman threatened me last night and…well, it’s a long story, but Ben said Patty wasn’t home last night.”

“Ingrid! Contact Miller ASAP! I think he’s set his sights on your doctor.”

“Which is probably why Ben’s talking to Susan Goldstein. By the way, Ben says thanks.”

“Have you met Susan? She looks like Debra Winger.”

“No, I haven’t met her, but she sounds wonderful. Come home soon, Tiger.”

“As soon as I can. I’m missing all the…action.”

I could have sworn Cee-Cee had been about to say fun, just before she remembered my threat comment. Hanging up, I stared at the phone. Then I took a deep breath, prepared to do battle with Mary O’Connor.

“O’Connor residence,” said a young voice. “Mr. and Mrs. O’Connor ain’t here right now.”

“Kim? This is Ingrid Beaumont.”

“Hi, Grid. Did you call about the Hollywood trip? I’ve already asked Mom and she said ask your father. So I did and he said ask your mother. So it’s practically in the bag. All I have to do is tell Daddy that Mom said okay, then tell Mom that Daddy said okay.”

“Honey, it’s only been a couple of days. I’ll talk to your parents and make arrangements, I promise. I called because…” I paused, as a new thought occurred. “Kim, this is very important. When you found Mr. Jamestone, did you see a sheepskin jacket? The same one that grossed you out?”

“No. Yes. No.”

“The truth, honey.”

“I took the jacket from the kitchen and covered Mr. Jamestone’s body. He looked cold. Then I thought maybe I shouldn’t have touched the jacket, like maybe I was fooling around with evidence, so I put it back. Am I in big trouble?”

“You’re probably in never do anything like that again trouble. But you’ll have to tell Lieutenant Miller. The police think Ben, the Indian, might have killed Mr. Jamestone.”

“I’m sorry, Grid. You like the Indian a lot, don’t you? I can hear it in your voice.”

“Yes, I like him. A lot.” I took a moment to admire her teenage sagacity. “Kim, did you tell elephant jokes when you were little?”

“Nah. But my sister did. She thought they were funny. I thought they were stupid.”

“Okay, here’s a real stupid one. How do you make a statue of an elephant?”

“That’s easy, Grid. Find a big piece of stone and cut away everything that doesn’t look like an elephant.”

Chapter Eighteen

“Damn you, Wylie,” I swore, after saying goodbye to Kim. “Cut away everything that doesn’t look like an elephant? What the hell does
that
mean?”

I gazed toward the fireplace and stared suspiciously at my legacy painting. It was becoming a permanent floor fixture, and, thanks to Hitchcock, looked like the Leaning Tower of Day. “Do you know the answer to the answer, Doris?”

Her painted lips seemed to form three words:
Que sera, sera
.

What will be will be. The answer’s not there to see. Wrong! The answer was there, if I could only figure it out—with a little help from my friends.

Which meant that a long overdue Alice visit was in order.

But first I had to take care of trivialities. So I called the VISA twenty-four-hour number, punched the button that would give me a service rep, and was put on terminal hold.

My family room felt eerie, like the eye of a hurricane, and I wished that Ben had been able to stick around. Forget Ingrid Independent. For one thing, the Palmer House matchbook cover still bothered me. Chicago. Had my left-winged past caught up to my right-winged present?
Damn Jane Fonda! Damn all you Jane Fondas!
Come to think of it, Jane had changed too. She had hit the jackpot by exploiting what Wylie might have called “the abdomophobias of weighty Wendyites and potbellied Peter Pans.”

I glanced toward Hitchcock. He was chasing cats in his sleep, and I was grateful for his comforting presence, not to mention his sharp canines.

The credit card company’s recorded voice kept announcing that my call was important, hang on, so I hung up.

Fortunately, my local locksmith was a friend. I had once written him a freebie advertising jingle. “Keys get lost, but never Joe, call 555-KEYS, and I’m ready to go.” Simplistic? Sure. Effective? Very. As Sara Lee might say, nobody never forgot 555-KEYS.

Joe said he’d change my locks right away, but I said first thing tomorrow morning might be better. Hitchcock could play watchdog, I had a few miles to go before I slept and Ben might wonder why his key didn’t fit. He might even believe that I had changed my mind about patching.

Should I try the credit card companies again, or should I shower? No riddle there! How could I face immaculate Alice when I resembled Wylie’s famous painting of Mick Jagger?

Wylie had titled his portrait
Ferae Naturae
. Jagger’s blurb stated: I SHOUTED OUT “WHO KILLED THE KENNEDYS?” WHEN AFTER ALL, IT WAS YOU AND ME.

Who killed the Kennedys? Who killed Wylie Jamestone? The answer’s not there to see. Oh, yeah? I’m gonna see it. After all,
me
didn’t kill Wylie. And you was probably Patty and/or Junior. But how could I prove it? First, I’d have to find a big piece of stone and chisel.

I had a feeling my elephant stone lay hidden inside Alice’s house. Or was it hidden inside Alice’s head? If she was Wylie’s murderer, it was hidden inside her heart.

How do you chisel a heart? Easy. Easy as pie. Easy as baneberry pie. Just press your TV remote, find a country-western station, and watch videos. Eventually, someone will sing about chiseling.

I didn’t have time to watch country-western videos.

Instead, I showered, subdued my hair with a blow dryer, donned a robe, and began to scarf down Ben’s stew.

Naturally, the phone rang. I’ve rarely made it through a meal without the telephone’s intrusive summons, and I couldn’t allow my machine to get it because the right coast is two hours ahead while the left coast is one hour behind, and the call might mean big bucks. Or at least an opportunity to earn a few bucks. Hesitate and you’ve lost your movie soundtrack.

“Hello,” I said, “this is Ingrid Beaumont.”

“Ingrid Beaumont Oates. We’re not divorced yet.”

Bingo!

I tried to keep my voice on an even keel. “Why did you disappear again, Bingo? And what did you mean by trouble?”

“Not now. Your phone might be bugged.”

“Are you crazy? Who would bug my phone?

“Meet me at the top of Pikes Peak, near the cascade, half an hour. Be sure to bring your checkbook and pen, Rose.”

Then he hung up.

The Pikes Peak Highway has a scenic route that makes one catch one’s breath. Driving to the top is pure pleasure, unless it’s cold and dark and one has the feeling that one is being spied upon. Maybe I should lasso Hitchcock, toss him inside Jeep, ask him to play bodyguard rather than watchdog. Good old Hitchcock. No. Good young Hitchcock. Because he wasn’t too old to learn new tricks and—rats!

What should you know before you teach a dog new tricks? You should know more than the dog. Bingo had assumed I’d know more than the dog. His entire message was a riddle, easy to decipher, unless you happened to be a bugger. I should have guessed right away when he called me Rose and told me to bring a pen.

Meet me at the top of Pikes Peak, near the cascade
.

The Pikes Peak Penrose Library was located downtown, on Cascade Avenue.

Half an hour
.

Which meant I had at least forty-five minutes.

* * *

One didn’t need one’s best glad rags to meet one’s ex-ex at the library, so I donned clean jeans and a white sweatshirt with the words KILLER SHRINK! printed on the front—a gift from my ex-agent.

I contemplated leaving Ben a note, but I wanted to retain at least one shred of independence. Then I had second thoughts. Alice might be the murderer and I planned to hit her house after my Bingo rendezvous. So I scribbled: “The answer to Wylie’s riddle is cut away everything that doesn’t look like an elephant. Ponder that while I visit Alice. Love Ingrid.”

Just like Wylie, I had forgotten to add a comma.

Accidentally on purpose?

The Penrose Library closed at nine. It was five-thirty and the parking lot was full. An ancient VW bug maneuvered around my Jeep, capturing the last empty space.

Eyes half shut, I hummed Canned Heat’s “On the Road Again.” At the same time, I visualized somebody exiting the library, entering a car, and driving away.

It worked. Somebody did. A young man smoking a cigarette. Oh, how I wanted a cigarette. But Jeep’s ashtray was buttless, clean as a whistle.

The young man whistled through his fingers. “It’s all yours!” he shouted, gunning his motor.

Jeep gunned back, and stalled. Desperate, I pressed the accelerator pedal and flooded the engine. After counting slowly to one hundred twice, I turned my ignition key, then my steering wheel. By the time my boots finally found the pavement, a Boy Scout could have helped several old ladies across the street.

Not exactly an auspicious beginning.

Meet me at the top
.

The library’s top floor includes the children’s book section and the historical research area. Bearing in mind those wonderful Olive Garden balloon kids, I headed for those wonderful days of yesteryear.

Bingo! Trying not to look like Bingo. His silver-blond hair had been dyed brown.

Patty had once said, somewhat critically, that a person should always dress like a million bucks. Bingo had followed Patty’s advice. His suit was green and wrinkled. Thrift shop? Garage sale?

To my knowledge, Bingo didn’t own a suit. Never had. His new boots shined and his feet looked like they belonged to someone else. He slumped in a chair, pretending to read a book, an upside-down book. As I approached his table, he whispered, “You’re late, Ingrid.”

“And you look ridiculous, Bingo. Anybody would be able to recognize you, except your mother.”

“Please keep your voice down.”

“Why? Are you afraid
they
bugged the library?”

“I don’t want to draw attention to us.”

“Damn it, Bingo, there’s nobody here except one librarian and one old lady who’s asleep, snoring.”

“Okay, Ingrid, forget it.”

“Don’t you dare leave! I’ll scream my head off. Speaking of which, did you crush Wylie Jamestone’s head?”

“Why would you think that?”

“You said you were in trouble and you stole my prom picture.”

“I didn’t steal it. I flushed it down the toilet.”

“Where did you go after you flushed?”

“Chicago.”

I pictured envelopes and addresses. Mrs. Nicholas Oates. Herbert Oates. Stanley Oates. Beatrice. Chicago, Illinois.

“Did you finally collect your inheritance, Bingo?”

His mouth twisted. Some might call it a smile but I knew better. “Herb and Stan paid me ten thousand dollars to shut me up,” he said. “I signed some legal forms, but that’s all water under the bridge.”

I was so angry I felt like blasting his bridge with dynamite. “You had money, you rat, and you couldn’t send me a few dollars to help pay off your debts?”

“What debts?”

“Your lawyer and your health club contract and your department store charges and…” I paused, breathing hard. “By any chance did the Oates mini-fortune cure your impotence?”

The moment I said it I wished I hadn’t. But for the first time in my life I understood how a person could squeeze a trigger or thrust a knife or bash someone’s head in.

Surprisingly, Bingo laughed. The librarian glanced our way. The snoring woman twitched.

“I’d love to prove my potency, Ing,” he said, “but your clothes don’t turn me on. I prefer the girl who used to wear hip-huggers, the girl whose belly-button beckoned. No wonder the cops always roughed you up. They wanted a free feel. Did you happen to glance at yourself in the mirror? Why wear that idiotic killer shrink sweatshirt? Did your tits shrink? I remember sweaty undershirts. God, Ing, your nipples—”

“That’s enough, Bingo!” Tit for tat. Tit for tattered dreams. “This time
I’m
leaving, and I don’t give a rat’s spit if you’re in trouble or—”

I swallowed the rest of my words. Chicago. The matchbook cover. Was Bingo’s trouble my trouble?

He sensed my uncertainty. “I need money,” he said.

“What happened to your ten thousand?”

“I bet it all on sports. Baseball, basketball, football. At first I won. Then I lost everything. Three weeks ago I bet a bundle against Denver. Your Broncos were playing the Kansas City Chiefs. The odds were two to one and the spread—”

“How much?”

“How much was the spread?”

“How much money did you bet?”

“Five thousand. I wanted to win back what I lost.”

“But the Broncos didn’t lose,” I said. “How could you bet money you didn’t have, Bingo? Bookies?”

“Of course.”

“Legal?”

“Are you serious?”

“So now you owe them five thousand dollars?”

“Well, not exactly. I bet another five on the Giants game.” He shrugged.

“I’ve never been good at math, Bingo, but I think five and five equals ten.”

“If I don’t pay, they’ll kill me.”

“Aren’t you being a tad dramatic?”

“No. They’ve already roughed me up once. It happened just before I flew to Colorado Springs.”

“Where did you get the money to fly here?”

“I closed a deal with a friend. He wired me an advance.”

Close cover before striking. The matches
.

“Bingo, did you follow me to Texas?”

“Why would I follow you?”

“To trash my motel room and write it’s time to stray on the mirror, which is very Barry Isaac Nicholas Gregory Oates, considering your jealous streak. Then you could steal my credit cards and make the whole thing look as if it had something to do with Wylie’s murder. What’s the limit on American Express, Bingo? I’m not certain they’d go for ten thousand, but they might advance five, and five would keep your bookies at bay.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Answer me, Bingo! Yes or no? Did you trail me to Houston? Did you steal my credit cards?”

“Listen to yourself, Ingrid. Have you totally lost it? If I had your credit cards, why would we be meeting like this? I’d be long gone.”

“True.” I took a deep breath. “Why did you arrange this cloak and dagger rendezvous? You can’t honestly believe I’d bail you out.”

“Please, Ing, you loved me once, and I’m sure you don’t want to see me dead.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

He gave me a sincere smile, not a twisty one, and I realized that my armadillo’s armor was wearing thin.

“Spillane not Mouse, Spillane not Mouse,” I said, chanting the words like a mantra. “Spillane, not Mouse.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means
ciao
, Bingo.”

“No. Wait. Don’t leave. Please. Listen. There’s this woman named Charlene. They call her Charlie Bronson. She’s a hit woman and she’s after me.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. Try again, Bingo.”

“I’m not kidding. God, I shouldn’t have come here.”

“The library?”

“No. Colorado Springs. Please listen. I saw
Killer Shrink!
on video store shelves; it’s very popular in Chicago. They changed the name but it was your movie, your music. We were still together when you wrote it. Anyway, it occurred to me that you might have collected residuals and—”

“I was paid a flat fee, you bastard!”

My heart pounded. It felt as though thousands of feet were stomping the concrete floor at Denver’s Mile High Stadium. I wanted nothing more than to leap from my chair, tackle Bingo, and pound his head against the library’s wooden floor boards.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I guess maybe I’ve placed you in danger, too.”

“They wouldn’t kill someone who’d reneged on a measly ten grand, Bingo. That doesn’t make sense.”

“Yes, it does. Charlie trained with the FBI before she hooked up with my Chicago bookies. I think she wants to kill me, make her bones, or whatever they call it. But she can’t if I pay the bookies what I owe them.”

I still didn’t believe him. Then, inside my head, I heard that terrific soundtrack from
The Sting
and pictured Redford’s hit woman. “What does Charlie look like, Bingo?”

“I’ve never actually seen her face.”

“Is she young? Old? Black? White?”

I glanced toward the old lady. Didn’t her snores sound a tad contrived? Picturing a cartoon chainsaw buzzing through animated wood, I began to compose background music. Something Scott Joplin, something Chainsaw Extermination, something organ grinder’s genetically altered monkey.