Footprints in the Butter (20 page)

“How long was she inside the bathroom?”

“Seven or eight minutes, maybe less. Then she returned my keys and sat down next to Ben.”

“Think carefully, Alice. Are you absolutely certain Patty was only gone seven or eight minutes?”

“I’m positive. Dwight kept asking me the time.”

“Why?”

“He had an appointment, a new prospect. That’s one reason why we drove separate cars. You know the other reason, Ingrid, but you crossed your heart and—”

“Dwight left before the game ended?”

“No. The Broncos started scoring, catching up, so he called and canceled his appointment.”

I pictured Dwight’s muscular forearm and the watch he sported so proudly. It was an expensive watch, the kind with multiple time zones, a gift from Our Gang, purchased after the car crash. “Why did Dwight ask you the time, Alice? Is his watch broken?”

“No. He scratched his wrist, poor thing, so he couldn’t wear it. The band buckle hurt. He said it felt funny on his other wrist. You know men, Ingrid. They’re such babies, even Wylie. Wylie cried the first time we did it, last year, in New York. He said it was such a beautiful experience, almost mythical, like the unicorns on my window. I flew to Manhattan once a month and had my hair done. That way I could meet Wy—”

“How did Dwight scratch his wrist?” The question came from nowhere, but I didn’t want to hear any more about The Adventures of Alice and Wylie. Enough is enough, to quote Ben.

“Dwight said he gashed it on one of our new cabinets. They aren’t sandpapered yet. I caught a splinter myself, ouch, ouch. That reminds me. The workmen are due back from their lunch break, so we’ll have to leave the kitchen soon.” She blotted her lips again. “Dwight never loved me, Ingrid. He married me for my money.”

“Why did you marry him?”

“I was scared to have sex. Isn’t that silly? I mean, once I had done it…” For the first time, she blushed. “We should leave the kitchen now.”

“One more question, Alice, a Wylie riddle. How do you make a statue of an elephant?”

“Oh, that’s easy. Cut away everything that doesn’t look like an elephant.”

Rats! I should have called Alice immediately and saved myself a lot of wondering. But I had called. She had hung up, sick to her stomach. Delayed reaction? Had she bopped Wylie over the head and blocked it out, just like her first-floor suicide leap? No way! Why kill the man who had dropped his trunks and removed her panties, not to mention her fear of sex?

Which brought me back to step one, the afternoon of the murder. If Patty borrowed Alice’s car keys, then stuck around to get herself crowned Queen, who the hell did she hand the keys over to? Tad was playing the piano. Junior was shooting a video. Thanks to Preacher Starbuck, Dwight could stand, but he couldn’t walk or drive Alice’s BMW. Dwight’s van didn’t have pedals. Everything was located on the dash or steering column.

That left Ben.

Maybe Patty really was allergic to Sinead. Maybe Ben really did drive to the drugstore. So how come Alice’s car ended up in Wylie’s driveway?

Suppose Patty gave the keys to someone who wasn’t on my suspect list? Woody said that Wylie said that Patty committed adultery. Right here in good old Colorado Springs. And that starts with C and that rhymes with P and that stands for paramour. Suppose Mr. P was at the Dew Drop Inn? There was only one way to find out.

“Alice, may I use your phone?”

“Of course.” She nodded toward her wall extension, an authentic reproduction of a nineteen-sixty-something Corvette. “I ordered my phone from Home Shopping. Isn’t it cute? Ingrid, watch out! Gosh darn, I warned you.”

I stared down at my hand, which had brushed against a cabinet. One humongous splinter almost crucified my palm.

“I’ll fetch my tweezers,” said Alice. “Don’t move.”

Moving quickly, I yanked out the splinter and ran to the phone.
Telephone number, telephone number
, I thought.
I can’t remember the damn telephone number
.

A pad dangled from the Corvette’s base. On the pad, underlined, was Patty Jamestone’s phone number. At least, in that respect, Alice was predictable. Miss Organized.

Patty answered on the second ring, as if she had been expecting an important call.

“I’m driving over right now,” I said, “so don’t you dare leave.”

“Why would I leave? I’m glad you’re coming. I could use some help. This Wylie memorial thing is getting complicated. I’ve invited so many celebs, Ingrid, and I can’t find hotel or motel accommodations for them. There’s some sort of bicycle competition at the Olympic Center, and most of the reunion gang stayed for Wylie’s service or to mingle with celebs, who knows? Anyway, I’ve been going nuts.” She sneezed. “That damnfool cat keeps sneaking inside. I boarded up the doggie door, but she’s found another entrance. The basement has an open window. It’s stuck. Hold on. I need some Kleenex.”

Okay, so maybe she
was
allergic.

“I’ve decided to sing ‘Moon River,’ ”Patty continued between nose-blows, “so you can sing Janis.”

“No, I can’t.”

“Your Stewie bullshit? Don’t be stupid, Ing. You sang at the reunion dance.”

“I’ve had the flu, Patty, and my throat’s raw.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Please hurry over. I’ll be waiting.”

“See you later, alligator.”

“After a while, crocodile.”

“Never smile at a crocodile,” I said automatically, then pumped the Corvette’s cradle.

Alice returned while I was talking into my machine, leaving a message for Ben. Where was he? Sleeping? Jogging?

“I finally found the tweezers,” said Alice. “Gosh, Ingrid, your hand is bleeding. Would you like a bandage?”

“No, thanks.” Cautiously, I approached the sink and ran cold water over my scratch. “See? All better.”

“Why don’t you stay for supper? Dwight probably won’t get home until late. We can watch TV, the Home Shopping Network. We can buy stuff at a discount and put everything on our credit cards.”

“My credit cards were stolen.”

“They were? Bummer. Who stole them?”

“I don’t know. If I did, I’d get them back.”

“Maybe they got lost, Ingrid. I thought I lost mine, but Dwight found them beneath the car’s floor mat. I guess they fell out of my purse when I hit my brakes last Sunday, on the way to the Dew Drop Inn. A stupid cat darted across the street and my purse fell off the seat. Remember the bumper sticker I had on my last car? I brake for Unicorns? Gosh, it was cute.”

“My credit cards weren’t lost, Alice, and that’s a fact.”

I watched her reaction. If she blotted her lips on invisible tissue, it would express guilt. But she didn’t blot.

“You can charge stuff to Dwight and pay him back,” she said with enthusiasm. “I’ve done that before, charged stuff to Dwight, so they have his credit card number on file. Even if they don’t, I have it written down someplace. Please stay.”

“I’d love to stay, really, but I have to help Patty with Wylie’s memorial service. Anyway, that shopping club’s a scam. They offer bargain prices, but charge for postage and handling.”

“Fair is fair, Ingrid. They can’t send things for free.”

“It’s the handling, Alice. They can charge whatever they damn well please for handling.”

“Oh. That never occurred to me.”

It occurred to
me
that Alice was very lonely, and I was glad she had finally consummated with Wylie. After all, he hadn’t charged her for handling.

Or had he?

Chapter Twenty-One

See you later, alligator. After a while, crocodile. Never smile at a croc—

Wylie’s treasure hunt was a crock!

His clues had deliberately led me to Alice, there was no doubt in my mind. But why?

Hitchcock barked. Jeep swerved and I grasped the steering wheel for dear life. Hitchcock settled down. Jeep straightened out. My thoughts didn’t.

Why would Wylie lead me to Alice? Because he had surmised, correctly, that Alice would brag about their affair. Which would lead me, in a roundabout way, to Patty’s affair. But why didn’t Wylie simply clue me in on Mr. Paramour?

Because he didn’t know Mr. P’s identity!

How could he not know? Easy as baneberry pie. Patty had been very sneaky, just like Kim’s cat. Wylie had demanded that Patty clean up her act. In a sense, he had boarded up the doggie door. But Patty had found a new entrance. Which probably meant that she was still boffing Mr. P.

Sing sing a song. Think loud. Think strong. Think of good things. Raggedy Ann gives good head. So does the merry widow. Kim had sneaked inside and watched. Watched who? Dex the Chauffeur. But Kim had seen others, at least from the outside. A guy in a wheelchair, a balding nerd who wore a high school jock jack, an Indian—

Doctor Ben.

I remembered telling Cee-Cee that doctors heal sick animals, and I heard her reply, clear as a dog’s bark. “Doctors kill.”

Could Dr. B be Mr. P? Or was Mr. P Mr. D?

Mister Dex, that is.

Dex seemed the type to eat and run, unless he found himself a tasty, expensive morsel. Dex was blond, arrogant,
young
. Patty was addicted to youth, especially her own. Could she have talked Dex into killing Wylie? It was possible. It happened all the time. Just watch TV. This movie is based on a true story, inspired by a true event. It’s about a beautiful older woman who talks her young lover into killing her rich, successful husband.

Starring Patty and Dex?

The wheelchair guy and balding nerd had motives, too, especially the balding nerd. What about the Indian? A Vegas gambler would put all his chips on Ben, if Ben had boffed pretty Patty. Come seven, come eleven, come Cassidy.

With that last thought, I turned into Patty’s driveway. The media crowd had vanished. Nasty weather? Or were they accumulating juicy tidbits from other sources?

Hitchcock looked mournful.

“All right, you dumb mutt. Patty might bitch, but she doesn’t have white carpeting, and if you behave, she might let you stay. Heel!”

Hitchcock didn’t know my heel from a hole in the ground, but he trotted by my side. I
thunked
the brass door knocker and heard Tonto’s frenetic backyard-bark. Hitchcock barked back.

Patty answered on the third thunk. She wore black tailored slacks and a pale pink turtleneck sweater. Her feet were bare, except for the toenail polish that matched her lipstick and sweater. “Hi, Ing,” she said cheerfully. “Long time, no see.”

“Speaking of long-time-no-see, where did all those noxious newshounds go?”

“They’re staked out at the Broadmoor. My celebs have begun to arrive. Dylan and two Pauls—McCartney and Simon. Remember Wylie’s portrait of Paul Simon?”

“Sure.”

Wylie had painted Simon sitting on a pony. Strands from the pony’s mane fanned backwards until they became guitar strings. The canvas was titled
Slow Down, You Move Too Fast
, and Paul Simon’s blurb stated: THE PUBLIC HUNGERS TO SEE TALENTED YOUNG PEOPLE KILL THEMSELVES.

Entering the foyer, I heard Hitchcock’s nails click. They needed pruning badly.

“Speaking of hounds,” said Patty, “why did you bring yours?”

“I’ve been neglecting him lately. Besides, you didn’t seem to mind when your so-called prowler lurked.”

“What do you mean so-called?”

“Why beat around the bush, Patty?” I hung my jacket inside the closet, next to her mink coat. “There was no prowler.”

Her cheerful facade evaporated. “I see that your sweatshirt is outside-in this time, pet. You’re the only person I know who wears sweatshirts and jeans for all occasions.”

“This isn’t exactly an occasion.”

“I hope you wear something dressier for Wylie’s memorial service. A dress, maybe.”

“Wow, Patty, you sound like my mother!”

Unperturbed by the unflattering comparison, she glanced toward Hitchcock. “If he barks, he’s history. If you bark, you’re history. I’m in no mood to play scavenger hunt.”

“Treasure hunt.”

“Whatever. Wylie’s
so-called
clues led you to me, right?”

“Did you kill him, Patty?”

“No,” she said as we entered the kitchen. “I was at the Dew Drop, and I can prove it.”

“Did you follow me to Texas last Wednesday?”

“What were you doing in Texas?”

“Mousing. Somebody trailed me to Clear Lake City, Texas, then left a knife and—never mind. All I know is that you weren’t here. Ben tried to get in touch with you.”

“Why would I follow you, Ingrid?”

I gazed at her pink lipstick. But she had other shades. Peach. Mauve. Light red. Medium red. Dark red.

“Maybe you wanted to scare me, Patty. Maybe you felt that I was on the verge of solving Wylie’s murder.”

“Maybe I spent last Wednesday with Alice.”

“Did you?”

“Yes. Dwight was gone on business. Alice and I watched some stupid shopping show on TV. Oh God, you’ve raised your eyebrow, and I know what that means. Look, I spent Wednesday night with Alice, cross my heart and hope to die.”

I believed her. Patty had changed a lot, but she wouldn’t cross her heart and hope to die without fearing repercussions. Her childhood rite was sacred. Besides, it would be such a simple matter to verify her story. One phone call. “Did you spend last Wednesday night with Patty, Alice?” “Yes, I did, Ingrid. Why do you ask?”

So Patty had spent the night with Alice, and that eliminated Alice. Dwight was confined to a wheelchair and Ben was at the Broadmoor Hotel. There were no more leaves on my clover.

It’s time to stray, it’s time to stray
. The words reverberated inside my skull. Maybe the Chicago matchbook didn’t mean anything. Maybe Patty had simply enticed an admirer to follow me, scare me.

Who?

Junior Hartsel?

Dex the Chauffeur?

I recalled something Ben had said yesterday—was it only yesterday? Ben had said that Patty possessed Junior’s telephone number, inside a purse-sized directory. Why would perfect Patty carry a mediocre man’s number around? Ben’s number, yes. Johnny Depp’s number, definitely. Why Junior Hartsel?

Ask her! No. Maybe she’d let something slip, even though Patty never let her slips show. They always reached the hem of her skirts and stopped, and she’d never bunched the waistbands beneath her belt. Patty always looked like a million bucks. From hat to shoes, everything matched.

I had another memory nudge, like a pinprick, like the one I had felt with Ben; the nudge that eventually led to Kim and caged. But I couldn’t get a clear picture. It had something to do with everything matched.

Patty’s kitchen table was paved with sympathy cards and telegrams. Plants, flowers, nosegays and stuffed elephants perched atop every surface. The flora was traditional. The elephants were probably from people who had known Wylie well. Which precipitated my next question.

“This isn’t a bark, Patty, but how did Wylie know about your lover?”

“He didn’t.”

“Baloney! Wylie—”

“Didn’t know who he was.”

I walked over to the refrigerator. If I opened it, would I find footprints in the butter? What kind of prints? Chauffeur shoes? Football cleats? Nikes?

“Patty,” I said, “aren’t you mildly curious? I mean, you didn’t even blink when I mentioned—”

“My affair?” She shrugged. “Haven’t you read the stats, Ing? Everyone screws around. Didn’t you cheat on Bingo?”

Sarcasm, always close to the surface, escalated. “I thought about it, but most of the time I was just too damn tired.”

“Yeah. It must be exhausting to sit at your piano and doodle songs.”

Doodle songs? Ouch!
“It must be even more exhausting to shop for jewelry and dead weasels.” When she looked puzzled, I said, “Dead minks, Patty.”

“Not exhausting, Ingrid, tedious. So I shopped for a lover, instead.”

“Wylie discovered your affair, that’s a fact. But how come he didn’t discover your afairee?”

She laughed. “I suppose I’m the afairer.”

“How come, Patty?”

“I covered my doo-doo, Ing, like a cat in a litter box.”

Hitchcock’s ears levitated at the word cat. Since it wasn’t preceded by chase the, he flopped down with his head between his paws.

“Define covered,” I said.

“Wylie’s private eye was a woman. Equal opportunity and all that crap. She must do very well, since she opted to lease a brand new Cadillac and dined at the Briarhurst Manor.”

“Damn! Hit ladies and women detectives! Mickey Spillane is definitely an ambulatory anachronism.”

“A what?”

“Nothing. Go on.”

“It’s really quite simple. I dined at the Briarhurst too, and made certain that Wylie’s P.I. saw me rub against the wrong man. And please don’t ask me to define wrong man.”

“Junior Hartsel.”

Patty finally looked startled. Brushing a few stray cards from a chair, she sat. “How did you know?”

“Ben heard Junior say something about making it real. He was hustling you at the time and—”

“Wasn’t Wylie stupid? As if I could sleep with that chickenshit has been.”

“Which chickenshit has been did you sleep with, Patty?”

“That’s a bark, pet.”

I strolled over to a window and glanced through the glass at the gray poplars and green firs. Last Monday, clutching Doris Day, I had felt branches whip my face, but I couldn’t see the forest for the trees. Now it was time to chop down some tree stems.

“Patty, how do you make a statue of an elephant?”

“Find a big piece of stone and cut away everything that doesn’t look like an elephant. Why?”

“Wylie told me that riddle Saturday night. I thought it might be a clue.”

“Big deal, Ingrid. Wylie always told idiotic elephant jokes.” She nodded toward a few stuffed animals. “He simply refused to grow up.”

I pictured Wylie’s Doris Day. The frightening thing about middle-age is the knowledge that you’ll outgrow it. Okay, who didn’t want to grow up?

Wylie, but he was the deadee, so he didn’t count.

Patty wanted to grow, but she didn’t want to age. There’s a big difference.

Junior was still living in those wonderful days of yesteryear, when he had scored big, especially with girls.

What about Dwight? Had he really adjusted or did he still picture himself as the swift-footed football hero? Leading the Broncos to their umpteenth Superbowl championship?

And let’s not forget Tad. When she glanced into a mirror, did she see the quintessential cheerleader? Then, after Wylie had shattered her illusions, did she reciprocate by shattering Wylie’s skull?

Alice had been a grownup before we’d all caught up. Yet, conversely, she had always been extremely childish, almost goose-silly. She had even called Wylie’s apartment a beatnik pad, long after beatniks had evolved into hippies.

Holy crap! Wylie’s apartment!

A light bulb materialized above my head. I could actually see it. I could also see the naked bulb attached to a chain that had swung down from Wylie’s ceiling. We used to call it his Film Noire bulb, because it captured the wispy waves from our cigarette and dope smoke, and because it cast nifty shadows across Wylie’s old, shabby furniture.

His wall cracks had been covered by posters. One stated that war was unhealthy for children and other living things. Behind each poster lived roaches, the cock kind, not the clip kind.

Why would Wylie rent a roach-infested, dilapidated rattrap? Because, he said, it was cheap and still possessed its original fireplace. Above the fireplace was a mantel. On the mantel perched a statue.

A statue of an elephant?

Nope.

A statue of Patty.

In our senior year Wylie had tried his hand at sculpting. An artist, he said, should be able to work in any medium. I disagreed. I couldn’t create an opera, I said. But Wylie was always so stubborn. He wouldn’t accept reasonable doubt and chose to sculpt The Four Leaf Clovers for his first project. It was ambitious. It was dreadful. Mainly because he had taken a piece of stone and cut away everything that didn’t look like a Clover.

Undaunted, Wylie cast a mold. Better, but no cigar.

Frustrated, he chopped off Sunshine, then Rain, then Rose, until all that remained was adorable Patty.

A more mature, adorable Patty sat on the edge of her chair. Her expression was difficult to decipher, but I sensed she wanted to feed me honey vanilla Häagen Dazs atop a slice of baneberry pie. Finally she said, “Cat got your tongue, Ingrid?”

Hitchcock lifted his head and glanced my way.

“Good dog,” I said, watching his tail sweep croissant crumbs toward a nearby trash can. “Patty, remember Wylie’s first and only attempt at statuary?”

“Sure. Wylie molded you, Ben and Stewie from scratch. For me, he cheated and covered a Barbie doll with plaster of Paris.”

“No wonder you looked perfect while the rest of us looked like blobs.” I took a deep breath. “Why did you hire someone to kill Wylie?”

“I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did. The painting. The riddle. The statue. It had to be you, wonderful you.”

“That’s a nasty bark, Ingrid. Get out of my house.”

“It’s not your house. The fortune cookies, right?”

“What fortune cookies?”

“I know all about Wylie’s fortune cookie company. Wylie was throwing his money down the drain and you must have been royally pissed.”

“The truth? I was more than pissed.”

She scowled, and I watched, amazed, as her features merged into a butterfly’s elongated larva. Patty looked like a caterpillar trapped inside a rainbow-colored flame, and I sincerely doubted that anybody in their right mind would crown her queen of anything.

Correction. They’d crown her Queen of the Moths.

Wylie was courting death like a moth drawn to a flame
.