Footprints in the Butter (21 page)

“If you didn’t act quickly,” I said, “there’d be no money left to launch your damn movie career.”

Rising, she walked toward the refrigerator, opened it, and retrieved a plastic-wrapped plate. I expected to see butter filled with footprints, I really did, but Patty extended her arm and I saw tortellini.

Her scowl twisted into a smile. “How do you kill tortellini, Ingrid?”

“I don’t know. How?”

“Spray them with
pasta
cide.”

“God, that’s terrible. Another Wylie riddle?”

“Of course.” Patty fed the plate to the refrigerator and slammed its door. “My late husband was a pest, and I’m not talking nuisance. I’m talking plague. Let’s just say that I needed a pesticide, an agent to destroy—”

“Who was your agent? Junior Hartsel?”

“Are you serious? Junior couldn’t kill a fly. He hasn’t got the guts. I promised Junior the cookie company if he would pretend to be my lover. I told him I would divorce Wylie and ask for the company as part of my settlement.”

“But you signed a prenuptial agreement.”

“How the hell do you know that?”

“Woody Jamestone. The reason why I flew to Texas.”

“My goodness, pet, you have been a busy bee.”

Something snapped. Something inside my head zub-zubbed. Busy bee? I had been manipulated by a master puppeteer, a
dead
puppeteer no less. I had put my life on hold, when all I wanted to do was hold Ben, love Ben, and doodle songs.

“Yes!” I shouted. “Wylie led me on a merry chase, which finally ended with the merry widow.”

My boots were made for walking. They stomped toward Patty.

She retreated, until her back pressed against the refrigerator door.

“Okay,” I said. “You’re right, of course. Junior hasn’t got the guts. Who was your agent, Patty? Dex?”

“What’s a Dex?”

She looked agitated. No, frightened.

“Don’t play dumb,” I said. “Hitler’s youth, the boy next door, Kim’s chauffeur. Kim sneaked through the doggie door and saw you with Dex. What were her exact words? Oh yes, I remember. ‘Raggedy gives good head. So does the merry widow.’ ”

“I don’t…don’t know what you’re talk…talking about,” Patty stammered.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m tired of playing sleuth. I didn’t want the job in the first place. I hate mysteries. I don’t even like riddles any more. So I think I’ll let the police tie up loose ends.”

She shook her thick braid. “Fiddle-de-dee, as Scarlett would say. A painting of Doris Day? An elephant joke? An old Barbie statue? The cops will laugh. You haven’t got one shred of proof, pet.”

“Because you covered your doo-doo?”

“Exactly.”

“Not exactly,
pet
, since you stupidly forgot to empty the litter box before taking another dump.”

“Define dump,” she mimicked.

“The fortune cookie fiasco. Your secret affair. Alice Shaw Cooper’s car.”

“What?”

“Bingo saw Alice’s BMW parked in your driveway, just before Wylie was murdered. Alice said she loaned you her car keys, and I believe her.”

“Bingo? When did Bingo hit Colorado Springs? And what was he doing in this posh neighborhood?”

“Long story. Let’s just say that Bingo has a rather intimate relationship with the police department and can be reached at a moment’s notice. Meanwhile, the cops can question reunionites, discover exactly who was missing during your Dew Drop coronation. The crowning took place after you borrowed Alice’s car keys, right? Junior shot a video. Maybe he captured your little key exchange on tape. Maybe someone saw you hand them over to the killer. That’s a humongous dump, Patty.”

“You’re crazy. Junior didn’t shoot his video until later, and everybody was watching the Broncos. It was their two-minute drill, just before half-time. John Elway kept throwing the ball, completing passes. Nobody watched me.”

“Wrong! Somebody always watches you. They can’t help it. You have a mystique, Patty, like perfume, and Elway’s passes wouldn’t mean anything to someone who was contemplating his own pass.”

“Ingrid’s right, you know.”

I whirled about and gasped.

While Patty and I had been busy snapping at each other, a man had entered the kitchen. His upper lip sneered and his eyes glittered with anger. He held a gun, but it was pointed at Patty, not me.

“Why did you screw the chauffeur?” he said.

“What chauffeur?”

“Knock it off. I’ve been sitting outside the kitchen door. Tell me why, Patty. You’d better make it quick and you’d better make it good.”

“I did it for you, darling.”

“That’s such a crock.”

“No, really, listen!” she cried, desperation straining her perfect, swan-arched neck. “I thought I could talk Dex into killing Wylie, so you wouldn’t have to.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

It felt strange to be right and wrong at the same time. I had guessed correctly that Patty would try and talk Dex into killing Wylie. I hadn’t guessed, however, that he’d say thanks but no thanks. Which was what Patty was telling the man who sat just inside the kitchen entrance.

Falling to her knees, she wrung her hands. “I did it for you, Dwight, honest.”

He placed the gun in his lap and wheeled his chair forward. His legs were clad in jeans. His white shirt was rolled up above his muscular forearms. He halted to flex his fingers, and I could discern deep scratches. Cabinets, hell! Those scratches were caused by claws. Sinead!

Since I was bothered, to put it mildly, I said the first thing that popped into my head. “Why did the cat scratch your wrist, Dwight?”

“I was getting rid of fingerprints when I dropped the damn statue,” he said ruefully. “It bounced off the cat. She hissed and clawed me when I tried to pick it up. She was a Stephen King cat, Ingrid, and that’s no joke.”

“Speaking of jokes, how does an elephant sink a submarine?” Dwight and Patty just stared at me. “He knocks on the door. You knocked on the door, Dwight. Wylie answered and offered to show you his newest painting, Charles Manson. That sounds like Wylie. He wanted praise, or maybe he thought you had found out about Alice and he wanted forgiveness.”

“Alice? Forgiveness?”

“You entered the studio and saw the statue,” I said quickly, hoping to cover my faux pas. Although at this stage of the game, it didn’t really matter. “What a great weapon, you thought, much better than a knife or whatever you’d brought along. But how on earth did you manage to reach Wylie’s head? Did he bend down or something?”

“No. I just—”

“Dwight, shut up!”

“Why? You’ve already spilled the beans, Patty.”

“Don’t be silly. Ingrid can’t prove anything.” On her feet once again, Patty fastidiously brushed croissant crumbs from her slacks. “We were very careful, darling, remember? Nobody saw me drop the car keys in your lap. Anyway, cops have never believed Ingrid Beaumont, alias Rose Stewart.”

“I didn’t mean Ingrid.”

“Dex? He won’t say boo. I promised to fly him to the coast and arrange an audition.”

“Which coast? What kind of audition? Porn flicks?”

While they argued, I kept staring at the gun, probably the same gun Patty had mentioned on the phone while talking to Ben. If I grabbed the gun, Dwight couldn’t chase me. He was confined to his chair. What about Patty? My size twelve body could handle Patty’s size six.

Darting forward, I grabbed the gun. It was almost too easy.

Patty laughed. “You don’t scare me, pet,” she said. “You’re a pacifist.”

“I’ve sold out and become a Republican. They adore guns.”

“Wisecracker!”

We all turned our faces toward the back door. Alice entered. Before anybody could react, she had pried the gun from my hand.

“You’re such a wisecracker, Ingrid,” she said. “You’re not a Republican, but I am. You couldn’t shoot anyone, but I can. Do you know where Wylie’s murder weapon came from, Dwight? You have three guesses.”

“Alice…”

“That’s right. Me. I gave Wylie the statue. I ordered it from the Home Shopping Network. By the way, Ingrid, you’re absolutely right. They charge too much for handling. But it was worth the expense. Wylie loved his statue. He said it reminded him of his sister, Woody.”

Dwight’s brow glistened with perspiration and his eyes looked stricken. “What are you doing here, Alice?”

“I was watching TV when I remembered something I told Ingrid. You found my credit cards inside the BMW last Sunday. But how could you, Dwight? We didn’t drive any place together. So that meant you borrowed my car, after Patty borrowed my keys. My guess is that you asked someone to drive you during Patty’s coronation. You probably said you planned to ‘kidnap’ Wylie. Why shouldn’t he be at the Dew Drop with the rest of the gang? Then you killed him and told your driver Wylie wouldn’t leave.”

“That’s a stupid guess,” said Patty. “The police questioned the reunion participants, even the ones who returned home after Sunday’s football game. You gave the police a detailed list, Alice. Remember?”

She chewed her bottom lip, uncertain. Then she said, “Ingrid left my house because she wanted to help you with Wylie’s memorial service. But that’s my forte. I can plan a celebration better than anybody.”

“Celebration?” I said, totally bemused by the sight of Alice comfortably holding the gun, as if she held her TV’s remote. At the same time, I silently cursed myself for missing the lost credit cards clue. “Celebration, Alice?”

“Wylie loved parties. The prom. Stewie’s wake. The reunion dance.”

“Wylie didn’t love the reunion dance,” I said. “It reminded him of growing old.”

“Now he doesn’t have to grow old. Should we have a wake, Patty? I think we should have a wake. We can hang black and white streamers with black elephant cut-outs, and maybe we could hire one of those striptease dancers, costumed as Death.”

I was beginning to enjoy Alice’s vision because I had a feeling Wylie would have appreciated the decor, especially when Death stripped down to her thong panties and garter belt.

“What a shame Dwight and Patty can’t attend your wake,” I said. “They’ve both just admitted they planned Wylie’s murder together. Did you hear them, Alice?”

She nodded.

“The cops might not believe me,” I said, “but they’ll believe both of us.”

Patty pounded on the refrigerator with her fists. “Shit!” she shouted. “Everything’s going wrong. It’s not supposed to happen this way. Wylie is dead, and his paintings are worth a fortune, and the two Pauls are in town, not to mention a bunch of other celebs, and I figured a movie was just around the corner. I wouldn’t expect a starring role, I’m not greedy, maybe a small but pivotal part…”

Despite Patty’s histrionics, I heard Hitchcock growl. The growl wasn’t threatening, more like puzzled. Hitchcock knew that Alice and Dwight were both friend. However, he didn’t know the difference between a gun and gum, so the gun hadn’t caused his growl.

Patty continued pounding. I was standing between Patty and Alice, watching Patty pound. Alice stood slightly behind me, clutching the gun, mesmerized by Patty.

With an effort, I drew my gaze away from Patty and glanced at Hitchcock. Then I followed Hitchcock’s gaze.

An empty wheelchair, slowly gliding backwards, had caused the puzzled growl.

“Alice, watch out!”

Too late. Dwight had approached from behind, clasped his wife in a bear hug, and lifted her off the floor.

Alice dropped the gun. It fell, landing where her feet had been planted.

Dwight kicked the gun across the kitchen. I couldn’t move. Surprised by Dwight’s sudden recovery, I shouted the first thing that came to mind. “
Biscuit
, Hitchcock!”

Hitchcock eagerly bounded forward, skidded to a halt, sniffed, then lifted his fuzzy muzzle. His expression seemed to suggest that I was bonkers. Furthermore, he didn’t care for the gun’s odor.

“
Bone
, Hitchcock, bury the
bone!
” Absurdly, I began to explain. “There’s a doggie door. No, the doggie door’s been boarded up. Okay, there’s an open window in the base—”

“It’s a miracle!” Alice’s voice cut across my demented plea. “You can walk, Dwight.”

“Of course he can walk,” said Patty. Cautiously, she approached Hitchcock, hunkered down, gave him a few tentative head taps, and retrieved the gun. “Dwight can do other things even better,” she added with an exaggerated wink.

“Starbuck,” breathed Alice, as Dwight finally released her.

“Screw Starbuck! I may be an ex-jock, but I’m not stupid. Do you honestly believe I’d spend thousands of dollars on an evangelist?”

“Then how did you get cured?” Alice said.

“Acupuncture.”

“You’re kidding,” I said.

“No, I’m not.” Liberating a Camel from the pack that rested between the folds of his shirt sleeve, he tapped his pockets as though searching for matches. Then he tossed his unlit cigarette toward the sink. “My brain had been bruised during the accident, and my injury was in that part of my brain that controlled my legs. All I had to do was energize my brain.”

“I think I like Starbuck better,” I murmured.

“You can’t argue with success, Ingrid. The whole thing started when I made an appointment to sell an acupuncturist life insurance. He said he was pragmatic, but that theoretically it was possible to resolve my problem with acupuncture. I didn’t believe him, until he told me stories about miraculous cures. He mentioned protons and electrons. He said the body was a magnet. He suggested I picture my brain as a spider’s web with a hole in it. The hole had been repaired, but my vibrating apparatus was out of whack. To make a long story short, he promised to stimulate my brain.”

“I guess it’s like a woman stimulating a penis, huh Dwight?”

“Only if she had needle-sharp teeth, Ing.”

Dwight sounded like our old high school bud, the kid whose neck was too thick for button-down collars, the kid who was embarrassed to ace English and math because his teammates were barely passing, the kid who had carried me to an emergency room after I slipped on a patch of ice and broke my arm.

Now I knew why Dwight’s eyes had appeared so zombie-like during the reunion dance, why he “sulked.” He had been contemplating Wylie’s murder, due to take place the next afternoon.

“Oh, God,” I moaned. “Why did you ruin everything by killing Wylie?”

Stupid question. I knew the answer. Somebody I adore.

Dwight had adored Patty. Ben was Sunshine and Stewie was Rain, but Dwight had been Nightfall, stygian gloom, the time when worms come out.

My elusive memory nudge pricked. I pictured Alice’s vestibule, the hat rack with a black Stetson hanging from one rung. Looking down, I saw that the hat matched Dwight’s black-tooled, leather boots. “Did you follow me to Texas and play cowboy, Dwight?”

“Don’t say another word,” Patty warned.

“Why? It’s all over now.” He shrugged. “I followed you, Ingrid. It was all her idea.” He pointed toward a furious Patty. “I was supposed to ransack your house and leave that message on your bathroom mirror, a kind of Charles Manson bit. In fact, Patty got the idea from Wylie’s painting.” Dwight shrugged again. “I saw you leave with a suitcase, so I followed you to the Colorado Springs Airport and called Patty. She said you’d never recognize me if I wore a cowboy hat and was very careful, because people never saw what they didn’t expect to see, so you’d never see me without my wheelchair.”

I glanced toward Patty. “You bitch!”

“I bought my hat at the airport,” Dwight continued. “Then I flew to Houston, first class. I watched you rent a car, rented one of my own from the same discount agency, then trailed you to Clear Lake City. It was easy. The traffic crawled. I stayed a couple of car lengths behind, and didn’t let anybody enter my lane. When you checked into that motel, I called Alice and spoke to Patty. She said to proceed with the original plan. Then I saw the souvenir counter…” He shrugged for the third time.

“Okay,” I said thoughtfully. “The knife was your idea, but the lipstick was Patty’s. True?”

“Of course. I don’t ordinarily carry lipstick around. I was supposed to use it on your bathroom mirror.”

“Why write that bit about straying?”

“The Clover’s intro line means it’s time to leave, but Wylie strayed. He was a damn wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

“He was not,” Alice said indignantly.

We all ignored her. “The matchbook cover,” I prodded.

“What matchbook cover?”

“You left matches behind, Dwight. They were from the Palmer House Hilton. Chicago.”

“Oh. Did I? Patty and I met there. We both flew to Chicago and—”

“Wait a sec! How come Wylie’s private eye didn’t report your assignation?”

“We bribed her,” Patty said, her voice smug. “After she ratted on Junior and me, Dwight and I confronted her in Chicago. We wined and dined her, and offered her Starbuck’s fee.”

I remembered Alice’s words.
Dwight went away last summer. He heard about this Midwestern preacher
.

“When Stewie died,” said Dwight, “I wanted to marry Patty. But what could I give her?”

“You could give her love,” I said, then mentally kicked my butt. What a pat answer. What a non-Patty answer.

“Wylie was a bastard,” Dwight continued, sidestepping my love remark. “You have no idea, Ingrid. Wylie had his groupies and cheated on Patty at every opportunity.”

I glanced at Alice. Groupie? She looked more like a guilty guppy.

“He abused her,” said Dwight.

Patty had the grace to blush. Because, I thought wryly, Wylie’s abuse probably consisted of his refusal to buy her that coveted movie career.

“Enough, darling.” Patty nodded toward Alice and me. “They don’t have to hear every detail.”

But Dwight couldn’t be stopped. It was as if he had energized his tongue as well as his legs.

“Patty said to keep my recovery a secret. That way nobody would suspect me. How could a crippled man kill Wylie?”

I had been partially right. Again. The perfect murder, masterminded by perfect Patty, committed by a paralyzed person rather than a dead one. In retrospect, my Stewie theory didn’t sound so ridiculous any more.

“Alice caught me standing,” Dwight continued, “so I made up that bit about Starbuck. Burt Lancaster played a con man in a movie called
The Rainmaker
. Patty and I once watched it on TV, after we made love.”

Part brag, part groan, Dwight’s last four words slipped out of his mouth like a greased pig at a state fair. Except Dwight’s words and the image they evoked weren’t laughable. I, for one, don’t find greased pigs funny.

“You buffed Patty? There’s no Starbuck?” Alice’s voice sounded raspy. “Where did all the money go? Preacher Starbuck wouldn’t accept personal checks or credit cards,” she added, unnecessarily.

“Wylie’s detective,” said Dwight, “and the acupuncturist. His services didn’t come cheap.”

I had a feeling the acupuncturist was just another Starbuck, but I mentally zipped my lips shut.

“I didn’t think I’d have the courage to murder Wylie in cold blood,” Dwight admitted somewhat dolefully, as if maybe it wasn’t macho to acknowledge that particular flaw. “But then I learned about the prom.” His eyes glittered. “Did you know that Wylie spiked the punch and challenged me to a drinking contest on purpose, hoping I’d crash my car?”