by Denise Dietz
“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 Huttson. 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.’ ”
“You weren’t inside our locker room, Ingrid. He called her Mother-effing Goose.’”
“Why?”
“He said that Mother Goose, the old lady not the bonnet-clad waterfowl, looked like she needed to get laid.”
“Well, of course she did. The nursery rhymes were composed during Puritan times.” I scowled at my coagulating eggs. “I wonder why Wylie got engaged to Alice.”
“He didn’t. She got engaged to him.”
“What does that mean?”
“Wylie had to scratch for a living and Alice had plenty of scratch. She bought Wylie, or at least she bought his food and art supplies. He absolutely refused to leave that roach-infested rat trap he called an apartment, even thought Alice would have paid for a nicer place.” Ben strolled over to the coffee table and stared down at my plate. “You haven’t eaten a thing.”
