Footprints in the Butter

by Denise Dietz

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “Who? Junior? Why would I talk to him?”

  “Maybe Patty called any old number. Time, for instance.”

  “Ingrid, please!”

  “What about the crème de menthe? How come the bottle was empty?”

  “Patty said she kept refilling your glass.”

  “But I didn’t drink it, Ben, I swear.”

  “Easy, honey. I believe you.”

  “Then how did Patty explain the crème, or the lack thereof?”

  “Hitchcock. Last night, after we left, Patty checked out the family room. It was a mess. Talk about your hangdog countenance. Hitchcock was contrite. He was also pie-eyed, if you’ll excuse the expression, considering that pies aren’t exactly your favorite dessert anymore. Hitchcock chewed up videos, un-stuffed pillows, knocked over the potted palm, and pooped in the dirt.”

  “Maybe his poop was green. Ben, you’re a vet. You can examine Hitchcock’s poop for crème de menthe, right?”

  “Wrong. Patty cleaned everything up.” Hitting the brakes, Ben shifted into first gear. “Did you really expect her to keep dog shit around for analytical dissection?”

  “Yes! Hitchcock wasn’t goofy from the liqueur, Ben. He was upset because he sensed I was dying. After the ambulance drove away, he vented his feelings on the tapes and pillows and plant.” I took a deep breath. “What about the milk?”

  “Simple explanation, just like I told you.”

  “Define simple.”

  “Patty adds a few drops of milk to her morning coffee. Wylie drank his black. So Patty bought a small carton the night before Wylie was killed. They stopped at a convenience store on their way home from the reunion dance.”

  “How convenient,” I said between clenched teeth. “Wait a sec! The carton was waxed shut when the thief fed the cat.”

  “So what?”

  “Wylie was killed Sunday afternoon. Why didn’t Patty add a few drops Sunday morning?”

  “She was drinking vodka and tomato juice. Remember?”

  “You said you brewed coffee while she got dressed.”

  “She did, but she didn’t drink any. She was anxious to join the gang at the Dew Drop Inn.”

  “You take your coffee with sugar, no cream, right?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “I’m trying to tie up loose ends. Why didn’t Patty put milk in her coffee yesterday morning?”

  Ben shrugged. “I didn’t ask. She was sedated the night before. God, babe, she cried until she had no tears left. Then I left. Dwight said he’d stay a while, watch over her, give her more pills if she woke up.” Ben downshifted. “Maybe she slept late. Maybe she didn’t drink coffee. Maybe she drank it black.”

  We waited for a clear lane and turned left, causing other cars to miss the rest of the lights.

  “Who’s standing on my porch, Ben?” I asked, squinting into the sun.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why isn’t Hitchcock barking?”

  “He has a hangover.” Ben, pulled up to the curb. “Would you bark with a hangover?”

  Obviously attempting a joke, Ben’s voice lacked conviction. Which meant that Hitchcock had spent the morning barking up a storm.

  Ben helped me from the car. Then he supported me down the path and up five porch steps. Now I knew why my faithful watchdog wasn’t raising the roof. Leaning against the front door was friend. I had said it. He had said it. And Hitchcock, not the brightest mutt in town, had believed it.

  I forced my mouth into what one might call a hostess smile and managed to spit out, “Good afternoon, Lieutenant Miller.”

  “Ingrid. And Dr. Cassidy, I presume.”

  “Guilty.” Ben chuckled.

  “Did you come about the poison, Lieutenant?”

  “Poison?”

  For the first time in our brief but apparently lasting relationship, Miller lost his cool. I could sense the wheels in his head spinning. Arsenic? Hemlock? Poison gas? Poison ivy? Rat poison? Baneberries?

  “Ingrid just survived an almost fatal case of food poisoning,” Ben said, hugging me closer, “and she went through gastric lavage. Now she thinks somebody tried to do her in.”

  “Not somebody,” I said. “Patty Jamestone.”

  “It’s a long story,” Ben said.

  “Which you can describe in detail on our way to the precinct,” Miller said. “I need you to make a statement, Dr. Cassidy, and answer a few simple questions.”

  I felt Ben’s fingers dig into my shoulders. “Do you have a warrant?” he asked.

  “Do I need one?”

  “Why can’t you question me here?”

  Miller studied my pale face and raccoon-smudged eyes. “Can Ingrid be left alone?” he finally said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “No,” Ben said. “Can’t you see she’s neurasthenic?”

  “I’m neuras-what?”

  “Weak as a kitten. In fact, I believe she’s about to faint. Let’s go inside, Lieutenant. Please?”

  Before Miller could respond, a woman strolled down the sidewalk, turned, and walked up my path. In her hands, she carried a thermos, probably filled with coffee from the 7/11 a few blocks away. I could hear Hitchcock. He was outside, behind the back yard fence. I wondered if the fence would survive.

  “Ingrid Beaumont, Dr. Cassidy,” said Miller, “this is my partner, Shannon LeJeune.”

  Ben unlocked the front door and propelled me inside. I heard the sound of a huge body hurl itself through the doggie door. Bounding into the room, Hitchcock headed straight for LeJeune.

  “Hitchcock, friend,” I said quickly. “Sit! Stay!”

  Accepting friend but ignoring sit and stay, my ganglionic mutt galloped toward me.

  Hitchcock has no sense of time. If I walk to the corner mailbox, he’ll greet my return with an accusatory what took you so long and why did you abandon me? I’ll get the same response if I grocery shop or fly to California. Issuing forth a joyous whimper, Hitchcock kneaded my breasts with his paws and washed my face with his skateboard tongue.

  My joy matched his. Convulsing inside the ambulance, I had thought I’d never see my beloved mutt again. “Down,” I said. But my actions belied my words as I hugged his shaggy body and kissed his cold nose.

  “Down, Hitchcock,” Ben said firmly, then led me toward the couch. It still smelled of soy sauce, even though Ben had Pledged the whole family room.

  “Do you have to use the bathroom, honey?” Ben asked. “You look a tad green around the gills.”

  “Maybe later,” I replied, swallowing a host of sarcastic barbs. Then I changed my tune. Furious at Ben’s ploy, I was curious about Miller’s unexpected visit. “Would you fetch me a carbonated drink, Benji darling? The bubbles might settle my stomach.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Miller said, his red woolen socks poised for action.

  “That’s not necessary,” Ben said.

  “Yes,” said Miller, “it is.”

  Three words. Three little words. Yes it is. My throat constricted, my stomach knotted, and my heartbeat accelerated. Because I now had a sneaking suspicion that Miller wanted Ben for more than a few simple questions.

  Why? Had the police finally accepted the thief’s story? Had Cee-Cee told Bill about Wylie’s rape-seduction and Ben’s subsequent reaction? Had Bill told Miller?

  My mouth felt dry, my palms felt wet, and my pulse rate soared. Hitchcock sensed my distress and tried to wriggle into my lap.

  “Getdownoffthecouchyousonofabitch,” Ben said. “Your mistress is a bit under the weather.”

  That was putting it mildly. Fear had replaced weakness, and fear felt like gastric lavage.

  As if on cue, the gray-tinged sky outside my family room window began to spew rain mixed with sleet.

  “Forget the carbonated drink,” I said. “Sit down. All of you. Lieutenant, ask your damn questions.”

  LeJeune placed the thermos on my coffee table and leaned agains
t the front door. Miller appropriated the spinet’s stool. After flicking the light switch, Ben joined me on the couch.

  “Dr. Cassidy,” said Miller, “first I must warn you that everything you say—”

  “Yes, okay, I’m aware of my rights, and I don’t need an attorney present. I didn’t kill Wylie Jamestone, which, I assume, is what this is all about.”

  “Didn’t the thief murder Wylie?” I asked, even though I had denied the thief’s participation ad nauseam.

  “He’s still a person of interest,” Miller said, but I could see by his expression that the thief wasn’t a suspect at all. “Dr. Cassidy, do you own a sheepskin jacket?”

  “He does,” I replied. “Dr. Cassidy left the jacket at Patty Jamestone’s house. She wanted to have it dry—”

  “Please, Ingrid, I can speak for myself.”

  “There was blood on your jacket,” Miller said.

  “It wasn’t blood,” I said. “It was vomit. Sorry, Ben, I’m doing it again.”

  “Ingrid’s right, Lieutenant. What might have looked like blood was really tomato juice. Patty upchucked some Bloody Marys. I held her head. That’s why she offered to dry-clean—”

  “It was blood.”

  “Wylie’s blood?” Ben shook his head. “That’s impossible. I never saw Wylie. He was locked inside his studio, painting.”

  “Where did you leave your jacket, sir?”

  “Which room?”

  “Yes.”

  “The kitchen. But I didn’t exactly leave it. Patty did. She wore it because, well, she was cold, you see, and—”

  “Don’t be such a gentleman!” I shifted my gaze from Ben to Miller. “Patty made an attempt to seduce Ben. She took off all her clothes. They were outside and it was chilly. Ben used his jacket to cover her body. She insisted on cleaning the jacket. End of story.”

  “Not quite,” Miller said. “Patty Jamestone never mentioned one word about wearing Dr. Cassidy’s jacket.”

  “Then it’s obvious, Lieutenant. Patty killed Wylie, framed Ben, and poisoned me.”

  “Why would she poison you?”

  “Because she knew I’d follow Wylie’s treasure hunt until I pinpointed her as the killer.”

  “That makes no sense, Ingrid,” said Ben. “Anybody could follow Wylie’s clues.”

  “Oh, really?” I glanced toward the blurry, storm-streaked window. “What do you call a parrot in a raincoat?”

  Both men looked as if their brains had been vacuumed by an Electrolux.

  “Shannon?” Miller focused on his partner. “What do you call a parrot in a raincoat?

  LeJeune’s pretty face looked perplexed. She shrugged.

  “Polyunsaturated,” I said. “That was one of Wylie’s favorites. By the way, Lieutenant, how do you make a statue of an elephant?”

  “I give up. How?”

  “I don’t know, but I think it’s an important clue.”

  “Speaking of clues,” Miller said, “why did Wylie Jamestone leave you his Debbie Reynolds painting?”

  “Doris Day, not Debbie Reynolds.”

  “Right.” Miller smacked his forehead. “Doris Day.”

  “I think the painting has something to do with virgins,” I said.

  “Sacrificial virgins?”

  “No. Promiscuous virgins. Given time, I’ll solve Wylie’s puzzle.”

  “Speaking of time,” Miller said, reaching into his pocket for a spiral notebook and a ball-point pen. “Where were you at the time of the murder, Dr. Cassidy?”

  “What time was the murder?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “How could I, Lieutenant, unless I’m the murderer?”

  Miller looked thoughtful, as if he didn’t want to reveal any details, like maybe the time of the murder and whether Wylie was really dead or vegging someplace with Elvis.

  Finally Miller said, “We estimate that Wiley Jamestone’s death occurred between the football game’s second and fourth quarters.”

  “That clears Dr. Cassidy,” I said, my voice smug. “He was watching the game at the Dew Drop Inn.”

  “The Dew Drop isn’t far from the murder scene,” Ben said, “and the Dew Drop was packed. Anybody could have left then returned very quickly, very quietly.”

  “Right,” I said. “Patty could have slipped away—”

  “She didn’t have a car,” Ben interrupted. “We used mine.”

  “Why are you defending her, Ben? She lied about your jacket and…” I swallowed my next words. Because Ben had sworn that nothing happened Sunday morning. Because Ben had said he’d never laid eyes on Wylie. But what if Ben had laid Patty? What if they had plotted Wylie’s murder together and now he was protecting her?

  Unacceptable! How could Ben sleep with both Patty and me? Could he be that nefarious? And would Patty allow her Romeo to bang another Juliet?

  By her own admission, Patty was proprietary. She was also possessive, and banging two reunionites exhibited a definite lack of etiquette. Which, come to think of it, might be another reason why she wanted me out of the picture.

  I couldn’t believe that Ben had instigated the poison plot. No way! And yet he didn’t believe I was poisoned.

  “Where did you find Ben’s jacket, Lieutenant?”

  “It was stuffed inside a green plastic bag,” Shannon LeJeune offered eagerly, “waiting for Monday’s trash pick-up.”

  Miller grimaced and LeJeune’s face flushed.

  My mind raced. Why didn’t Patty burn the jacket? Because she wanted to frame Ben. Which erased the romantic liaison theory and took me back to step one.

  I only knew that, despite my recent suspicions, I had to protect my significant lover. “Spilt milk,” I said.

  “What?” Miller looked bemused.

  “Sunday night’s TV broadcast. They said the only witness was a calico cat, and that Kim O’Connor found her cat standing next to a bowl of spilled milk. The thief swore he arrived after Wylie was killed. Wylie was bashed on the head, which meant he bled. Maybe the thief sloshed milk on the floor and tried to clean it up with Ben’s jacket and got blood on the jacket.”

  I realized my theory was a tad ridiculous and the cops would never buy it, but I had to say something.

  Miller’s gaze blistered the bridge of my nose and I felt my cheeks scorch. “What makes you think the thief arrived after Wiley Jamestone was killed?” he said. “Sunday night’s broadcast didn’t mention it. Neither did Monday’s. In fact, we kept it a secret.”

  “Patty mentioned it.”

  “How did she know?”

  “Ask her,” I shot back.

  Cee-Cee had mentioned it, of course, but two could play the same game. I’d throw suspicion at Patty, where it belonged.

  “Maybe,” I said, “Patty was so drunk she didn’t remember wearing Ben’s jacket. Or maybe she was afraid she’d be blamed for Wylie’s murder and took measures to frame Ben, just in case the thief didn’t work out.” Better, I thought.

  Miller wasn’t impressed. “Dr. Cassidy,” he said, “would you please come downtown and sign a statement? Ingrid, do you have a friend you can call?”

  Sure, I thought, my best friend. Patty Jamestone. She can bop me over the head and stuff me inside a green plastic trash bag.

  “I don’t need anybody,” I said. “I’m feeling a little weak but I’m not incapacitated. My brain is functioning very well. Over the last few days I’ve been neglecting my music and I have a score to settle…compose.”

  Nobody caught my slip of the tongue. Shannon LeJeune was busy retrieving her thermos. Peter Miller was fetching his Hush Puppies, standing like sentries at my front door. Ben was glancing toward the window, anticipating saturation.

  “I’ll dictate and sign your damn statement, Lieutenant,” Ben said, giving Hitchcock a hearty chin scratch. If my mutt had been the lion he bore an uncanny resemblance to, he would have purred.

  “Ingrid, keep the home fires burning,” Ben added for good measure.

  Chapter Ten
r />   I didn’t burn any fires, but I did bathe.

  Then I pulled my last clean pair of jeans from my bureau drawer. Bleached a murky combination of white and light blue, the jeans had butt-patches and were air-conditioned at the knees. I’d have to do laundry soon, or buy some new used jeans at one of the thrift shops I frequented.

  My sweatshirt drawer was thinning rapidly, too. In fact, only one sweatshirt remained; an old gray cotton jersey with a hand-painted peace symbol.

  Maybe I should wear a more conservative top. Kim O’Connor was on my agenda, and if she was anything like her mother, she might regard my shirt with suspicion. Or she might consider rebellion an asset, which would be to my advantage.

  Compromising, I donned a black velvet vest.

  My lips curled as I realized that my what-to-wear dilemma was unnecessary. The shirt and vest would be covered by my camel’s hair jacket. Camel’s hair jackets had been popular in the late fifties and early sixties, but were making a comeback.

  Just like Rose Stewart, I thought, anticipating mental, possibly even physical battles.

  Finally, I tugged on cowboy boots, re-soled countless times. The old boots were as comfortable as wearing bare feet. The boots gave me confidence and I needed confidence, because my battle plan included a confrontation with Patty.

  One thing bothered me. Wylie’s Doris Day clue. “I knew her before she was a virgin.” That wasn’t Patty. Patty had never even pretended to be virginal.

  With that last thought, I added Alice Shaw Cooper to my agenda.

  * * *

  Rainy sleet had washed away the scent of hamburgers and fried chicken. The sky had stopped spewing, and the air was refreshingly fresh, as wet and cold as Hitchcock’s nose. No new fowl smells wafted or enticed because the media was missing. Which meant, of course, that Patty was missing.

  I didn’t care. Boldly stomping up the path, I rang the doorbell and shouted, “Hello, Patty, it’s Ingrid! Open the door, you traitor! You liar!”

  The fury of my brush with death was in those last few words, and yet I sounded as if we were still in high school. All I needed to add was: “Long time, no see.” Instead, I absurdly added, “Please, Patty, if you’re home and hiding, open the door.”

  Granted, my lungs and larynx had not been primed by the hospital’s stomach pump. But I was loud enough for Tonto to hear. He barked.