Footprints in the Butter

by Denise Dietz

  “With what? Her fingernails?”

  Buddy pointed to a knife that lay on the floor, its blade almost hidden by the slashed mattress.

  Butler retrieved the weapon, and I understood why, at his advanced age, he had remained a beat cop.

  “If there were any fingerprints,” I said with a groan, “you’ve smudged them.”

  “They were probably yours,” he muttered. His eyes sought his partner’s and his expression seemed to suggest that he was only months away from his retirement pension.

  “How could that knife be mine, you bumbling, hobnailed idiot? There’s my plane ticket receipt and my rental car receipt, right there on top of that pseudo-western bureau. How could I carry a knife on to the plane? Do you think I smuggled it through security?”

  “Now just a minute, lady! You coulda bought the knife after you arrived here with your boyfriend.”

  “I don’t have a boyfriend. And I’m not responsible for your stupid screw-up, you provincial, chawbacon lummox.”

  I took a deep breath, which didn’t help. “The intruder bought that knife. Look at its handle; cheap wood, shaped like a guitar. The lobby has a souvenir counter. This is a one-story motel, and the window’s wide open. Somebody was ransacking my stuff when she heard Buddy sing. Buddy was planning to fly me to the moon, but first he had to insert my key. So she, the intruder, dropped her knife, then hit the happy trails to you until we meet again, thanks a lot Roy Rogers.”

  I received four different reactions to my outburst.

  Butler looked as if he wanted to thrust the guitar-handled knife between my ribs and claim self defense.

  Morgan, lost, said, “What has Roy Rogers got to do with anything?”

  Buddy placed his arm around the motel manager’s bony shoulders. “Don’t let her upset you, sweetheart,” he said. “Christ, she drank two double vodkas and two single shots, so she’s not exactly sober.”

  The motel manager shook him off. “How did you know the exact amount Miz Beaumont drank?”

  “Well,” he said, and you could practically see the rusty wheels in his head turning. “I was in the lounge. Singing. And playing the piano.”

  “Then how’d you hear her scream?”

  When he couldn’t gather enough smarts to respond, she said, “You’re fired, Buddy-boy.”

  Oh, what a baddog! I watched Buddy boy slink from the room. If he had possessed Hitchcock’s tail, it would have been tucked between his legs.

  The motel manager turned toward me. “I’m still gonna put the damages on your credit card if your story don’t check out.”

  “Credit cards! Oh, no!” I raced over to my open purse. My return plane ticket lay in the mess of spilled items. So did my wallet. Which, I quickly discovered, was minus twenty-seven dollars, my useless Visa, and my American Express card.

  Morgan retrieved a small spiral notebook from his pocket. “Anything missing, Miz Beaumont?”

  “Yes. My credit cards and my sanity. Happy trails. Until we meet again. What if the thief meant to slash me? What if she comes back?” I gathered the spilled items, including a package of matches, and stuffed everything back inside my purse. “How about some protective custody?”

  Butler laughed.

  “Okay,” I said, “forget protective custody. Aren’t you going to check out the souvenir counter and see who bought that knife?”

  Before he could reply, the motel manager said, “After you arrived, Miz Beaumont, I stood behind the counter.”

  “Did you sell any knives?”

  “Yep. One.”

  “Can you describe the woman who bought it?”

  “Nope.”

  “You can’t or you won’t?”

  “Can’t. A man bought the knife.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “A cowboy.”

  “Could you be a tad more specific?”

  “He was standing in front of the counter. I saw him from the waist up. He wore a black Stetson and paid cash. That’s all I remember.”

  “Thanks. Would you give me a different room, please?”

  “Sorry,” she said, lying through the gap between her front teeth. “No vacancies.”

  “But my credit cards were stolen, so I can’t check into another motel.” I stared at the slashed mattress. Then I stared at Butler. “How can I sleep? Where can I sleep?”

  “Don’t sleep,” he said.

  * * *

  I didn’t.

  Once upon a time I had watched a 60 Minutes segment about divorced, homeless society ladies who lived in their cars. They had not only adjusted to discomfort, but they looked as fresh as the proverbial daisy. Not me. I looked like skunk cabbage.

  Just before leaving the Motel from Bloody Hell, I called the Broadmoor and asked for Ben. I didn’t really expect him to be there, but he was.

  “You said to call if I needed you, Cassidy.”

  “What’s wrong, Ingrid? Where are you?”

  I told him about Woody and the fortune cookie, and fibbed about the loss of my credit cards. Pride, I guess. Mickey Spillane wouldn’t have left his purse in the room.

  “Could you wire me some money, Ben? I’ll pay you back, I promise, and the mugger didn’t steal my return ticket, so—”

  “When do you return?”

  “Tomorrow. One-forty-five, Colorado time.”

  “Do you want me to meet your plane?”

  “No. My Jeep is parked at the airport, thanks anyway. I just need some money for emergencies, like, well, food.” The scream in my throat had become a lump.

  “Jeeze, Ingrid, do you have a local phone book handy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Look up the nearest Western Union office.”

  “Hold on.” I flipped through pages. “They don’t seem to have one, Ben.”

  “Give me your number. I’ll call you right back.”

  Right back took thirteen minutes.

  “I contacted Western Union,” said Ben, “but there’s no outlet in Clear Lake City. You’ll have to knock on Woody’s door and wake her up. Okay? Okay, Ingrid? Answer me.”

  “I’ll play it by ear.”

  “Don’t you always?”

  “What do you mean by that? My music? Our on-again, off-again relationship? Sorry, Ben, I’m hungry, exhausted, frightened—”

  “Frightened? Ingrid, you said the mugger grabbed your purse outside the motel and then ran away. Did he hurt you?”

  “No. Honest. I think the elephant stole my credit cards to keep me from charging. I’m sorry I bothered you, Ben.”

  Then I hung up.

  Now I was hanging out. Once upon a long time ago, we used to hang out at the football field during practice sessions. We prayed that we’d catch Dwight Cooper’s eye, Junior Hartsel’s eye. We wanted their fame to rub off on us, and we silently suggested that they rub against our tight cardigan sweaters, buttoned down the back, emphasizing our pointy Maidenformed breasts. We’d hang out at the drugstore, scrutinizing boys around the soda fountain, scrutinizing the makeup counter, checking our reflections in our mirrored compacts.

  My rented compact sat on its rubbery haunches alongside Woody’s curb, and my game plan was to wait until sunrise then punt. Driving to Woody’s, I had scanned my rearview mirror, but, as Old Mother Hubbard might say, the streets were bare, and I had a feeling the intruder had done her job by frightening me. Even her knife had been a scare tactic. Why would she kill me and leave a mirror message that might be traced back to the Clovers?

  As the hands on my watch crept toward three, I tried to forget tonight’s events. Yeah, right. Sing, sing a song.

  Cowboy. The intruder might have disguised herself as a cowboy, hiding her hair beneath a black Stetson, scorning makeup, donning a loose shirt and vest. Tad could never disguise her big breasts, but she wasn’t really a viable suspect. Would Patty scorn makeup? Not in a million years.

  Unless she played a role—the quintessential actress.

  Alice could play a man. She didn’t h
ave a jutting bosom, she could hide her platinum Q-tip hair beneath the Stetson, and she possessed the kind of face that melted into a crowd. If Alice masterminded a crime, witnesses wouldn’t be able to describe her features. “She’s medium,” they’d say.

  And wasn’t the guitar-handled knife an Alice weapon?

  I tried to doze. But my brain scrambled like quarterback John Elway looking for an open receiver. Why did I leave the motel as if I were some spineless mouse? Why had I called Ben? What had happened to Ingrid Independent? After I solved the riddle of Wylie’s death and the conundrum of Bingo’s reappearance, I’d have to get my act together.

  The dashboard clock didn’t work and my watch had stopped at three-ten. I figured it was now around three-fifty. For the first time in a long time, I desperately wanted a cigarette. But cigarettes cost money, the real reason why I had quit. My gaze strayed toward the car’s ashtray. Most of the butts had been smoked down to their filters. However, one survived. Pressing the lighter into the dash, I lovingly smoothed out the ciggie’s crumpled tip.

  The lighter didn’t work. I wasn’t surprised.

  Then I remembered the motel matches and fumbled inside my purse.

  Half the matches were missing, probably because the cheap-spirited motel manager didn’t bother replacing used matchbooks with new. Curious, I extended my hand toward the car’s window, catching the street lamp’s glow. What dopey western motif had she used on the cover? Roy Rogers? Gene Autry? Champion?

  Not even close. The matchbook was discreet. A white cover with black lettering. THE PALMER HOUSE HILTON.

  My Killer Shrink! buddy-cop movie had used the Palmer House Hilton’s magnificent lobby for one scene. The Palmer House was located in Chicago.

  Focusing my mind on the motel room, I remembered the toilet seat’s paper strip. A maid had changed the sheets and cleaned the room. She would have discarded the matches if they had been left by a previous guest. Which meant that they had been left by the intruder.

  Chicago. According to lounge entertainers, I had the time of my life. Obviously, those loungers hadn’t been with me when I visited Richard Daley’s city for the 1968 Democratic National Convention. I never saw a man dance with his wife, but I did see police dance with protesters. They rocked, rolled, swayed, swung, whirled, twirled, and, in general, tripped the nightlife fantastic. My most prominent Chicago testimonial was a scar on my forehead, which I covered with my bangs.

  Chicago. I had been very dissonant, very dissident, very visible. Was there a pro-Vietnam activist stalking? Avenging? But why would she wait twenty-plus years, then follow me to Texas and trash my motel room? That made even less sense than my Bingo jealousy theory.

  My hands were trembling. I struck three matches before one ignited. Finally, I drew stale nicotine into my lungs.

  Dear God! The rush! My head practically exploded while my bladder demanded instant discharge. In other words, I had to pee. Badly. And if I pissed off Woody, too bad.

  The 60 Minutes ladies had toted portable potties. I was parked in a residential neighborhood, and seriously doubted that I could make it to the nearest gas station in time. So I really had no choice. Gathering my courage and resolve, I staggered toward Woody’s front door and rang her bell until she answered.

  She wore a brown terrycloth bathrobe, minus belt. Her nightgown was red flannel. Her short mussed hair matched her robe. Her eyes matched her nightie. She had been crying. Or maybe she had some sort of allergy.

  Yup. She did. She was allergic to me.

  “Go ’way, Ingrid,” she said, and began to shut the door.

  “Bathroom,” I gasped. “Please.”

  Her mouth twisted into a scowl. “Hey, I’m not stupid.”

  “Hey, I’m not kidding. If you don’t let me inside, I’ll pull down my jeans and squat on your doorstep.”

  Her scowl became a lopsided grin. “I’ll just bet you would. Wylie—” Her grin vanished. “Wylie told me about the coach’s office. Prom night.”

  “That was a mail slot,” I said between clenched teeth, “and I didn’t pee, I—wait a sec! How did Wylie know about the coach’s office?”

  “Wylie knew everything.”

  “Woody, please! I’ll leave after I use your bathroom, cross my heart.”

  “Okay, Ingrid.” She opened the door wide and stepped aside.

  From the tiny vestibule, I could discern a living room on my left, a dining room on my right. They were both furnished but the walls were white, empty. Not one picture, not even a clock.

  “You look like shit,” Woody said.

  The bathroom’s fluorescent lighting did nothing to contradict her comment. The bloom was definitely fading from the Rose, and I wondered why Buddy had initiated his seduction. Perhaps his eyesight was failing, along with his better judgment. And why did men tend to age with grace while women just tended to age?

  Ben was even better looking now than he had been thirty years ago, and Wylie hadn’t really needed his fame or fortune to attract groupies. Despite his scorn for jocks, Wylie had matured into a shorter, whiter, skinnier Michael Jordan.

  Dwight Cooper, always a hunk, was graceless below the waist. But above his belt, he still resembled Steve Reeves, that non-acting actor who had played all those marvelous “Hercules on a Freaking Rampage” roles. Dwight’s eyes had appeared zombie-ish during the reunion dance, but usually they shined with intelligence. Once upon a time he had been a virtual blur on the football field. Now he sold insurance with the same whiz-bang proficiency.

  Even Buddy boy, disillusioned, disenchanted, not to mention dishonorable, had presented a tempting facade.

  Only Junior Hartsel and Patty Jamestone broke the mold. Patty because she had aged with grace, and Junior because he hadn’t.

  What about Bingo? Well, if he exercised and paid the barber a visit, he’d pass muster.

  My hair looked drab, a magnified version of the skunk cabbage’s cowl-shaped spathe. For the first time in my life, I wished that I possessed Alice Shaw Cooper’s expertise with a comb and bleach bottle. Alice had aged neatly. But then Alice had always looked fifteen going on fifty.

  On the other hand, Tad was trying to reconstruct those wonderful days of yesteryear, when she had mooned her butt at the drop of a hat.

  I heard a knock on the bathroom door. “Are you asleep, Ingrid?” Woody said. “Or did you fall in?”

  “I’m asleep.”

  She actually chuckled. “I could brew some coffee. That might wake you up.”

  “I’d love a cup of coffee, Woody, thanks.”

  “Why were you parked outside my house?”

  I sighed. “It’s a long story.”

  “You can start by telling me what Wylie said the night before he was killed.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Wylie’s last words were a riddle?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you make a statue of an elephant? That’s what he said?”

  “Yes.” Seated at Woody’s kitchen table, I sipped her strong black coffee and sighed with pleasure. “Wylie left the dance in a hurry, and was killed before he could give me an answer. I don’t suppose you know the answer.”

  Woody’s eyes looked like Fourth of July firecrackers—red, white, blue, and sizzling. “Damn you, Ingrid! I thought from your message that Wylie’s last words were about me.”

  “Well, he didn’t exactly know his riddle might turn out to be his last words. I mean, they weren’t really his last…I assume he said something between the dance and…okay, my message was tacky, but I needed to see you.”

  “Why?”

  “This.” I reached for the cookie wrapper, which, fortunately, I had kept in my back pocket. Otherwise the thief might have added it to her stash of goodies. “Tell me about The Four Leaf Clover Company.”

  “Would you like something to eat?”

  “Sure. Thanks. Have you ever heard of a company called The Four Leaf—?”

  “No.”

  “No?” My eyebrow skimmed
my bangs as I crinkled cellophane between my fingers.

  “Maybe Wylie mentioned it,” Woody said, reluctantly.

  “Mentioned it or created it?”

  She opened the refrigerator door. “I have some leftover chicken, liverwurst, and three hard-boiled eggs.”

  “Do you have any egg rolls? I love Chinese food. During the reunion, Wylie recommended a local Chinese restaurant. I think he wanted me to read your cookies.”

  “What do you mean my cookies?”

  “Your address is on the cellophane. How do you think I found your house?”

  “I assumed you looked it up in the telephone directory.”

  “Rats! That never occurred to me. I’m digging a damn hole with a damn spoon.”

  “Ingrid,” said Woody, slamming the refrigerator door shut, “what do you want from me?”

  “Answers.”

  “It’s none of your business!”

  “I’m making it my business. Wylie made it my business. He told me a riddle that may or may not have something to do with his murder. He left me a painting of Doris Day. Pillow-talking, once-I-had-a-secret-loving Doris Day! You’ve been very nice, Woody, and I feel like some damn parasite, but I really have no choice. I’ve been poisoned, abandoned by the only man I’ve ever loved, robbed at the Norman Bates mo—”

  “Calm down.”

  Gasping for breath, I pounded on the table with both fists. “Somebody owes me an explanation!”

  Woody walked over to an old-fashioned bread box, opened it, and retrieved three slices from a loaf of seeded rye. I could sense the intelligent wheels in her head spinning.

  “Since Wylie named you his parasitic beneficiary, so to speak, I’ll explain what I can,” she finally said. “But first you must understand one thing. Wylie and I hated each other.”

  “Why?”

  “Politics. Ideologies. Sexual preferences.”

  I stared at her. “You’re—”

  “Happy with my lifestyle. No regrets. No guilt.”

  Well, that certainly explained Wylie’s reaction to my Peter Pan is always played by a woman remark.

  “Despite his repugnance and repudiation,” Woody continued, “Wylie always confided in me, don’t ask me why.”