by Denise Dietz
Ben sat on the couch and absently patted Hitchcock’s rump, which still rotated counter-clockwise from excitement at my return. It’s a miracle, Hitchcock’s tail seemed to semaphore. On the other hand, Hitchcock sensed that I was in a baddog mood, so he didn’t jump, knead or cleanse my face.
Finally Ben said, “I was worried about you.”
“Not to worry. They say flying is safer than driving, and after Houston I really believe that.”
“Come on, Ingrid, don’t play dumb. I’m bothered by your obsessive need to solve Wylie’s murder.”
“It’s not obsessive. It’s compulsive.”
“What’s the difference?”
“An obsession is an unreasonable preoccupation. A compulsion is an irresistible impulse.”
“An impulse to perform an irrational act.”
“I couldn’t be more rational, Ben.”
“Ingrid, the last thing you said to me on the phone was something about an elephant stealing your credit cards. That’s rational?”
I fumed silently as I brushed the travel dust from my jeans and sweatshirt, then said, “I’m not your responsibility.”
“Yes, you are. Remember that Chinese bit about saving somebody’s life?”
“You’re Irish and Cherokee, Ben. I don’t think there’s one Chinese leaf on your family tree.”
“I was making a point!”
“I assume your point is Patty’s poison. Look, I’ve seen Notorious at least a dozen times and I’ve always tried to imagine what happened afterwards. I mean, after Cary Grant rescued Ingrid Bergman, did he hug and kiss her? Or screw her brains out? Realistically, he probably stuck his finger down her throat and watched her gastric lavage all over her slippers. Or, if you want to get even more pragmatic, Cary probably said ‘Tally-ho, Miss Bergman’ and left the set.”
“What’s your point?”
“Once the ambulance toted me to the hospital and the doctors pumped out baneberries, your responsibility ended.”
“Oh, I see. Ingrid Beaumont doesn’t want hugs and kisses. It’s not in the script, right?”
“There is no script!”
“Then what are we arguing about?”
I felt as though I had something wedged inside my throat, Cary Grant’s finger maybe. Cary Grant’s bony finger, since, sadly, Cary had tally-hoed to that vast Hollywood set in the sky.
God, I really missed Cary Grant. Which was probably why tears blurred my vision and I began to heave great gulping sobs.
Hitchcock and Ben reacted simultaneously. Hitchcock whined and wriggled his body toward my boots while Ben rushed to my side and pressed my face against his shoulder.
“Cary was so charismatic,” I gasped. “Even his stupid movies, like that one set in Spain, awful dialogue, but nobody cared, because Cary was Cinemascoped larger than life, and a woman could come just by watching his lips move. God, I miss him.”
“Poor baby,” Ben soothed, maneuvering me toward the couch.
My whole body shook. No doubt I looked as though I belonged in one of those end-of-coitus Madonna videos.
“He will live forever in his films,” Ben said, sitting and pulling me into his lap.
Did Ben honestly believe I was crying over Cary Grant? It didn’t matter. Ben was petting me like a lover, not an animal doctor, and that led to fresh tears. You might even say it opened the floodgates.
“It was rape,” I sobbed, trying to make myself a small blob in the middle of Ben’s lap. “And I’m happy he’s dead. Happy, happy, happy.”
“Okay, baby, it’s gonna be okay.”
“Woody said Wylie told her things about us, intimate details, so he knew…”
Fresh sobs overwhelmed me as I pictured my Manhattan hotel room. One humongous bed. Lamps. A mirrored dresser. An escritoire decorated with liquor bottles, including a bottle of vodka, which is half empty or half full, depending, I suppose, on your point of view.
* * *
Wylie wants to get me uninhibited, but I’ve detoured down the road toward Maudlin City. Hiding his impatience, he listens to my marital woes and hands me a few tissues along with quite a few vodka refills.
“Ingrid,” he says, “have you ever heard that old joke about the elephant and the circus parade?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Eb says, ‘I’m in the circus parade, but I don’t know how to lead the elephant.’ Flo says, ‘It’s simple. Just tie a rope around her neck, take hold of the other end, then ask her where she wants to go.’ Where do you want to go, my love?”
“Back,” I say, “before the prom.”
“Though I dance at a ball,” says Wylie, “I am nothing at all. What am I?”
“That’s too easy. You’re a shadow.”
“Very good. Come sit on the bed. A red dancer dances in a red room with white chairs set all around. What am I?”
“The tongue, mouth and teeth.”
“Fantastic! Give me one.”
Give me one sounds like you show me yours and I’ll show you mine, but I’m intrigued. “Okay, Wylie, here’s a hard one. I’m a bottomless barrel, shaped like a hive, filled with flesh, and the flesh is alive. What am I?”
“You’re right, darling, that’s a hard one.” He places my hand across the bulge between his thighs. “You want to feel hard? Feel this.”
“I’m a thimble!” I yell, delighted to have fooled him.
Wylie’s flesh is alive. Swiftly, he removes my hand and unzips his fly so I can see his flesh. Substantial. His hand captures the nape of my neck and he begins to push my face toward his energetic flesh.
“Stop it!” I shout.
But he doesn’t stop. “Red and blue and purple and green,” he says, “and no one can reach it, not even a queen. What am I?”
“Damn it, Wylie!” I wrench my head free. “Patty!”
“Wrong, Ingrid, rainbow. I’m a rainbow.”
“I meant—”
“Come to think of it, Patty’s not such a bad answer.”
Then he lunges.
* * *
Sobbing my story into Ben’s shoulder, I repeated my first sentence, even finished it. “He knew how to manipulate me.”
“Okay. Now I understand.” Ben stroked the tangled hair away from my hot brow and blotchy cheeks. “Hush, baby, I’m here, and I won’t let anyone ever hurt you again.”
I couldn’t hush. The snagged pantyhose spilled from my drawer like slithering snakes, their reinforced toes and heels hissing. “You have that stuff for dogs, Ace Promazine,” I said. “Wylie tried to tranquilize me with vodka and true riddles. That’s what they’re called, Ben, true riddles, invented thousands of years ago by some unknown person who enjoyed working with words. Just like me. Just like Wylie. True bastard!”
Ben didn’t need a whole lot of words. Three sufficed. “I love you,” he said.
My shoulders relaxed and I heaved a deep sigh.
Shifting me onto a couch cushion, Ben walked toward Doris Day, turned and said, “I’m sorry, Ingrid. After we talked on the phone last night, I began to ponder your Lieutenant Miller reaction. Ordinarily you’d never suspect that I had anything to do with Wylie’s murder. But circumstantial became circumspect, cagey, and I can’t really blame you.”
At the word “cagey,” I had a blurry thought, a memory prod, but intuition told me to let Ben keep talking.
“I guess manipulation is contagious, like the measles,” he continued. “Patty pulled strings, too. She used the oldest ploy of all. Helplessness. Patty’s not exactly emancipated.”
“A butterfly trapped inside a rainbow,” I murmured. “Is that what you meant before when you said I could kick your can?”
“Yes.”
“But it’s such a nice can. Why would I want to kick it?”
“Because I was way off base. For instance, I kept wondering why Patty lied about my jacket. Fear? Jealousy?”
“Jealousy?”
Ben’s neck turned ruddy. “Ingrid, I’m not Robert Redford, but I’m n
ot Casper Milquetoast either. When Patty instigated her seduction, I was flattered.”
“Don’t you mean tempted?”
“No. Flattered. I tried to explain that my love for you was a stumbling block. A roadblock, actually.”
“So she puked.”
“She was drunk.”
“She was frustrated. That scene did come from a movie script, Ben. Patty was playing Scarlett. As God is my witness, I’ll never be rejected again. Weren’t you tempted to play Rhett?”
“On my word of honor, Ingrid, nothing happened.”
“Wylie happened.”
“And you thought Patty and I planned his murder.”
I opened my mouth to deny, but snapped it shut. Because Ben was on target, on the nose, on the dot.
Crossing the room, he knelt, targeted my nose, and dotted it with kisses. “I couldn’t really blame you for coming to that conclusion,” he said.
Blame! What had Ben said three nights ago? Something about the smart guilties. I had toted guilt for years, like a backpack filled with heavy bricks. If I had insisted that Ben drive Dwight’s convertible. If I had kept Stewie from enlisting in the Marines, written one post-prom song to make him cringe. If I had married Ben, rather than screwing up, screwing around, screwing every demonstrator who displayed lively flesh. If I had responded to Bingo’s cry for love, or at least security. If I hadn’t let Wylie inside my hotel room—no!
I couldn’t blame myself for Wylie. In fact, I couldn’t blame myself for all those other ifs. It was fate, astral influences, whatever.
Then why did I still have the guilties? Because Wylie had entrusted me with a mission, the bastard, and I hadn’t fulfilled his trust.
I felt like crying again. Instead, I sang, “Ain’t no river wide enough to keep me away from you.”
“Ain’t no mountain high enough.” Rising, Ben stretched his cramped leg muscles.
“Mountain. We’re supposed to toss Wylie’s ashes and watch him pollute Cripple Creek. But first—”
“You want to solve his murder.”
“Yes. I have to.”
“You don’t have to. Let sleeping dogs lie.”
I leaned forward and gave Hitchcock a few ear scratches. He lay with his muzzle across one drool-soaked boot. “Listen, Ben, I don’t need another ghost inside my head. If I don’t solve his murder, Wylie will haunt me.”
“Bullshit!”
“It’s not bullshit. I can’t allow Wylie’s death to become another pair of snagged pantyhose.”
“Pantyhose?”
“For example, I might be scoring a movie and hear Wylie’s voice. Why do girl elephants wear angora sweaters? How do you talk to an el—damn! I’m so stupid.”
“Why? What’s the matter?”
“How do you talk to an elephant? Use big words. Kim O’Connor!” I told Ben about Kim. “Before, when you used the word cagey, I had a memory nudge. Kim said she felt caged. Honestly, honey, Kim sounds very young and very old at the same time. I mean, she’s extremely perceptive, but she’s definitely a kid.”
“So?”
“So a kid would be tuned into the latest wisecracks, but she’d also remember nonsense stuff, like knock-knock jokes and elephant jokes.”
“That’s true. I played knock-knock with my daughter until she reached puberty. What’s your point?”
Ignoring Ben’s question and my own cramped muscles, I raced toward the gate-legged table and reached for my trusty U.S. West directory. Let your fingers do the talking.
“Rats,” I said. “There’s one listing for John, but it’s the wrong street. No Mary, no Kimberly. Maybe we should call your daughter, Ben. Wait a sec! Here it is. O’Connor, Tonto. Clever Mary. She didn’t want to pay for an unlisted number, so she used her dog’s name.”
“I assume you plan to ask Kim if she knows the answer to Wylie’s elephant-statue riddle.”
“Yes. Are you going to get angry again?”
“No. But I’m going to leave again. I have an appointment with my attorney. By the way, thanks. She’s great. Reminds me of Debra Winger.”
“God, Ben, you’ve never told me what happened at the police station.”
“I’m a ‘person of interst,’ Ingrid. However, my jacket’s not enough. Debra Winger says—”
“Your lawyer’s name is Debra Winger?”
“No. Susan Goldstein. I tease her with Debra. She says they have to prove opportunity, motive, maybe even find an eye witness who—”
“Why the appointment?”
“Susan phoned the Broadmoor this morning while I was jogging, and she left a message to meet her around four o’clock. She said it was urgent but I shouldn’t worry.”
“That sounds like lawyer-speak.”
Ben walked over to the spinet and picked up a small vase that held one ceramic rose. “I think you’re right, Ingrid. I think Patty killed Wylie. You see, I’ve been trying to reach her. I pounded on her door twice last night. She wasn’t there, or wouldn’t respond. I’ve called at least a dozen times and left messages on her answering machine. I don’t understand why she’s acting this way unless she killed Wylie. Remember when I told Miller that anyone could have left the Dew Drop and returned very quickly, very quietly?”
“Yes. I said Patty could have slipped away. But how could she, Ben? In what?”
“My rental car.”
His eyes looked mournful, as if a trustworthy bitch had nipped his ankle, and I recalled an old Ben habit. He would leave his keys in the ignition. Because, he used to say, who’d want to steal this piece of junk? But that was thirty years ago!
“Ben, did you leave your keys in the car?”
“Yes.”
“So Patty could have driven it.”
“Yes.”
“And the police might have found somebody who saw your car and jotted down the license number.”
“Yes.”
“Okay, Ben. Let’s not panic and let’s not jump to conclusions.” I joined him at the spinet, removed the vase from his tight grip, and clasped his hands in mine. “I’m almost positive Wylie meant to lead me to his virgin clue, which specifies Alice. So does the clarinet and Woody’s painting.” I told Ben about the clarinet and Woody’s painting. “After the murder, when I called Alice, she said she was at the Dew Drop Inn. Was she?”
“Absolutely.”
“How did she behave? Subdued? Agitated?”
“Neither. She was whooping it up.”
“Define whooping.”
“You know Alice. She was collecting tidbits for her next newsletter, and she kept insisting that Dwight regale us with his old football stories.”
“Speaking of old football stories, was Junior there?”
“Very there. He and Tad were practically doing it under the table. Then Junior dumped Tad, literally. She was sprawled across his lap. He began to hustle Patty. I heard him say something about making it real.”
“Making what real?”
“I don’t know. Patty shook her head. ‘That’s the way the cookie crumbles,’ she said. Junior promptly shut up. Then he joined Tad, who was crying.”
“I’m beginning to feel sorry for Tad.”
“Don’t bother. Soon she and Junior were doing it again. But those were all isolated instances, babe. The Dew Drop was packed. Anybody could have slipped away and returned without drawing attention.” Ben twisted our hands and glanced down at his watch. “Damn! Now I’m running late.”
“Where’s your luggage?”
“In the car. I wanted to patch things up.”
“Consider them patched.”
“Before I leave, please tell me one thing.”
“What?” I asked, and heard the suspicion in my voice.
“Why do girl elephants wear angora sweaters?”
“Huh?”
“Before, when you talked about Wylie haunting you, you said—”
“Oh. Right. Girl elephants wear angora sweaters to tell them apart from boy elephants.”
“I’
m sorry I asked.” Ben untangled our hands, gave me a kiss that virtually seared my lips, and raced toward the door.
I was exhausted, both emotionally and physically, but I had to solve a murder. Fast. Forget Wylie haunting me. Ben was now my prime concern. So I reached for the phone to call Tonto O’Connor, changed my mind, glanced down at my utilities envelope, and called Aspen.
“It appears that Ben threatened Wylie,” Cee-Cee said after we had exchanged hello-how-are-yous. “That’s what Bill told me the last time we talked on the phone. But he said Miller sounded desperate because Wylie was so famous and all the tabloids…well, you know.”
Did Cee-Cee sound a tad hesitant? I remembered a portion of my dialogue with Miller. What makes you think the police arrived after Jamestone was killed? Patty mentioned it. Yeah, right. I should have said Sinead the cat mentioned it. I should have kept my mouth shut.
“Ceese, did I get you in hot water with Bill?”
She sighed. “Bill’s an old-fashioned teeter-totter, Ingrid. One moment he’s telling me I have a logical mind, the next he’s telling me to mind my own business. That’s one of the reasons we got divorced. Obviously, Miller shares with Bill. Everyone confesses to Bill, even criminals. He’s kind of priest-like.”
“I’m sorry, Ceese.”
“It’s not your fault.”
Yes, it is. “How’s your Canine Companion doing?”
“Great. I should be home soon.” She sighed again. “Dwight Cooper heard Ben say something about burying a hatchet in Wylie’s balls.”
“That was during the dance, Ceese, and it was a figure of speech. I wish I had a dollar for every time I’ve cussed out a producer or musician, not to mention my ex. Remember what I told you at breakfast? I threatened to bash Wylie’s head in.”
“Take it easy. Obviously Ben’s taunt isn’t enough to indict, but it does make him—”
“A person of interest. I’ve got to touch base with Miller, Ceese, because I discovered that Junior Hartsel, the ex-jock, has a motive, and according to Kim O’Connor he visited Patty, and he was at the Dew Drop, and he said something to Patty about making it real. She said, ‘That’s the way the cookie crumbles.’ Do you think they planned Wylie’s murder together, and making it real meant making it happen? Also, a mysterious woman threatened me last night and…well, it’s a long story, but Ben said Patty wasn’t home last night.”
