Footprints in the Butter

by Denise Dietz

  “Ingrid! Contact Miller ASAP! I think he’s set his sights on your doctor.”

  “Which is probably why Ben’s talking to Susan Goldstein. By the way, Ben says thanks.”

  “Have you met Susan? She looks like Debra Winger.”

  “No, I haven’t met her, but she sounds wonderful. Come home soon, Tiger.”

  “As soon as I can. I’m missing all the…action.”

  I could have sworn Cee-Cee had been about to say fun, just before she remembered my threat comment. Hanging up, I stared at the phone. Then I took a deep breath, prepared to do battle with Mary O’Connor.

  “O’Connor residence,” said a young voice. “Mr. and Mrs. O’Connor ain’t here right now.”

  “Kim? This is Ingrid Beaumont.”

  “Hi, Grid. Did you call about the Hollywood trip? I’ve already asked Mom and she said ask your father. So I did and he said ask your mother. So it’s practically in the bag. All I have to do is tell Daddy that Mom said okay, then tell Mom that Daddy said okay.”

  “Honey, it’s only been a couple of days. I’ll talk to your parents and make arrangements, I promise. I called because…” I paused, as a new thought occurred. “Kim, this is very important. When you found Mr. Jamestone, did you see a sheepskin jacket? The same one that grossed you out?”

  “No. Yes. No.”

  “The truth, honey.”

  “I took the jacket from the kitchen and covered Mr. Jamestone’s body. He looked cold. Then I thought maybe I shouldn’t have touched the jacket, like maybe I was fooling around with evidence, so I put it back. Am I in big trouble?”

  “You’re probably in never do anything like that again trouble. But you’ll have to tell Lieutenant Miller. The police think Ben, the Indian, might have killed Mr. Jamestone.”

  “I’m sorry, Grid. You like the Indian a lot, don’t you? I can hear it in your voice.”

  “Yes, I like him. A lot.” I took a moment to admire her teenage sagacity. “Kim, did you tell elephant jokes when you were little?”

  “Nah. But my sister did. She thought they were funny. I thought they were stupid.”

  “Okay, here’s a real stupid one. How do you make a statue of an elephant?”

  “That’s easy, Grid. Find a big piece of stone and cut away everything that doesn’t look like an elephant.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Damn you, Wylie,” I swore, after saying goodbye to Kim. “Cut away everything that doesn’t look like an elephant? What the hell does that mean?”

  I gazed toward the fireplace and stared suspiciously at my legacy painting. It was becoming a permanent floor fixture, and, thanks to Hitchcock, looked like the Leaning Tower of Day. “Do you know the answer to the answer, Doris?”

  Her painted lips seemed to form three words: Que sera, sera.

  What will be will be. The answer’s not there to see. Wrong! The answer was there, if I could only figure it out—with a little help from my friends.

  Which meant that a long overdue Alice visit was in order.

  But first I had to take care of trivialities. So I called the VISA twenty-four-hour number, punched the button that would give me a service rep, and was put on terminal hold.

  My family room felt eerie, like the eye of a hurricane, and I wished that Ben had been able to stick around. Forget Ingrid Independent. For one thing, the Palmer House matchbook cover still bothered me. Chicago. Had my left-winged past caught up to my right-winged present? Damn Jane Fonda! Damn all you Jane Fondas! Come to think of it, Jane had changed too. She had hit the jackpot by exploiting what Wylie might have called “the abdomophobias of weighty Wendyites and potbellied Peter Pans.”

  I glanced toward Hitchcock. He was chasing cats in his sleep, and I was grateful for his comforting presence, not to mention his sharp canines.

  The credit card company’s recorded voice kept announcing that my call was important, hang on, so I hung up.

  Fortunately, my local locksmith was a friend. I had once written him a freebie advertising jingle. “Keys get lost, but never Joe, call 555-KEYS, and I’m ready to go.” Simplistic? Sure. Effective? Very. As Sara Lee might say, nobody never forgot 555-KEYS.

  Joe said he’d change my locks right away, but I said first thing tomorrow morning might be better. Hitchcock could play watchdog, I had a few miles to go before I slept and Ben might wonder why his key didn’t fit. He might even believe that I had changed my mind about patching.

  Should I try the credit card companies again, or should I shower? No riddle there! How could I face immaculate Alice when I resembled Wylie’s famous painting of Mick Jagger?

  Wylie had titled his portrait Ferae Naturae. Jagger’s blurb stated: I SHOUTED OUT “WHO KILLED THE KENNEDYS?” WHEN AFTER ALL, IT WAS YOU AND ME.

  Who killed the Kennedys? Who killed Wylie Jamestone? The answer’s not there to see. Oh, yeah? I’m gonna see it. After all, me didn’t kill Wylie. And you was probably Patty and/or Junior. But how could I prove it? First, I’d have to find a big piece of stone and chisel.

  I had a feeling my elephant stone lay hidden inside Alice’s house. Or was it hidden inside Alice’s head? If she was Wylie’s murderer, it was hidden inside her heart.

  How do you chisel a heart? Easy. Easy as pie. Easy as baneberry pie. Just press your TV remote, find a country-western station, and watch videos. Eventually, someone will sing about chiseling.

  I didn’t have time to watch country-western videos.

  Instead, I showered, subdued my hair with a blow dryer, donned a robe, and began to scarf down Ben’s stew.

  Naturally, the phone rang. I’ve rarely made it through a meal without the telephone’s intrusive summons, and I couldn’t allow my machine to get it because the right coast is two hours ahead while the left coast is one hour behind, and the call might mean big bucks. Or at least an opportunity to earn a few bucks. Hesitate and you’ve lost your movie soundtrack.

  “Hello,” I said, “this is Ingrid Beaumont.”

  “Ingrid Beaumont Oates. We’re not divorced yet.”

  Bingo!

  I tried to keep my voice on an even keel. “Why did you disappear again, Bingo? And what did you mean by trouble?”

  “Not now. Your phone might be bugged.”

  “Are you crazy? Who would bug my phone?

  “Meet me at the top of Pikes Peak, near the cascade, half an hour. Be sure to bring your checkbook and pen, Rose.”

  Then he hung up.

  The Pikes Peak Highway has a scenic route that makes one catch one’s breath. Driving to the top is pure pleasure, unless it’s cold and dark and one has the feeling that one is being spied upon. Maybe I should lasso Hitchcock, toss him inside Jeep, ask him to play bodyguard rather than watchdog. Good old Hitchcock. No. Good young Hitchcock. Because he wasn’t too old to learn new tricks and—rats!

  What should you know before you teach a dog new tricks? You should know more than the dog. Bingo had assumed I’d know more than the dog. His entire message was a riddle, easy to decipher, unless you happened to be a bugger. I should have guessed right away when he called me Rose and told me to bring a pen.

  Meet me at the top of Pikes Peak, near the cascade.

  The Pikes Peak Penrose Library was located downtown, on Cascade Avenue.

  Half an hour.

  Which meant I had at least forty-five minutes.

  * * *

  One didn’t need one’s best glad rags to meet one’s ex-ex at the library, so I donned clean jeans and a white sweatshirt with the words KILLER SHRINK! printed on the front—a gift from my ex-agent.

  I contemplated leaving Ben a note, but I wanted to retain at least one shred of independence. Then I had second thoughts. Alice might be the murderer and I planned to hit her house after my Bingo rendezvous. So I scribbled: “The answer to Wylie’s riddle is cut away everything that doesn’t look like an elephant. Ponder that while I visit Alice. Love Ingrid.”

  Just like Wylie, I had forgotten to add a comma.

  Accident
ally on purpose?

  The Penrose Library closed at nine. It was five-thirty and the parking lot was full. An ancient VW bug maneuvered around my Jeep, capturing the last empty space.

  Eyes half shut, I hummed Canned Heat’s “On the Road Again.” At the same time, I visualized somebody exiting the library, entering a car, and driving away.

  It worked. Somebody did. A young man smoking a cigarette. Oh, how I wanted a cigarette. But Jeep’s ashtray was buttless, clean as a whistle.

  The young man whistled through his fingers. “It’s all yours!” he shouted, gunning his motor.

  Jeep gunned back, and stalled. Desperate, I pressed the accelerator pedal and flooded the engine. After counting slowly to one hundred twice, I turned my ignition key, then my steering wheel. By the time my boots finally found the pavement, a Boy Scout could have helped several old ladies across the street.

  Not exactly an auspicious beginning.

  Meet me at the top.

  The library’s top floor includes the children’s book section and the historical research area. Bearing in mind those wonderful Olive Garden balloon kids, I headed for those wonderful days of yesteryear.

  Bingo! Trying not to look like Bingo. His silver-blond hair had been dyed brown.

  Patty had once said, somewhat critically, that a person should always dress like a million bucks. Bingo had followed Patty’s advice. His suit was green and wrinkled. Thrift shop? Garage sale?

  To my knowledge, Bingo didn’t own a suit. Never had. His new boots shined and his feet looked like they belonged to someone else. He slumped in a chair, pretending to read a book, an upside-down book. As I approached his table, he whispered, “You’re late, Ingrid.”

  “And you look ridiculous, Bingo. Anybody would be able to recognize you, except your mother.”

  “Please keep your voice down.”

  “Why? Are you afraid they bugged the library?”

  “I don’t want to draw attention to us.”

  “Damn it, Bingo, there’s nobody here except one librarian and one old lady who’s asleep, snoring.”

  “Okay, Ingrid, forget it.”

  “Don’t you dare leave! I’ll scream my head off. Speaking of which, did you crush Wylie Jamestone’s head?”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “You said you were in trouble and you stole my prom picture.”

  “I didn’t steal it. I flushed it down the toilet.”

  “Where did you go after you flushed?”

  “Chicago.”

  I pictured envelopes and addresses. Mrs. Nicholas Oates. Herbert Oates. Stanley Oates. Beatrice. Chicago, Illinois.

  “Did you finally collect your inheritance, Bingo?”

  His mouth twisted. Some might call it a smile but I knew better. “Herb and Stan paid me ten thousand dollars to shut me up,” he said. “I signed some legal forms, but that’s all water under the bridge.”

  I was so angry I felt like blasting his bridge with dynamite. “You had money, you rat, and you couldn’t send me a few dollars to help pay off your debts?”

  “What debts?”

  “Your lawyer and your health club contract and your department store charges and…” I paused, breathing hard. “By any chance did the Oates mini-fortune cure your impotence?”

  The moment I said it I wished I hadn’t. But for the first time in my life I understood how a person could squeeze a trigger or thrust a knife or bash someone’s head in.

  Surprisingly, Bingo laughed. The librarian glanced our way. The snoring woman twitched.

  “I’d love to prove my potency, Ing,” he said, “but your clothes don’t turn me on. I prefer the girl who used to wear hip-huggers, the girl whose belly-button beckoned. No wonder the cops always roughed you up. They wanted a free feel. Did you happen to glance at yourself in the mirror? Why wear that idiotic killer shrink sweatshirt? Did your tits shrink? I remember sweaty undershirts. God, Ing, your nipples—”

  “That’s enough, Bingo!” Tit for tat. Tit for tattered dreams. “This time I’m leaving, and I don’t give a rat’s spit if you’re in trouble or—”

  I swallowed the rest of my words. Chicago. The matchbook cover. Was Bingo’s trouble my trouble?

  He sensed my uncertainty. “I need money,” he said.

  “What happened to your ten thousand?”

  “I bet it all on sports. Baseball, basketball, football. At first I won. Then I lost everything. Three weeks ago I bet a bundle against Denver. Your Broncos were playing the Kansas City Chiefs. The odds were two to one and the spread—”

  “How much?”

  “How much was the spread?”

  “How much money did you bet?”

  “Five thousand. I wanted to win back what I lost.”

  “But the Broncos didn’t lose,” I said. “How could you bet money you didn’t have, Bingo? Bookies?”

  “Of course.”

  “Legal?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “So now you owe them five thousand dollars?”

  “Well, not exactly. I bet another five on the Giants game.” He shrugged.

  “I’ve never been good at math, Bingo, but I think five and five equals ten.”

  “If I don’t pay, they’ll kill me.”

  “Aren’t you being a tad dramatic?”

  “No. They’ve already roughed me up once. It happened just before I flew to Colorado Springs.”

  “Where did you get the money to fly here?”

  “I closed a deal with a friend. He wired me an advance.”

  Close cover before striking. The matches.

  “Bingo, did you follow me to Texas?”

  “Why would I follow you?”

  “To trash my motel room and write it’s time to stray on the mirror, which is very Barry Isaac Nicholas Gregory Oates, considering your jealous streak. Then you could steal my credit cards and make the whole thing look as if it had something to do with Wylie’s murder. What’s the limit on American Express, Bingo? I’m not certain they’d go for ten thousand, but they might advance five, and five would keep your bookies at bay.”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “Answer me, Bingo! Yes or no? Did you trail me to Houston? Did you steal my credit cards?”

  “Listen to yourself, Ingrid. Have you totally lost it? If I had your credit cards, why would we be meeting like this? I’d be long gone.”

  “True.” I took a deep breath. “Why did you arrange this cloak and dagger rendezvous? You can’t honestly believe I’d bail you out.”

  “Please, Ing, you loved me once, and I’m sure you don’t want to see me dead.”

  “Don’t be so sure.”

  He gave me a sincere smile, not a twisty one, and I realized that my armadillo’s armor was wearing thin.

  “Spillane not Mouse, Spillane not Mouse,” I said, chanting the words like a mantra. “Spillane, not Mouse.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means ciao, Bingo.”

  “No. Wait. Don’t leave. Please. Listen. There’s this woman named Charlene. They call her Charlie Bronson. She’s a hit woman and she’s after me.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. Try again, Bingo.”

  “I’m not kidding. God, I shouldn’t have come here.”

  “The library?”

  “No. Colorado Springs. Please listen. I saw Killer Shrink! on video store shelves; it’s very popular in Chicago. They changed the name but it was your movie, your music. We were still together when you wrote it. Anyway, it occurred to me that you might have collected residuals and—”

  “I was paid a flat fee, you bastard!”

  My heart pounded. It felt as though thousands of feet were stomping the concrete floor at Denver’s Mile High Stadium. I wanted nothing more than to leap from my chair, tackle Bingo, and pound his head against the library’s wooden floor boards.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I guess maybe I’ve placed you in danger, too.”


  “They wouldn’t kill someone who’d reneged on a measly ten grand, Bingo. That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Yes, it does. Charlie trained with the FBI before she hooked up with my Chicago bookies. I think she wants to kill me, make her bones, or whatever they call it. But she can’t if I pay the bookies what I owe them.”

  I still didn’t believe him. Then, inside my head, I heard that terrific soundtrack from The Sting and pictured Redford’s hit woman. “What does Charlie look like, Bingo?”

  “I’ve never actually seen her face.”

  “Is she young? Old? Black? White?”

  I glanced toward the old lady. Didn’t her snores sound a tad contrived? Picturing a cartoon chainsaw buzzing through animated wood, I began to compose background music. Something Scott Joplin, something Chainsaw Extermination, something organ grinder’s genetically altered monkey.

  A carpetbag satchel flopped across the old lady’s sensible shoes and support hose. It was large enough to carry knitting needles. And a gun.

  “Whoa,” I said. “How do you know anybody’s gunning for you, Bingo? By the very nature of their profession, a hit person would be sneaky.”

  “Charlie was at the Olive Garden, Ingrid, the night I met you there. I think she was told to scare me, so she left her calling card. Remember when I went to the bar for my drink?”

  “Of course.”

  “A woman bumped into me. I didn’t get a look at her face, it happened much too quickly. But she pressed an empty wine glass into my hand.”

  “Oh, I get it. Charlie Bronson’s calling card is a wine glass.”

  “Don’t be such a smartass. Charlie left an obvious lipstick smudge on the glass. Her trademark is purple lipstick.”

  Purple lipstick! The mirror message! Had Charlie Bronson followed me to Texas? But why? Anyway, the mirror message had been printed with red lipstick.

  “Bingo,” I said, “how did your so-called hit woman know you planned to meet me at the Olive Garden?”

  “She bugged your phone.”

  “She did not.”

  “It’s the only way, Ingrid. I’m hiding out at my friend’s house, the one who sent me the plane fare advance, and I’m positive Charlie didn’t follow me there.” He swallowed. “Or I’d be dead already. Sleeping with the sharks.”