by Denise Dietz
“Sure.”
“Wylie played elephant charging. First he’d tie my wrists to the bed and then he’d charge.”
“Why don’t they allow elephants on the beach?” I said.
“Because they can’t keep their trunks up.” Alice giggled. “That was one of Wylie’s favorites. Here’s another one.”
I thought she meant another riddle, but she meant another game. As I listened, astonished, Alice described Wylie’s favorite jollifications. Most of his horseplay had nothing whatsoever to do with elephants, although a few “amusements” involved animal positions.
Alice bragged on and on, and, at long last I began to compose a viable theme for my scarred amusement park proprietor. The producer wanted scary, but wicked innocence was scarier than pure evil. So I’d set my music to the sound of shattered glass. No. Wind chimes.
“Don’t forget,” said Alice, “you crossed your heart and hoped to die. Remember how you and Patty used to say that all the time? Patty truly believed she’d drop dead if she fibbed or tattled. So did you, Ingrid.”
Alice had shocked me. Now it was my turn to shock her, maybe even shock her into telling the truth. “Speaking of dead, Alice, why did you kill Wylie?”
“That’s not funny, Ingrid.” She stared at my face. “Hey, you’re not kidding. What makes you think I killed Wylie?”
“Your car was parked in his driveway.”
“When?”
“Sunday afternoon.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Yes, it was. Somebody saw it.”
“Then somebody needs glasses,” she said indignantly. “Or somebody saw somebody else’s car.”
“Right. There must be at least a dozen people who drive a silver BMW with a handicap sticker, Mary Kay, Garfield, and Tipper Gore for Vice.”
“I didn’t see Wylie that afternoon, Ingrid, I swear to God. I saw him that morning.”
“Where?”
“The El Paso Perrera Club. We met for brunch. Eggs and bacon and fresh seafood and champ—”
“Baloney, Alice! The Perrera Club doesn’t allow Jews.”
“Wylie didn’t sign the tab. I did.”
“They wouldn’t let a woman join their sacred circle either,” I said. It was a sore point. The Perrera Club met downtown, inside an old brick building that people swore was haunted. The club had been around forever. My small group of high school dissenters had contemplated picketing, but we were already staging so many other protests, the Perrera Club kind of got lost in the shuffle.
“My daddy belonged,” Alice said, “and my grandfather was one of the original roundtable members. I’m a legacy. I don’t pay dues or anything, but I can eat there.”
“Why would Wylie eat there? He hated ethnic and/or sexist bigotry.”
She giggled again. “Wylie was such a hoot. He wore that little Jewish cap.”
“Yarmulke?”
“Yes. He treated the whole thing as a big joke. Snubbed the members, even though quite a few came up to shake his hand, Wylie being so famous and all. He asked the club director if the food was kosher and—”
“Okay, Alice, you met at the club. Did you argue?”
“No! I swear to God!”
“Did you eat and run, or did you eat and screw?”
“Ingrid! Watch your mouth!”
Instead, I watched hers. She blotted her lips with imaginary tissue. Which meant that she was agitated. Which meant that she and Wylie had eaten each other. Where? One of the haunted Perrera Club nooks? There went my breaking up is hard to do theory.
“What time did you leave the club, Alice?”
“Shortly before the football game. I drove to the Dew Drop Inn and parked near Dwight’s van.”
“Who borrowed your car keys during the game?”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
She hesitated then blurted, “Ben Cassidy. I’m sorry, Ingrid. I didn’t tell the police, but I might have mentioned it to Dwight, and he might have told them.”
“No. He told them about balls.”
“Whose balls?”
“Wylie’s balls. Why would Ben borrow your keys, Alice? That doesn’t make any sense. He had his own car.”
“Patty actually borrowed my keys. She said Ben’s car was running on fumes. She said she was allergic to cats and the cat next door kept sneaking inside and she needed more sinus medicine. She said that Ben had offered to drive to the drugstore. Since it was almost half-time, she didn’t want Ben to stop, fill his car with gas, and miss the third quarter.”
“Damn! It’s so obvious. Patty invented that convenient story, drove home, killed Wylie, and drove back.”
“No, she didn’t. During half-time we finally crowned her Queen. She was supposed to be Queen of the Reunion, but she left the dance so suddenly Saturday night, we decided to hold her coronation on Sunday. It was Dwight’s idea. Tad Mallard played the piano while I crowned Patty. Then Patty sang ‘Moon River’ and danced on top of the bar. Junior Hartsel shot a video. The third quarter began, but nobody cared. Patty was magic. She shined like a bright star. Then she went to the bathroom.”
“How long was she inside the bathroom?”
“Seven or eight minutes, maybe less. Then she returned my keys and sat down next to Ben.”
“Think carefully, Alice. Are you absolutely certain Patty was only gone seven or eight minutes?”
“I’m positive. Dwight kept asking me the time.”
“Why?”
“He had an appointment, a new prospect. That’s one reason why we drove separate cars. You know the other reason, Ingrid, but you crossed your heart and—”
“Dwight left before the game ended?”
“No. The Broncos started scoring, catching up, so he called and canceled his appointment.”
I pictured Dwight’s muscular forearm and the watch he sported so proudly. It was an expensive watch, the kind with multiple time zones, a gift from Our Gang, purchased after the car crash. “Why did Dwight ask you the time, Alice? Is his watch broken?”
“No. He scratched his wrist, poor thing, so he couldn’t wear it. The band buckle hurt. He said it felt funny on his other wrist. You know men, Ingrid. They’re such babies, even Wylie. Wylie cried the first time we did it, last year, in New York. He said it was such a beautiful experience, almost mythical, like the unicorns on my window. I flew to Manhattan once a month and had my hair done. That way I could meet Wy—”
“How did Dwight scratch his wrist?” The question came from nowhere, but I didn’t want to hear any more about The Adventures of Alice and Wylie. Enough is enough, to quote Ben.
“Dwight said he gashed it on one of our new cabinets. They aren’t sandpapered yet. I caught a splinter myself, ouch, ouch. That reminds me. The workmen are due back from their lunch break, so we’ll have to leave the kitchen soon.” She blotted her lips again. “Dwight never loved me, Ingrid. He married me for my money.”
“Why did you marry him?”
“I was scared to have sex. Isn’t that silly? I mean, once I had done it…” For the first time, she blushed. “We should leave the kitchen now.”
“One more question, Alice, a Wylie riddle. How do you make a statue of an elephant?”
“Oh, that’s easy. Cut away everything that doesn’t look like an elephant.”
Rats! I should have called Alice immediately and saved myself a lot of wondering. But I had called. She had hung up, sick to her stomach. Delayed reaction? Had she bopped Wylie over the head and blocked it out, just like her first-floor suicide leap? No way! Why kill the man who had dropped his trunks and removed her panties, not to mention her fear of sex?
Which brought me back to step one, the afternoon of the murder. If Patty borrowed Alice’s car keys, then stuck around to get herself crowned Queen, who the hell did she hand the keys over to? Tad was playing the piano. Junior was shooting a video. Thanks to Preacher Starbuck, Dwight could stand, but he couldn’t walk or drive Alice’s BMW. Dwight’s van di
dn’t have pedals. Everything was located on the dash or steering column.
That left Ben.
Maybe Patty really was allergic to Sinead. Maybe Ben really did drive to the drugstore. So how come Alice’s car ended up in Wylie’s driveway?
Suppose Patty gave the keys to someone who wasn’t on my suspect list? Woody said that Wylie said that Patty committed adultery. Right here in good old Colorado Springs. And that starts with C and that rhymes with P and that stands for paramour. Suppose Mr. P was at the Dew Drop Inn? There was only one way to find out.
“Alice, may I use your phone?”
“Of course.” She nodded toward her wall extension, an authentic reproduction of a nineteen-sixty-something Corvette. “I ordered my phone from Home Shopping. Isn’t it cute? Ingrid, watch out! Gosh darn, I warned you.”
I stared down at my hand, which had brushed against a cabinet. One humongous splinter almost crucified my palm.
“I’ll fetch my tweezers,” said Alice. “Don’t move.”
Moving quickly, I yanked out the splinter and ran to the phone. Telephone number, telephone number, I thought. I can’t remember the damn telephone number.
A pad dangled from the Corvette’s base. On the pad, underlined, was Patty Jamestone’s phone number. At least, in that respect, Alice was predictable. Miss Organized.
Patty answered on the second ring, as if she had been expecting an important call.
“I’m driving over right now,” I said, “so don’t you dare leave.”
“Why would I leave? I’m glad you’re coming. I could use some help. This Wylie memorial thing is getting complicated. I’ve invited so many celebs, Ingrid, and I can’t find hotel or motel accommodations for them. There’s some sort of bicycle competition at the Olympic Center, and most of the reunion gang stayed for Wylie’s service or to mingle with celebs, who knows? Anyway, I’ve been going nuts.” She sneezed. “That damnfool cat keeps sneaking inside. I boarded up the doggie door, but she’s found another entrance. The basement has an open window. It’s stuck. Hold on. I need some Kleenex.”
Okay, so maybe she was allergic.
“I’ve decided to sing ‘Moon River,’ ”Patty continued between nose-blows, “so you can sing Janis.”
“No, I can’t.”
“Your Stewie bullshit? Don’t be stupid, Ing. You sang at the reunion dance.”
“I’ve had the flu, Patty, and my throat’s raw.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Please hurry over. I’ll be waiting.”
“See you later, alligator.”
“After a while, crocodile.”
“Never smile at a crocodile,” I said automatically, then pumped the Corvette’s cradle.
Alice returned while I was talking into my machine, leaving a message for Ben. Where was he? Sleeping? Jogging?
“I finally found the tweezers,” said Alice. “Gosh, Ingrid, your hand is bleeding. Would you like a bandage?”
“No, thanks.” Cautiously, I approached the sink and ran cold water over my scratch. “See? All better.”
“Why don’t you stay for supper? Dwight probably won’t get home until late. We can watch TV, the Home Shopping Network. We can buy stuff at a discount and put everything on our credit cards.”
“My credit cards were stolen.”
“They were? Bummer. Who stole them?”
“I don’t know. If I did, I’d get them back.”
“Maybe they got lost, Ingrid. I thought I lost mine, but Dwight found them beneath the car’s floor mat. I guess they fell out of my purse when I hit my brakes last Sunday, on the way to the Dew Drop Inn. A stupid cat darted across the street and my purse fell off the seat. Remember the bumper sticker I had on my last car? I brake for Unicorns? Gosh, it was cute.”
“My credit cards weren’t lost, Alice, and that’s a fact.”
I watched her reaction. If she blotted her lips on invisible tissue, it would express guilt. But she didn’t blot.
“You can charge stuff to Dwight and pay him back,” she said with enthusiasm. “I’ve done that before, charged stuff to Dwight, so they have his credit card number on file. Even if they don’t, I have it written down someplace. Please stay.”
“I’d love to stay, really, but I have to help Patty with Wylie’s memorial service. Anyway, that shopping club’s a scam. They offer bargain prices, but charge for postage and handling.”
“Fair is fair, Ingrid. They can’t send things for free.”
“It’s the handling, Alice. They can charge whatever they damn well please for handling.”
“Oh. That never occurred to me.”
It occurred to me that Alice was very lonely, and I was glad she had finally consummated with Wylie. After all, he hadn’t charged her for handling.
Or had he?
Chapter Twenty-One
See you later, alligator. After a while, crocodile. Never smile at a croc—
Wylie’s treasure hunt was a crock!
His clues had deliberately led me to Alice, there was no doubt in my mind. But why?
Hitchcock barked. Jeep swerved and I grasped the steering wheel for dear life. Hitchcock settled down. Jeep straightened out. My thoughts didn’t.
Why would Wylie lead me to Alice? Because he had surmised, correctly, that Alice would brag about their affair. Which would lead me, in a roundabout way, to Patty’s affair. But why didn’t Wylie simply clue me in on Mr. Paramour?
Because he didn’t know Mr. P’s identity!
How could he not know? Easy as baneberry pie. Patty had been very sneaky, just like Kim’s cat. Wylie had demanded that Patty clean up her act. In a sense, he had boarded up the doggie door. But Patty had found a new entrance. Which probably meant that she was still boffing Mr. P.
Sing sing a song. Think loud. Think strong. Think of good things. Raggedy Ann gives good head. So does the merry widow. Kim had sneaked inside and watched. Watched who? Dex the Chauffeur. But Kim had seen others, at least from the outside. A guy in a wheelchair, a balding nerd who wore a high school jock jack, an Indian—
Doctor Ben.
I remembered telling Cee-Cee that doctors heal sick animals, and I heard her reply, clear as a dog’s bark. “Doctors kill.”
Could Dr. B be Mr. P? Or was Mr. P Mr. D?
Mister Dex, that is.
Dex seemed the type to eat and run, unless he found himself a tasty, expensive morsel. Dex was blond, arrogant, young. Patty was addicted to youth, especially her own. Could she have talked Dex into killing Wylie? It was possible. It happened all the time. Just watch TV. This movie is based on a true story, inspired by a true event. It’s about a beautiful older woman who talks her young lover into killing her rich, successful husband.
Starring Patty and Dex?
The wheelchair guy and balding nerd had motives, too, especially the balding nerd. What about the Indian? A Vegas gambler would put all his chips on Ben, if Ben had boffed pretty Patty. Come seven, come eleven, come Cassidy.
With that last thought, I turned into Patty’s driveway. The media crowd had vanished. Nasty weather? Or were they accumulating juicy tidbits from other sources?
Hitchcock looked mournful.
“All right, you dumb mutt. Patty might bitch, but she doesn’t have white carpeting, and if you behave, she might let you stay. Heel!”
Hitchcock didn’t know my heel from a hole in the ground, but he trotted by my side. I thunked the brass door knocker and heard Tonto’s frenetic backyard-bark. Hitchcock barked back.
Patty answered on the third thunk. She wore black tailored slacks and a pale pink turtleneck sweater. Her feet were bare, except for the toenail polish that matched her lipstick and sweater. “Hi, Ing,” she said cheerfully. “Long time, no see.”
“Speaking of long-time-no-see, where did all those noxious newshounds go?”
“They’re staked out at the Broadmoor. My celebs have begun to arrive. Dylan and two Pauls—McCartney and Simon. Remember Wylie’s portrait of Paul Simon?”
“Sure.”
Wylie had painted Simon sitting on a pony. Strands from the pony’s mane fanned backwards until they became guitar strings. The canvas was titled Slow Down, You Move Too Fast, and Paul Simon’s blurb stated: THE PUBLIC HUNGERS TO SEE TALENTED YOUNG PEOPLE KILL THEMSELVES.
Entering the foyer, I heard Hitchcock’s nails click. They needed pruning badly.
“Speaking of hounds,” said Patty, “why did you bring yours?”
“I’ve been neglecting him lately. Besides, you didn’t seem to mind when your so-called prowler lurked.”
“What do you mean so-called?”
“Why beat around the bush, Patty?” I hung my jacket inside the closet, next to her mink coat. “There was no prowler.”
Her cheerful facade evaporated. “I see that your sweatshirt is outside-in this time, pet. You’re the only person I know who wears sweatshirts and jeans for all occasions.”
“This isn’t exactly an occasion.”
“I hope you wear something dressier for Wylie’s memorial service. A dress, maybe.”
“Wow, Patty, you sound like my mother!”
Unperturbed by the unflattering comparison, she glanced toward Hitchcock. “If he barks, he’s history. If you bark, you’re history. I’m in no mood to play scavenger hunt.”
“Treasure hunt.”
“Whatever. Wylie’s so-called clues led you to me, right?”
“Did you kill him, Patty?”
“No,” she said as we entered the kitchen. “I was at the Dew Drop, and I can prove it.”
“Did you follow me to Texas last Wednesday?”
“What were you doing in Texas?”
“Mousing. Somebody trailed me to Clear Lake City, Texas, then left a knife and—never mind. All I know is that you weren’t here. Ben tried to get in touch with you.”
“Why would I follow you, Ingrid?”
I gazed at her pink lipstick. But she had other shades. Peach. Mauve. Light red. Medium red. Dark red.
“Maybe you wanted to scare me, Patty. Maybe you felt that I was on the verge of solving Wylie’s murder.”
“Maybe I spent last Wednesday with Alice.”
“Did you?”
“Yes. Dwight was gone on business. Alice and I watched some stupid shopping show on TV. Oh God, you’ve raised your eyebrow, and I know what that means. Look, I spent Wednesday night with Alice, cross my heart and hope to die.”
