by Denise Dietz
I believed her. Patty had changed a lot, but she wouldn’t cross her heart and hope to die without fearing repercussions. Her childhood rite was sacred. Besides, it would be such a simple matter to verify her story. One phone call. “Did you spend last Wednesday night with Patty, Alice?” “Yes, I did, Ingrid. Why do you ask?”
So Patty had spent the night with Alice, and that eliminated Alice. Dwight was confined to a wheelchair and Ben was at the Broadmoor Hotel. There were no more leaves on my clover.
It’s time to stray, it’s time to stray. The words reverberated inside my skull. Maybe the Chicago matchbook didn’t mean anything. Maybe Patty had simply enticed an admirer to follow me, scare me.
Who?
Junior Hartsel?
Dex the Chauffeur?
I recalled something Ben had said yesterday—was it only yesterday? Ben had said that Patty possessed Junior’s telephone number, inside a purse-sized directory. Why would perfect Patty carry a mediocre man’s number around? Ben’s number, yes. Johnny Depp’s number, definitely. Why Junior Hartsel?
Ask her! No. Maybe she’d let something slip, even though Patty never let her slips show. They always reached the hem of her skirts and stopped, and she’d never bunched the waistbands beneath her belt. Patty always looked like a million bucks. From hat to shoes, everything matched.
I had another memory nudge, like a pinprick, like the one I had felt with Ben; the nudge that eventually led to Kim and caged. But I couldn’t get a clear picture. It had something to do with everything matched.
Patty’s kitchen table was paved with sympathy cards and telegrams. Plants, flowers, nosegays and stuffed elephants perched atop every surface. The flora was traditional. The elephants were probably from people who had known Wylie well. Which precipitated my next question.
“This isn’t a bark, Patty, but how did Wylie know about your lover?”
“He didn’t.”
“Baloney! Wylie—”
“Didn’t know who he was.”
I walked over to the refrigerator. If I opened it, would I find footprints in the butter? What kind of prints? Chauffeur shoes? Football cleats? Nikes?
“Patty,” I said, “aren’t you mildly curious? I mean, you didn’t even blink when I mentioned—”
“My affair?” She shrugged. “Haven’t you read the stats, Ing? Everyone screws around. Didn’t you cheat on Bingo?”
Sarcasm, always close to the surface, escalated. “I thought about it, but most of the time I was just too damn tired.”
“Yeah. It must be exhausting to sit at your piano and doodle songs.”
Doodle songs? Ouch! “It must be even more exhausting to shop for jewelry and dead weasels.” When she looked puzzled, I said, “Dead minks, Patty.”
“Not exhausting, Ingrid, tedious. So I shopped for a lover, instead.”
“Wylie discovered your affair, that’s a fact. But how come he didn’t discover your afairee?”
She laughed. “I suppose I’m the afairer.”
“How come, Patty?”
“I covered my doo-doo, Ing, like a cat in a litter box.”
Hitchcock’s ears levitated at the word cat. Since it wasn’t preceded by chase the, he flopped down with his head between his paws.
“Define covered,” I said.
“Wylie’s private eye was a woman. Equal opportunity and all that crap. She must do very well, since she opted to lease a brand new Cadillac and dined at the Briarhurst Manor.”
“Damn! Hit ladies and women detectives! Mickey Spillane is definitely an ambulatory anachronism.”
“A what?”
“Nothing. Go on.”
“It’s really quite simple. I dined at the Briarhurst too, and made certain that Wylie’s P.I. saw me rub against the wrong man. And please don’t ask me to define wrong man.”
“Junior Hartsel.”
Patty finally looked startled. Brushing a few stray cards from a chair, she sat. “How did you know?”
“Ben heard Junior say something about making it real. He was hustling you at the time and—”
“Wasn’t Wylie stupid? As if I could sleep with that chickenshit has been.”
“Which chickenshit has been did you sleep with, Patty?”
“That’s a bark, pet.”
I strolled over to a window and glanced through the glass at the gray poplars and green firs. Last Monday, clutching Doris Day, I had felt branches whip my face, but I couldn’t see the forest for the trees. Now it was time to chop down some tree stems.
“Patty, how do you make a statue of an elephant?”
“Find a big piece of stone and cut away everything that doesn’t look like an elephant. Why?”
“Wylie told me that riddle Saturday night. I thought it might be a clue.”
“Big deal, Ingrid. Wylie always told idiotic elephant jokes.” She nodded toward a few stuffed animals. “He simply refused to grow up.”
I pictured Wylie’s Doris Day. The frightening thing about middle-age is the knowledge that you’ll outgrow it. Okay, who didn’t want to grow up?
Wylie, but he was the deadee, so he didn’t count.
Patty wanted to grow, but she didn’t want to age. There’s a big difference.
Junior was still living in those wonderful days of yesteryear, when he had scored big, especially with girls.
What about Dwight? Had he really adjusted or did he still picture himself as the swift-footed football hero? Leading the Broncos to their umpteenth Superbowl championship?
And let’s not forget Tad. When she glanced into a mirror, did she see the quintessential cheerleader? Then, after Wylie had shattered her illusions, did she reciprocate by shattering Wylie’s skull?
Alice had been a grownup before we’d all caught up. Yet, conversely, she had always been extremely childish, almost goose-silly. She had even called Wylie’s apartment a beatnik pad, long after beatniks had evolved into hippies.
Holy crap! Wylie’s apartment!
A light bulb materialized above my head. I could actually see it. I could also see the naked bulb attached to a chain that had swung down from Wylie’s ceiling. We used to call it his Film Noire bulb, because it captured the wispy waves from our cigarette and dope smoke, and because it cast nifty shadows across Wylie’s old, shabby furniture.
His wall cracks had been covered by posters. One stated that war was unhealthy for children and other living things. Behind each poster lived roaches, the cock kind, not the clip kind.
Why would Wylie rent a roach-infested, dilapidated rattrap? Because, he said, it was cheap and still possessed its original fireplace. Above the fireplace was a mantel. On the mantel perched a statue.
A statue of an elephant?
Nope.
A statue of Patty.
In our senior year Wylie had tried his hand at sculpting. An artist, he said, should be able to work in any medium. I disagreed. I couldn’t create an opera, I said. But Wylie was always so stubborn. He wouldn’t accept reasonable doubt and chose to sculpt The Four Leaf Clovers for his first project. It was ambitious. It was dreadful. Mainly because he had taken a piece of stone and cut away everything that didn’t look like a Clover.
Undaunted, Wylie cast a mold. Better, but no cigar.
Frustrated, he chopped off Sunshine, then Rain, then Rose, until all that remained was adorable Patty.
A more mature, adorable Patty sat on the edge of her chair. Her expression was difficult to decipher, but I sensed she wanted to feed me honey vanilla Häagen Dazs atop a slice of baneberry pie. Finally she said, “Cat got your tongue, Ingrid?”
Hitchcock lifted his head and glanced my way.
“Good dog,” I said, watching his tail sweep croissant crumbs toward a nearby trash can. “Patty, remember Wylie’s first and only attempt at statuary?”
“Sure. Wylie molded you, Ben and Stewie from scratch. For me, he cheated and covered a Barbie doll with plaster of Paris.”
“No wonder you looked perfect while the rest of us l
ooked like blobs.” I took a deep breath. “Why did you hire someone to kill Wylie?”
“I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did. The painting. The riddle. The statue. It had to be you, wonderful you.”
“That’s a nasty bark, Ingrid. Get out of my house.”
“It’s not your house. The fortune cookies, right?”
“What fortune cookies?”
“I know all about Wylie’s fortune cookie company. Wylie was throwing his money down the drain and you must have been royally pissed.”
“The truth? I was more than pissed.”
She scowled, and I watched, amazed, as her features merged into a butterfly’s elongated larva. Patty looked like a caterpillar trapped inside a rainbow-colored flame, and I sincerely doubted that anybody in their right mind would crown her queen of anything.
Correction. They’d crown her Queen of the Moths.
Wylie was courting death like a moth drawn to a flame.
“If you didn’t act quickly,” I said, “there’d be no money left to launch your damn movie career.”
Rising, she walked toward the refrigerator, opened it, and retrieved a plastic-wrapped plate. I expected to see butter filled with footprints, I really did, but Patty extended her arm and I saw tortellini.
Her scowl twisted into a smile. “How do you kill tortellini, Ingrid?”
“I don’t know. How?”
“Spray them with pastacide.”
“God, that’s terrible. Another Wylie riddle?”
“Of course.” Patty fed the plate to the refrigerator and slammed its door. “My late husband was a pest, and I’m not talking nuisance. I’m talking plague. Let’s just say that I needed a pesticide, an agent to destroy—”
“Who was your agent? Junior Hartsel?”
“Are you serious? Junior couldn’t kill a fly. He hasn’t got the guts. I promised Junior the cookie company if he would pretend to be my lover. I told him I would divorce Wylie and ask for the company as part of my settlement.”
“But you signed a prenuptial agreement.”
“How the hell do you know that?”
“Woody Jamestone. The reason why I flew to Texas.”
“My goodness, pet, you have been a busy bee.”
Something snapped. Something inside my head zub-zubbed. Busy bee? I had been manipulated by a master puppeteer, a dead puppeteer no less. I had put my life on hold, when all I wanted to do was hold Ben, love Ben, and doodle songs.
“Yes!” I shouted. “Wylie led me on a merry chase, which finally ended with the merry widow.”
My boots were made for walking. They stomped toward Patty.
She retreated, until her back pressed against the refrigerator door.
“Okay,” I said. “You’re right, of course. Junior hasn’t got the guts. Who was your agent, Patty? Dex?”
“What’s a Dex?”
She looked agitated. No, frightened.
“Don’t play dumb,” I said. “Hitler’s youth, the boy next door, Kim’s chauffeur. Kim sneaked through the doggie door and saw you with Dex. What were her exact words? Oh yes, I remember. ‘Raggedy gives good head. So does the merry widow.’ ”
“I don’t…don’t know what you’re talk…talking about,” Patty stammered.
“It doesn’t matter. I’m tired of playing sleuth. I didn’t want the job in the first place. I hate mysteries. I don’t even like riddles any more. So I think I’ll let the police tie up loose ends.”
She shook her thick braid. “Fiddle-de-dee, as Scarlett would say. A painting of Doris Day? An elephant joke? An old Barbie statue? The cops will laugh. You haven’t got one shred of proof, pet.”
“Because you covered your doo-doo?”
“Exactly.”
“Not exactly, pet, since you stupidly forgot to empty the litter box before taking another dump.”
“Define dump,” she mimicked.
“The fortune cookie fiasco. Your secret affair. Alice Shaw Cooper’s car.”
“What?”
“Bingo saw Alice’s BMW parked in your driveway, just before Wylie was murdered. Alice said she loaned you her car keys, and I believe her.”
“Bingo? When did Bingo hit Colorado Springs? And what was he doing in this posh neighborhood?”
“Long story. Let’s just say that Bingo has a rather intimate relationship with the police department and can be reached at a moment’s notice. Meanwhile, the cops can question reunionites, discover exactly who was missing during your Dew Drop coronation. The crowning took place after you borrowed Alice’s car keys, right? Junior shot a video. Maybe he captured your little key exchange on tape. Maybe someone saw you hand them over to the killer. That’s a humongous dump, Patty.”
“You’re crazy. Junior didn’t shoot his video until later, and everybody was watching the Broncos. It was their two-minute drill, just before half-time. John Elway kept throwing the ball, completing passes. Nobody watched me.”
“Wrong! Somebody always watches you. They can’t help it. You have a mystique, Patty, like perfume, and Elway’s passes wouldn’t mean anything to someone who was contemplating his own pass.”
“Ingrid’s right, you know.”
I whirled about and gasped.
While Patty and I had been busy snapping at each other, a man had entered the kitchen. His upper lip sneered and his eyes glittered with anger. He held a gun, but it was pointed at Patty, not me.
“Why did you screw the chauffeur?” he said.
“What chauffeur?”
“Knock it off. I’ve been sitting outside the kitchen door. Tell me why, Patty. You’d better make it quick and you’d better make it good.”
“I did it for you, darling.”
“That’s such a crock.”
“No, really, listen!” she cried, desperation straining her perfect, swan-arched neck. “I thought I could talk Dex into killing Wylie, so you wouldn’t have to.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
It felt strange to be right and wrong at the same time. I had guessed correctly that Patty would try and talk Dex into killing Wylie. I hadn’t guessed, however, that he’d say thanks but no thanks. Which was what Patty was telling the man who sat just inside the kitchen entrance.
Falling to her knees, she wrung her hands. “I did it for you, Dwight, honest.”
He placed the gun in his lap and wheeled his chair forward. His legs were clad in jeans. His white shirt was rolled up above his muscular forearms. He halted to flex his fingers, and I could discern deep scratches. Cabinets, hell! Those scratches were caused by claws. Sinead!
Since I was bothered, to put it mildly, I said the first thing that popped into my head. “Why did the cat scratch your wrist, Dwight?”
“I was getting rid of fingerprints when I dropped the damn statue,” he said ruefully. “It bounced off the cat. She hissed and clawed me when I tried to pick it up. She was a Stephen King cat, Ingrid, and that’s no joke.”
“Speaking of jokes, how does an elephant sink a submarine?” Dwight and Patty just stared at me. “He knocks on the door. You knocked on the door, Dwight. Wylie answered and offered to show you his newest painting, Charles Manson. That sounds like Wylie. He wanted praise, or maybe he thought you had found out about Alice and he wanted forgiveness.”
“Alice? Forgiveness?”
“You entered the studio and saw the statue,” I said quickly, hoping to cover my faux pas. Although at this stage of the game, it didn’t really matter. “What a great weapon, you thought, much better than a knife or whatever you’d brought along. But how on earth did you manage to reach Wylie’s head? Did he bend down or something?”
“No. I just—”
“Dwight, shut up!”
“Why? You’ve already spilled the beans, Patty.”
“Don’t be silly. Ingrid can’t prove anything.” On her feet once again, Patty fastidiously brushed croissant crumbs from her slacks. “We were very careful, darling, remember? Nobody saw me drop the car keys in your lap. Anyway
, cops have never believed Ingrid Beaumont, alias Rose Stewart.”
“I didn’t mean Ingrid.”
“Dex? He won’t say boo. I promised to fly him to the coast and arrange an audition.”
“Which coast? What kind of audition? Porn flicks?”
While they argued, I kept staring at the gun, probably the same gun Patty had mentioned on the phone while talking to Ben. If I grabbed the gun, Dwight couldn’t chase me. He was confined to his chair. What about Patty? My size twelve body could handle Patty’s size six.
Darting forward, I grabbed the gun. It was almost too easy.
Patty laughed. “You don’t scare me, pet,” she said. “You’re a pacifist.”
“I’ve sold out and become a Republican. They adore guns.”
“Wisecracker!”
We all turned our faces toward the back door. Alice entered. Before anybody could react, she had pried the gun from my hand.
“You’re such a wisecracker, Ingrid,” she said. “You’re not a Republican, but I am. You couldn’t shoot anyone, but I can. Do you know where Wylie’s murder weapon came from, Dwight? You have three guesses.”
“Alice…”
“That’s right. Me. I gave Wylie the statue. I ordered it from the Home Shopping Network. By the way, Ingrid, you’re absolutely right. They charge too much for handling. But it was worth the expense. Wylie loved his statue. He said it reminded him of his sister, Woody.”
Dwight’s brow glistened with perspiration and his eyes looked stricken. “What are you doing here, Alice?”
“I was watching TV when I remembered something I told Ingrid. You found my credit cards inside the BMW last Sunday. But how could you, Dwight? We didn’t drive any place together. So that meant you borrowed my car, after Patty borrowed my keys. My guess is that you asked someone to drive you during Patty’s coronation. You probably said you planned to ‘kidnap’ Wylie. Why shouldn’t he be at the Dew Drop with the rest of the gang? Then you killed him and told your driver Wylie wouldn’t leave.”
“That’s a stupid guess,” said Patty. “The police questioned the reunion participants, even the ones who returned home after Sunday’s football game. You gave the police a detailed list, Alice. Remember?”
