Footprints in the Butter

by Denise Dietz

  She chewed her bottom lip, uncertain. Then she said, “Ingrid left my house because she wanted to help you with Wylie’s memorial service. But that’s my forte. I can plan a celebration better than anybody.”

  “Celebration?” I said, totally bemused by the sight of Alice comfortably holding the gun, as if she held her TV’s remote. At the same time, I silently cursed myself for missing the lost credit cards clue. “Celebration, Alice?”

  “Wylie loved parties. The prom. Stewie’s wake. The reunion dance.”

  “Wylie didn’t love the reunion dance,” I said. “It reminded him of growing old.”

  “Now he doesn’t have to grow old. Should we have a wake, Patty? I think we should have a wake. We can hang black and white streamers with black elephant cut-outs, and maybe we could hire one of those striptease dancers, costumed as Death.”

  I was beginning to enjoy Alice’s vision because I had a feeling Wylie would have appreciated the decor, especially when Death stripped down to her thong panties and garter belt.

  “What a shame Dwight and Patty can’t attend your wake,” I said. “They’ve both just admitted they planned Wylie’s murder together. Did you hear them, Alice?”

  She nodded.

  “The cops might not believe me,” I said, “but they’ll believe both of us.”

  Patty pounded on the refrigerator with her fists. “Shit!” she shouted. “Everything’s going wrong. It’s not supposed to happen this way. Wylie is dead, and his paintings are worth a fortune, and the two Pauls are in town, not to mention a bunch of other celebs, and I figured a movie was just around the corner. I wouldn’t expect a starring role, I’m not greedy, maybe a small but pivotal part…”

  Despite Patty’s histrionics, I heard Hitchcock growl. The growl wasn’t threatening, more like puzzled. Hitchcock knew that Alice and Dwight were both friend. However, he didn’t know the difference between a gun and gum, so the gun hadn’t caused his growl.

  Patty continued pounding. I was standing between Patty and Alice, watching Patty pound. Alice stood slightly behind me, clutching the gun, mesmerized by Patty.

  With an effort, I drew my gaze away from Patty and glanced at Hitchcock. Then I followed Hitchcock’s gaze.

  An empty wheelchair, slowly gliding backwards, had caused the puzzled growl.

  “Alice, watch out!”

  Too late. Dwight had approached from behind, clasped his wife in a bear hug, and lifted her off the floor.

  Alice dropped the gun. It fell, landing where her feet had been planted.

  Dwight kicked the gun across the kitchen. I couldn’t move. Surprised by Dwight’s sudden recovery, I shouted the first thing that came to mind. “Biscuit, Hitchcock!”

  Hitchcock eagerly bounded forward, skidded to a halt, sniffed, then lifted his fuzzy muzzle. His expression seemed to suggest that I was bonkers. Furthermore, he didn’t care for the gun’s odor.

  “Bone, Hitchcock, bury the bone!” Absurdly, I began to explain. “There’s a doggie door. No, the doggie door’s been boarded up. Okay, there’s an open window in the base—”

  “It’s a miracle!” Alice’s voice cut across my demented plea. “You can walk, Dwight.”

  “Of course he can walk,” said Patty. Cautiously, she approached Hitchcock, hunkered down, gave him a few tentative head taps, and retrieved the gun. “Dwight can do other things even better,” she added with an exaggerated wink.

  “Starbuck,” breathed Alice, as Dwight finally released her.

  “Screw Starbuck! I may be an ex-jock, but I’m not stupid. Do you honestly believe I’d spend thousands of dollars on an evangelist?”

  “Then how did you get cured?” Alice said.

  “Acupuncture.”

  “You’re kidding,” I said.

  “No, I’m not.” Liberating a Camel from the pack that rested between the folds of his shirt sleeve, he tapped his pockets as though searching for matches. Then he tossed his unlit cigarette toward the sink. “My brain had been bruised during the accident, and my injury was in that part of my brain that controlled my legs. All I had to do was energize my brain.”

  “I think I like Starbuck better,” I murmured.

  “You can’t argue with success, Ingrid. The whole thing started when I made an appointment to sell an acupuncturist life insurance. He said he was pragmatic, but that theoretically it was possible to resolve my problem with acupuncture. I didn’t believe him, until he told me stories about miraculous cures. He mentioned protons and electrons. He said the body was a magnet. He suggested I picture my brain as a spider’s web with a hole in it. The hole had been repaired, but my vibrating apparatus was out of whack. To make a long story short, he promised to stimulate my brain.”

  “I guess it’s like a woman stimulating a penis, huh Dwight?”

  “Only if she had needle-sharp teeth, Ing.”

  Dwight sounded like our old high school bud, the kid whose neck was too thick for button-down collars, the kid who was embarrassed to ace English and math because his teammates were barely passing, the kid who had carried me to an emergency room after I slipped on a patch of ice and broke my arm.

  Now I knew why Dwight’s eyes had appeared so zombie-like during the reunion dance, why he “sulked.” He had been contemplating Wylie’s murder, due to take place the next afternoon.

  “Oh, God,” I moaned. “Why did you ruin everything by killing Wylie?”

  Stupid question. I knew the answer. Somebody I adore.

  Dwight had adored Patty. Ben was Sunshine and Stewie was Rain, but Dwight had been Nightfall, stygian gloom, the time when worms come out.

  My elusive memory nudge pricked. I pictured Alice’s vestibule, the hat rack with a black Stetson hanging from one rung. Looking down, I saw that the hat matched Dwight’s black-tooled, leather boots. “Did you follow me to Texas and play cowboy, Dwight?”

  “Don’t say another word,” Patty warned.

  “Why? It’s all over now.” He shrugged. “I followed you, Ingrid. It was all her idea.” He pointed toward a furious Patty. “I was supposed to ransack your house and leave that message on your bathroom mirror, a kind of Charles Manson bit. In fact, Patty got the idea from Wylie’s painting.” Dwight shrugged again. “I saw you leave with a suitcase, so I followed you to the Colorado Springs Airport and called Patty. She said you’d never recognize me if I wore a cowboy hat and was very careful, because people never saw what they didn’t expect to see, so you’d never see me without my wheelchair.”

  I glanced toward Patty. “You bitch!”

  “I bought my hat at the airport,” Dwight continued. “Then I flew to Houston, first class. I watched you rent a car, rented one of my own from the same discount agency, then trailed you to Clear Lake City. It was easy. The traffic crawled. I stayed a couple of car lengths behind, and didn’t let anybody enter my lane. When you checked into that motel, I called Alice and spoke to Patty. She said to proceed with the original plan. Then I saw the souvenir counter…” He shrugged for the third time.

  “Okay,” I said thoughtfully. “The knife was your idea, but the lipstick was Patty’s. True?”

  “Of course. I don’t ordinarily carry lipstick around. I was supposed to use it on your bathroom mirror.”

  “Why write that bit about straying?”

  “The Clover’s intro line means it’s time to leave, but Wylie strayed. He was a damn wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

  “He was not,” Alice said indignantly.

  We all ignored her. “The matchbook cover,” I prodded.

  “What matchbook cover?”

  “You left matches behind, Dwight. They were from the Palmer House Hilton. Chicago.”

  “Oh. Did I? Patty and I met there. We both flew to Chicago and—”

  “Wait a sec! How come Wylie’s private eye didn’t report your assignation?”

  “We bribed her,” Patty said, her voice smug. “After she ratted on Junior and me, Dwight and I confronted her in Chicago. We wined and dined her, and offere
d her Starbuck’s fee.”

  I remembered Alice’s words. Dwight went away last summer. He heard about this Midwestern preacher.

  “When Stewie died,” said Dwight, “I wanted to marry Patty. But what could I give her?”

  “You could give her love,” I said, then mentally kicked my butt. What a pat answer. What a non-Patty answer.

  “Wylie was a bastard,” Dwight continued, sidestepping my love remark. “You have no idea, Ingrid. Wylie had his groupies and cheated on Patty at every opportunity.”

  I glanced at Alice. Groupie? She looked more like a guilty guppy.

  “He abused her,” said Dwight.

  Patty had the grace to blush. Because, I thought wryly, Wylie’s abuse probably consisted of his refusal to buy her that coveted movie career.

  “Enough, darling.” Patty nodded toward Alice and me. “They don’t have to hear every detail.”

  But Dwight couldn’t be stopped. It was as if he had energized his tongue as well as his legs.

  “Patty said to keep my recovery a secret. That way nobody would suspect me. How could a crippled man kill Wylie?”

  I had been partially right. Again. The perfect murder, masterminded by perfect Patty, committed by a paralyzed person rather than a dead one. In retrospect, my Stewie theory didn’t sound so ridiculous any more.

  “Alice caught me standing,” Dwight continued, “so I made up that bit about Starbuck. Burt Lancaster played a con man in a movie called The Rainmaker. Patty and I once watched it on TV, after we made love.”

  Part brag, part groan, Dwight’s last four words slipped out of his mouth like a greased pig at a state fair. Except Dwight’s words and the image they evoked weren’t laughable. I, for one, don’t find greased pigs funny.

  “You buffed Patty? There’s no Starbuck?” Alice’s voice sounded raspy. “Where did all the money go? Preacher Starbuck wouldn’t accept personal checks or credit cards,” she added, unnecessarily.

  “Wylie’s detective,” said Dwight, “and the acupuncturist. His services didn’t come cheap.”

  I had a feeling the acupuncturist was just another Starbuck, but I mentally zipped my lips shut.

  “I didn’t think I’d have the courage to murder Wylie in cold blood,” Dwight admitted somewhat dolefully, as if maybe it wasn’t macho to acknowledge that particular flaw. “But then I learned about the prom.” His eyes glittered. “Did you know that Wylie spiked the punch and challenged me to a drinking contest on purpose, hoping I’d crash my car?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Bullshit!” Alice shouted. She’d heard enough defamation and was defending her lover.

  Due to my afternoon session with Alice, I was immune, but Dwight and Patty glanced around the kitchen, searching for a hidden ventriloquist.

  With their attention temporarily diverted, I made a run for Patty’s gun.

  We wrestled. Dwight joined us. Alice didn’t, and I felt my strength waning.

  Then I saw it. Her. Sinead. Entering from the basement stairwell, sauntering across the kitchen, she headed straight for legs. Because she was hungry and the leg trick had worked before with Jeff-the-Thief. Cats are smart. They remember little things like that. Or maybe it was instinct. In any case, Sinead chose Dwight’s legs.

  “Cat, Hitchcock!” I screamed. “Chase the cat!”

  Hitchcock didn’t hesitate. Jeep had apparently taught him what a cat looked like, or maybe it was instinct. Hitchcock bounded toward us, a shaggy black avenger.

  When the dust settled, a spiky-furred Sinead sat on top of the kitchen counter, hiding behind a huge stuffed elephant. Hitchcock had his front paws on the counter. Patty looked dazed. Dwight was sprawled on the floor. And I held the gun.

  “Alice,” I said, “call the police.”

  She didn’t have to. Lieutenant Peter Miller entered the kitchen, slightly after the nick of time. He was followed by his partner, Shannon LeJeune, and Ben.

  “Did you just happen to be in Patty Jamestone’s neighborhood?” I asked, handing Miller the gun.

  “Not exactly,” he replied.

  “Cee-Cee Sinclair phoned Bill from Aspen?”

  “No.”

  “Then how—”

  “The police don’t spend every minute hassling antiwar protesters,” Miller interrupted with a gritty grin. “Sometimes we investigate a murder, especially when the murder weapon is conveniently found at the scene of the crime.”

  “But there were no fingerprints.”

  “The people who own this house didn’t seem the type to buy authentic reproductions. They’d want the original Thinker. So we started checking out knick-knack stores, novelty shops, furniture stores, catalogues. Nothing.” His gaze touched upon Shannon. “My partner said she was addicted to the House Shopping channel.”

  “Home shopping,” I corrected.

  “Right. I won’t bore you with details, but it seems that Dwight Cooper bought one statue.”

  “I used your credit card, you son of a bitch,” Alice hissed, her angry look directed toward Dwight. “After withdrawing enough instant cash for Preacher Starbuck, my credit cards were over the limit.”

  “We drove to the Cooper residence,” Miller continued, “where we found Dr. Cassidy breaking a window.”

  “Oh, no!” screeched Alice. “Not my unicorns.”

  “Sorry.” Ben grinned sheepishly. “I slept late, then jogged. Ingrid and Hitchcock were missing, so I checked the answering machine. Ingrid said she was at Alice’s house and planned to visit Patty. I tried Alice first. Her door was locked. When nobody answered the doorbell, I thought maybe Alice was the killer, so I picked up a rock and—”

  “Killed Alice’s goofy unicorns,” I said.

  “Not all of them. Lieutenant Miller arrived and we drove over here. Are you all right, babe?”

  “I will be if I can ask a few questions.” My eyebrow skimmed my bangs as I stared at Miller.

  “Be my guest,” he said.

  My gaze shifted to a handcuffed Patty. “Dwight drove Alice’s BMW.”

  “No, Ing, he took a bus. Of course he drove Alice’s car.”

  “That’s a rhetorical question, Patty. Here’s a real one. Are you allergic to cats?”

  “Yes. Long-haired ones. Their fur makes me sneeze. Why do you ask? The car keys?”

  “No. Ben said you went inside the studio to kiss Wylie goodbye. But Wylie had already left the house. Kim, the kid next door, saw him. When you emerged from the studio, your lipstick was smeared. Ben also said Mancini was on the stereo, which sounded odd since Wylie didn’t particularly care for Mancini while you love him, but I didn’t follow through. How come your lipstick was smudged? You kissed the cat, right?”

  “Yuck! Why on earth would I kiss a cat? I kissed a painting.”

  “Doris Day or Charles Manson?”

  “Manson.”

  “That was sick, Patty.”

  She shrugged.

  “Speaking of sick,” I said, “what about the poisoned pie? Junior didn’t buy it from a church lady.”

  “Is that another rhetorical question?”

  “Yes. No.”

  “I looked up poisons in a book. Then I remembered reading a mystery series written by Diane Mott Davidson, a Colorado author. Her books include recipes, so I ferreted out her telephone number, called her, and said I wanted to write a mystery novel. I asked her where one would find baneberries and she told me. By the way, she’s very nice. I asked her how a killer would bake a baneberry pie. Then I baked the pie and poured your crème de menthe into the potted plant so that Ben would think you were drunk. But I never meant to kill you, Ing, cross my heart and hope to die. I just wanted to frighten you.”

  I believed her. “What about the milk?”

  “There was no milk. The thief put an empty carton—”

  “Why did you lie about Ben’s jacket?”

  “I wanted the cops to suspect Ben. I knew he had threatened Wylie. Dwight heard him at the dance. I didn’t think the cops could
actually prove anything, but I figured the longer it took to solve Wylie’s murder, the safer we’d be. Dwight and me. If it hadn’t been for you and your damn dog…” She glared at Hitchcock, waggishly wagging his tail. Her angry gaze moved to the bristly, bewhiskered, bewildered cat, still atop the counter, and she issued forth a loud ah-chew.

  Ben, Miller, Shannon, Dwight, and Alice all chorused, “Bless you.” I didn’t. It seemed wrong, somehow, to bless a murderer.

  Last night I had wondered if Patty would sneeze during a climax. I guess that answered my question.

  “Do you love Dwight?” I asked, curious. I thought maybe she did, even if she loved herself most of all.

  “Love is hello and good-bye,” she said.

  “And hello again.” I looked at Ben. “Hello.”

  “Hello.”

  “See you later, alligator,” Patty chanted, as Shannon escorted her through the kitchen.

  “After a while, crocodile,” I replied automatically.

  She smiled and a shiver ran up and down my spine. I didn’t smile back, because one never smiles at a crocodile.