For Butter or Worse

by Saxon Bennett

  I plop down on my belly and scoot under the frame. The bed skirt hides me from view. Thank god, she’s not one of those people who store their Christmas decorations under the bed.

  I hear the fridge open. She’s probably getting a cold drink. Then I hear the clunk of shoes as they drop on the floor. I peek through the bed skirt. I see her socked feet as they walk toward the bed. She sits down and the mattress only sags slightly. A dust bunny creeps its way toward me. I give it a little blow. I can’t afford to sneeze. I mean, what if Del really is a criminal? What if she discovers me under the bed, pulls a gun from her nightstand, takes me out to the desert, and shoots me execution-style?

  Of course, Lakeland isn’t anywhere near a desert. But she could still shoot me and dump me in the lake. I wouldn’t be the first Italian to end up as fish food.

  I see her take off her socks then feel her lay back on the bed. The box springs hold her weight pretty well, so I’m not squished. I hope this is a temporary situation because it’s getting warm under here and that dust bunny is still creeping steadily towards me. I figure she’s going to get up any minute to take a shower. I wait.

  I hear her snore. The heavy breathing kind of snore, a rhythmic in and out. I can’t believe this! She’s asleep? Who goes running and then comes home and takes a sweaty nap? Evidently, Del Hargrave does. How long do I wait, I wonder? Is this like one of those power naps and she’ll pop up any second? I listen some more. She’s still asleep. I’ve got to get out of here. She’s shoeless so I could make a run for it if I have to. At least her being barefoot might even the odds if she chases me.

  I ease myself out from under the bed. The dust bunny hitches a ride on my shoulder. I keep low, belly to the ground, scooting across the floor until I’m close to the door. I rise up and sneak a quick look back at Del. She’s pretty, even all sprawled out and sweaty. Pity she’s a criminal.

  I creep down the hall and let myself out the back door. I stand against the side of the house and take several deep breathes. Geez, that was close. People really should look under their beds. Little kids have it pegged when they worry about the boogeyman hiding there.

  I peek around the side of the house to see if the coast is clear. When I don’t see anybody, I make a mad dash for my car. I’ve just made it to safety when another car drives down the street. I squirm down in my seat so that I can’t be seen. After a moment, I peek out my window.

  The car pulls up in Del’s driveway. Whew, that was really close. A woman with red hair enters the house using a key. I jot down the license plate of the gray Toyota she’s driving. It’s got a Hertz rental car placard around the license plate. Maybe it’s a house guest? A relative? Or maybe it’s one of her criminal associates?

  I decide I better get while the getting is good. I pull away from the curb just in time to see the red-haired woman peek back out the door and watch me leave. I might need to borrow my mother’s car next time I do surveillance. Better yet, I’ll park a couple of blocks over. The thought of driving my mother’s 1980 Oldsmobile Cutlass, with no air conditioning and manual roll-down windows is not enticing. It doesn’t always start when you want it to or when you need it to, like when you’re being chased by bad people or you’re in a sketchy part of town.

  I drive the posted speed limit out of the residential area. I never could figure out why in movies people speed off, burning rubber and fishtailing. It seems like a huge giveaway that you’ve done something wrong. I pull out onto Market Street and head home. I’ve done enough for one day. I need to put my feet up and enjoy a Yoo-hoo. Maybe I’ll even take a nap of my own.

  After I check under my bed.

  ***

  There’s a huge weight on my chest and I can’t breathe. I’m under Del’s bed again and she’s squishing me. The bed sinks lower and lower. The dust bunny crawls into my mouth. I gasp and open my eyes.

  I’ve fallen asleep on my couch and Veronica is sitting on my chest. Veronica the cat, not Veronica the person. Veronica stares at me with her yellow eyes. She has the eyes of a killer. She’s purring. Her purring sounds like a chainsaw. It’s dangerous to disturb Veronica when she’s purring. People say that purring does not necessarily mean a cat is content or happy. I personally don’t think cats are capable of happiness.

  I move a little to see if she’ll move. She narrows her eyes. The purring stops. I lay quiet. The purring starts up again. I’m trapped.

  I offer the only thing that might motivate her. “Wanna treat?”

  She closes her eyes, digs in her nails, and kneads my chest. Not only am I having trouble breathing, now I’m a human pin cushion. Moving only my eyes, I slowly look over at the clock. Travis should be home soon, I hope. Veronica stops kneading, which is good, but now she’s gone to sleep. Her murderous eyes are closed, and the purring has stopped. I contemplate my chances of doing some kind of limbo move and gently sliding off the couch, letting her ease onto the couch. Kind of like how magicians rip a tablecloth out from under a full dinner setting—only much, much slower.

  I hear the key scrape in the lock and Travis, Michael, and Ivan walk in.

  Travis calls out, “Jamie, where are you?”

  Veronica opens one murderous eye. I speak without moving my lips, “In here. I need your help. Desperately.”

  Ivan pads over and studies Veronica. The cat and dog are mortal enemies. Ivan has discovered he needs to give way to Veronica on all fronts or face the consequences, which usually involves first aid. He gazes at me with his kind, almond-colored eyes and I think I see pity there. Then he walks off toward the kitchen in hopes of getting a treat. Some friend he is.

  Travis appears next to me. “She’s got you trapped?” This is more statement than question.

  “Uh, huh.”

  Michael dances over, doing two pirouettes on the way, and surveys the situation. Travis makes a move to pick up Veronica and she hisses. Not the kind of hiss that indicates displeasure at being disturbed, but the kind that says, “If you pick me up, I’ll scratch your face off and you’ll have to go to the emergency room to have it reattached.”

  Travis jumps back. “Hmm…” he says. “You might have to wait her out.”

  “She’s impeding my breathing.”

  “That might be her plan,” Michael says. “Suffocate you and take over your bedroom.”

  “She’s always pined for her own room,” Travis says.

  “How do you know that?” I ask.

  “She told me,” Travis replies.

  I don’t even go there. “Please, get her off me.”

  Michael puts a finger to his temple. His face lights up. “I have it.”

  I wait. “Are you going to tell me?”

  “No, I’m going to show you. I’ll be right back.” He dances off to Travis’s bedroom.

  Veronica doesn’t move. “She’s stubborn, just like Veronica the person,” Travis says.

  Veronica the person is the reason we have Veronica the cat. She seemed to think that I needed a pet to teach me to love and care for someone other than myself. She was thrilled when I named the cat Veronica, thinking it was a compliment. It wasn’t.

  Veronica the cat is not nor will ever be a nice cat. Just as Veronica the person won’t ever be a nice person. Simple emotional math.

  Michael returns wearing hockey gear, the kind a goalie wears—enormous shin pads, gloves, and a mask. He’s even wearing a hockey jersey, the Lakeland Lynxes, our local team. Travis gives him a sly smile.

  I know I shouldn’t inquire, but I can’t stop myself. “Why do you have a goalie outfit?”

  Michael smiles at Travis and waggles his eyebrows. “Sometimes we like to spice it up. Travis has a referee outfit. We play penalty box.”

  “We got it at Play It Again, Sam’s. It was only gently used because the goalie stole a car and is now incarcerated. He should’ve undressed first. It must’ve been hard to get into a car with all that gear on,” Travis says.

  Veronica is really agitated seeing Michael in his goalie outfit. I’
m pretty sure she knows what’s coming. She digs her claws into my chest and hisses at Michael. Brave dancer that he is, he makes the sign of the cross, which is very impressive with his hockey mitts on. He says, “Ready?”

  “Ready,” I say, wincing. I look at Veronica, “It’s going to be all right. Just go with it and it’ll be over before you know…” I don’t get to finish my sentence because Brave Michael plucks her from my chest. She squirms out of his arms, doing an impressive dismount in mid-air and leaps down, hissing. Then she walks indignantly over to Travis, bites his leg. and runs to the kitchen.

  All of this takes about half a second.

  “Hey, that wasn’t nice. I didn’t do anything. Why’d she do that?” Travis asks, hopping up and down and holding his leg.

  “Because you were available,” I say, sitting up and rubbing my chest. I know she’s left marks, but I don’t want to see them. It’ll only make them all the more painful.

  “And I’m your boyfriend. She holds you responsible. That cat has never liked me,” Michael says, taking off his hockey gloves.

  “That cat doesn’t like anyone,” I say. “She’s a little hairy demon who escaped from hell.”

  Ivan runs out of the kitchen, his nails clacking, tail between his legs, whimpering. He’s got a scratch on his little pink nose and it’s bleeding. Travis scoops him up, cooing, “Oh, my poor baby. She took it out on you, too. That is so unfair.”

  “That cat needs anger management classes,” Michael says.

  That is something we can all agree on.

  “Come on, my babies, let’s do some first aid,” Michael says. “Do you want me to put on my doctor outfit?” he asks, looking slyly at Travis.

  “Not in front of Ivan... Maybe later,” Travis replies.

  They head off to the bathroom and I try not to think about their role-playing. Thank goodness Veronica the person was never into that. I can only imagine what she’d make me dress up as. Little Bo Peep or something. Except I’d have to be Bo Peep’s sheep.

  My musings are interrupted by my cell phone. I dig it out of my pocket. “Hello?”

  A rather harried voice asks, “Jamie Bravo?”

  “Speaking.”

  “I don’t know if you remember me. Betty Butter? I met you at the butter contest at the fair.”

  “Of course, I remember,” I say. How could I forget somebody named Betty Butter?

  “I’d like to hire you to find Lehane Noster. I’m quite sure something has happened to him,” she says.

  “What makes you so sure?” I pull at my shirt and take a peek at my clawed chest. I’m going to need some first aid myself.

  “Well, I got an email from Lehane and he’s removing himself from the contest because it seems he won a prize for a Caribbean cruise.”

  “Oh. Well…mystery solved, I guess.”

  “No!” she says adamantly. “That’s not like him. Butter is his life. He would never do that to his fans. His absence will affect attendance, and he knows that. Everyone comes to see Lehane.”

  “You don’t think he’d go on a cruise? I mean a free cruise is hard to turn down.” What I wouldn’t do for one of those.

  She lowers her voice and whispers conspiratorially, “Most people don’t know this, but Lehane suffers from aquaphobia. He can’t even take a bath. He almost moved because of the lake nearby. He’ll drive completely out of his way to avoid going anywhere near the lake.”

  I’m still stuck on the never taking a bath thing. “So, he never bathes?”

  “He takes four minute showers and always keeps one leg outside the curtain on the bathroom floor, just in case,” she replies like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “He told me that in confidence. Please, don’t tell anyone else.”

  “Okay.”

  “So, you see, he wouldn’t be caught dead on a cruise unless someone kidnapped him.” I hear her suck in a huge breath. “You don’t think someone kidnapped him?”

  “The cruise thing is a bit strange,” I admit.

  “Another thing is the email he supposedly wrote me. It didn’t seem right. It was formal and stilted. Lehane is reserved in person, but he’s quite witty in his online communications. It’s like someone else wrote it, pretending to be Lehane,” she says.

  Okay, things are beginning to look nefarious.

  Betty continues, “I’ve gone to his house, but no one is home. He has a garage, so I don’t know if his car is inside. I really don’t know what to do. I called the police, but they aren’t interested because of the email. They hold the position that Lehane must’ve made arrangements and left, which doesn’t make him a missing person. They think I’m just a dithering old woman. I’m only sixty-two and I don’t dither,” she says indignantly. “I want to hire you to find Lehane.”

  “I’ll get right on it,” I say. I don’t tell her I mean I’ll get right on it tomorrow. I need a hot bath with some Epsom salts for my wounds. Then I need dinner, which I hope Travis will make before he goes to work, followed by at least two episodes of Murder She Wrote so I can detox from this day and then, finally, bed.

  “I know you need a retainer. Can you come by the fair tomorrow? I’ll give you more particulars on Lehane, so you can get a real sense of the man.”

  “Sure thing. And Ms. Butter, we’ll find him. Don’t you worry.”

  There’s a hitch in her voice as she says, “I hope so. I just adore Lehane. He’s such a gentle man. I can’t believe anyone would want to hurt him.”

  I keep it to myself that someone does want to hurt him, or he’d be carving butter right now. I say goodbye and click off.

  Travis calls from the kitchen, “Was that Betty Butter?”

  “Yes, she just hired me to find Lehane.”

  “I told her all about you,” he says as he stands in the kitchen doorway. “Only the good things. I didn’t mention your weird thing with bananas.”

  “Thanks.”

  “How about shrimp scampi?” he asks.

  “Wonderful.” My stomach growls its approval.

  Chapter Four

  I set my alarm for seven and when it goes off, I wish I’d set it for eight.

  I bought an alarm clock that doesn’t have a snooze feature because it’s a slippery slope when you start hitting that ol’ snooze button. When I did have snooze, it took me about an hour and a half of hitting it before I got out of bed. Usually, it was the smell of Travis’s coffee that finally roused me.

  I turn the alarm off, slip on my robe, and stumble for the kitchen. I notice that Travis’s bedroom door is closed. Ivan must still be asleep with him. Ivan isn’t one for early rising if he can help it. Travis says it’s because he likes to watch Jimmy Kimmel followed by a Joan Crawford or Bette Davis movie. I think it’s more like Travis likes to watch and Ivan goes along with it. Although I must admit, I have seen Ivan watching the shows without Travis.

  I nearly jump out of my skin when I see Veronica sitting on the couch—Veronica the person— and she is stroking Veronica the cat who’s sitting on her lap looking like the perfectly well-behaved feline that she is not. Veronica the cat stares at me with her murderous yellow eyes. She obviously hasn’t forgiven me for yesterday. Veronica the person gives me the once over, purses her lips and says, “Not a sexy look.”

  “What’s wrong with it?” I say, looking down at my robe. It’s beige and is patterned with cowboys and horses. And coffee stains.

  “I prefer silk. It would hang better.”

  “You don’t get to prefer anything anymore. How’d you get in here anyway?”

  “I have a key.”

  “You gave me your key back.”

  “I made a copy before I gave it back. I’m not stupid,” Veronica says. Before I can respond she says, “I made coffee.”

  There is a distinct aroma in the air.

  Travis and Ivan emerge from their bedroom. Their hair is identical, both sticking up at odd angles. “I smell coffee,” Travis says. He rubs his eyes.

  Ivan growls at either Veronica
the cat or Veronica the person. Maybe both. His nose looks better. But I know Ivan is still mad. Hell, I’m still mad. None of us deserved what Veronica did. Veronica the cat, I mean. I’m also not happy that Veronica the person is sitting, uninvited, in my living room. Even if she did brew some fantastic smelling coffee.

  Travis glares at Veronica. She glares back. They have never liked each other. “How’d she get in?” he asks.

  “Guess,” I say.

  “Ugh, I don’t want to. Let’s get coffee. It makes everything more palatable.” He points a finger at the Veronicas, saying, “Even those two.”

  Travis and I shuffle off to the kitchen and get coffee. Veronica the person sets Veronica the cat down on the couch where she begins grooming, starting with her girlie parts.

  “I came to inquire about your findings on Del Hargrave,” Veronica says. “You weren’t at your office.”

  “That’s because it’s seven o’clock in the morning,” I say. “I don’t open for business until nine.”

  “Of course,” Veronica says in a tone that indicates I’m lame for not being there at seven.

  She goes to the kitchen and pours herself another cup of coffee. She used my Mr. Coffee but somehow it still tastes pretty good. Even Travis is drinking it, which is saying something. “What did you find out about Del?” she asks.

  I don’t want to tell her that I broke into Del’s house. I prefer not to reveal my secrets. I’m like a magician that way. “I didn’t find out much yet. She drives a very fancy car.” That I could’ve have discovered by driving by. “She runs. She’s pretty. And she’s a lesbian.”

  “How do you know she’s a lesbian?”

  She had me there. I can’t reveal that I saw her lesbian magazines without revealing that I have been inside her house. I decide to fall back on the gaydar thing. “She runs like one and she made my gaydar ping.”

  Veronica raises an eyebrow. “And just how do lesbians run?”

  Travis pipes in, “Vagina first.”

  Veronica stares at him icily. “That is physically impossible.”