For Butter or Worse

by Saxon Bennett

  “If she got him from behind when he wasn’t expecting it, she could do it,” London says.

  “I guess so,” I mumble.

  Michael comes up with his empty tray. He grabs a bar napkin and wipes his forehead. “They are working my ass off,” he says, pointing at the silver-haired gentlemen.

  “More like they want your ass,” Travis says.

  “Whatever, they’re seriously adding to my coffers. Besides, baby, I go home with you,” Michael says flirtatiously.

  This seems to pacify Travis. “Damn right, and don’t you forget where your sugar bowl resides.”

  Michael tosses him air kisses. “I need four tequila sunrises.”

  Travis gets busy mixing. The bar patrons are getting drinks in preparation of last call which isn’t for another hour. It’s best to be prepared.

  “I’m beat,” I say.

  “Yeah, I better get going, too,” London says.

  We wave goodbye to Michael and Travis. “See you later, Sugar Bowl.”

  London and I walk together to the parking lot. It’s that awkward moment where I’m wondering what she’s thinking and she’s wondering what I’m thinking and we’re both wondering if we’re thinking the same thing.

  When we get to my car, London asks, “So, you interested in a nightcap?”

  Damn, she looks hot with her tight black jeans and white T-shirt. I easily succumb to temptation. “Maybe just a little one.”

  “I have mini Yoo-hoos on hand,” London says. “I stocked up just for you.” She leans in and kisses me, soft and gentle, and then deeper.

  “How can I resist such a romantic gesture?” I say. I cup my hands over her tight tush and pull her toward me.

  We kiss long and deep. I can feel her breasts against mine and my knees start to quiver. She presses me against my car and opens the door with one hand. Somehow, we end up inside my car in the tiny backseat, and within seconds the windows are fogged up.

  I yank her T-shirt up and sports bra off and hungrily devour her breasts. She unbuttons my pants. Her hand finds its way inside my pants, then inside me.

  We go at it like a couple of hormone-crazy teenagers. Thank god, my car has good shocks.

  When we’re done, I’m undressed from the waist down and she’s undressed from the waist up. We’re both sweating and panting and smiling.

  She leans over and nibbles my earlobe. “Wanna go to my place for round two?” she breathes into my ear.

  “That would be an affirmative, Detective Wells,” I answer.

  Chapter Ten

  Michael and Travis are standing in the kitchen sipping coffee when I get home the next morning. I put up my hand in a stop signal. “I do not want to talk about it. I have a big day planned and I need a shower, coffee, and an energy bar.”

  “I bet you need an energy bar,” Michael says, waggling his eyebrows and swiveling his hips.

  “Nice.” I grab my coffee and leave. Veronica the cat follows me to my room. She has disdain and disapproval written all over her kitty puss.

  I slam my coffee, take a shower, and have some lustful thoughts about London. I wonder for the dozenth time why we can’t be girlfriends, but there’s something not quite there and we both know it.

  Putting my black outfit on, I consider taking my gun out of the back of the closet where I keep it hidden in a shoebox. The perp is obviously a deranged money-grubbing maniac and having a firearm might be a wise idea. The problem with the gun is that it scares me. It’s so final. Not like a banana, which could put out an eye but not kill a person.

  I decide I’ll take the banana and hope for the best.

  Travis and Michael are long gone by the time I’m ready to face the day. They’ve taken Ivan with them, so it’s just me and Veronica. I look at the cat. “Wanna go for a ride?” She hisses and bares her teeth. I guess that’s a no. She has some PTSD when it comes to car rides since the only time she goes on a drive is to the vet, who tells her she needs to go on a diet. I feel her pain. On the way home from the vet we commiserate on the skinny culture we’re both being shamed by.

  I head across town to the Friedman’s. I haven’t seen them in a while. Mrs. Friedman has GPS on their cell phones now, so she can find her own husband. She hasn’t hired me in a long time. Like many American workers, I’m being phased out by electronics.

  The doorman for the Friedman’s building is bent over pulling office supplies out of a box. I refrain from giving him a kick in the ass because I’m a grown-up and grown-ups don’t do things like that. But it sure is tempting. Instead, I sneak past him. As you can tell, security is tight in the building.

  I knock on the Friedman’s door and wait. I can hear Lebowitz on the other side of the door saying, “Look at the big brain on Brett.” He sounds like Samuel L. Jackson from Pulp Fiction.

  I knock again. This time louder.

  Still, no one answers. Not even a parrot.

  The building super comes by hauling a ladder and a box of lightbulbs. “Hey, Claude. Where’re the Friedman’s?”

  “They’ve gone on vacation to Belize. Mr. Friedman wanted to go somewhere warm.”

  I consider this. It’s August. It’s warm here. “Because it’s cold here?” I venture.

  “Yeah, go figure. I think it’s the scenery he’s interested in, if you know what I mean.” He scratches his armpit.

  “So, who’s taking care of Lebowitz? Their parrot?”

  “Some lady comes twice a day. The first day there was a lot of noise and things crashing about, but it’s settled down in there. I’ve been painting the hall all week, so I seen her a lot. She pretty much comes at the same time every day.”

  “What does she look like?” I ask.

  “Weird-looking. You know that dame in the cartoon movie about the spotted dogs? She looks like the mean lady. She even wears a coat made of fur like the lady in the movie. What’s her name?”

  “Cruella de Vil?”

  “Yeah, that’s it.”

  Bingo! I’ve got my fake cruise line agent and her name is Caroline Swank. Now I just have to prove it. “Thanks so much. I’ll see you later, Claude.”

  “Not a problem.” He goes back to changing lightbulbs.

  I turn back around and say, “Claude, you see anything else weird, call me, will you?” I hand him my card.

  “Will do.”

  ***

  Next stop is a run by to check up on Del Hargrave. Then onward to the butter barn. I need to talk to Betty Butter about the prize money. I’m still peeved that no one told me before. Okay, it was my own fault for not reading the competition brochure, but I’m really over this whole butter thing.

  I drive to the 509 where Veronica lives and pull into the underground parking lot. I want to see if Veronica’s car is in her spot. Sometimes she works from home. I drive by her assigned parking spot and see another car. It’s not Veronica’s Mercedes; it’s a silver rental car, like the one that was parked outside Del Hargrave’s house. Now, that’s interesting. I dial Veronica’s cell. She picks up on the second ring.

  “I knew you’d change your mind about the booty call,” she says.

  “How come you’re not at work?” I ask.

  I hear her sneeze. “I’ve got a head cold. I can barely think right now.” She blows her nose.

  “Is your Mercedes in the shop?”

  There’s a tell-tale pause. “What makes you say that?”

  “There’s a rental car parked in your spot,” I say.

  Another silence. “Oh, yes. I’m getting it serviced. You would not believe the amount of maintenance that car requires. I think next time I’ll buy a Saab. You know the Swedish are very practical. Think of Swedish fish candy. It doesn’t get stuck in your teeth like those German gummy bears.”

  She’s rambling. That means she’s lying. “I didn’t know you ate candy.”

  “I’ve heard about it.” She sneezes again. “I’d invite you up, but I don’t want you to catch a cold.”

  “Sure. I’ve got to get to th
e fair anyway.”

  “How’s that going?”

  “It’s coming along.”

  “Great. Keep me posted on our assignment.”

  “Sure thing.” I hang up. Ha, I’ve got her. I think she is dating Del and wants to know if Del is cheating.

  I pull out of the garage and head to the fairgrounds. The day is cloudy, which would be a nice reprieve from the heat except it’s humid. That’s another thing about Lakeland, the lake makes it brutally cold in the winter and brutally humid in the summer. I’m sweating profusely by the time I get to the butter barn. Travis is already there working in his butter booth. His eyes are bloodshot.

  “Hey, Trav,” I say.

  He runs out of his booth and throws himself into my arms and sobs. I pat his back. “Did you break up with Michael?” The last time they broke up, he didn’t get out of bed for a week until Michael came over and apologized and begged Travis to take him back. Then Travis and Michael didn’t get out of bed for another week. I went and stayed with Juniper because I couldn’t stand the noise. I took Ivan with me because he kept whimpering and scratching at their bedroom door.

  I rub little circles on Travis’s back. “What’s wrong? Tell me and maybe I can help.”

  Travis pulls away. He turns to the butter sculpture he was working on. “It’s ruined.”

  I study the sculpture. Sure enough, all the heads of the people he sculpted have been melted with what I’m assuming is a blowtorch. I don’t want to insult Travis, but I can’t visualize what his sculpture was supposed to be. I try to be tactful—not my strong suit. “What was it supposed to be before it got ruined?”

  He throws his hands in the air, exclaiming, “See, it is ruined! You can’t even tell what it was.” He huffs and stares morosely at his artwork. “It was the Stonewall riots. See the paddy wagon? And the queens dressed in their high heels? I made their faces etched with determination of the righteousness of their cause! I made the police officers look angry and hateful.” He points to the front of the Stonewall bar and the gay flag hanging proudly. “But now look at it! The queens’ faces are blurred, and the police officers still have their faces. What does that tell you about the vandal who did this?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “They’re obviously a Republican. I think Lehane’s killer did it. So, we need to find a homophobic Republican with a blowtorch.”

  I chew this over. I look around. There are a few people walking around the History of Butter exhibits. The spectators don’t seem likely perps. These people either love butter or they’re the kind of fairgoers who look at every single exhibit at the fair. It must take the full two weeks to take it all in. I’m already sick to death of the fair, but I’ve got a crime to solve.

  I’m still thinking, and Travis is still sniffling when Caroline Swank walks up. She doesn’t greet us. Instead, she studies Travis’s ruined sculpture.

  “Faces are extremely difficult for novices. I can see why you’re re-sculpting,” she finally says to me.

  Travis is about to lunge at her and throttle her skinny neck, but I grab his arm and stop him. “They were perfect before a vindictive vandal destroyed them,” he says.

  “Oh, I don’t think so. Butter people don’t do things like that and someone would’ve seen something. The barn is never empty,” she says.

  “Except in the dead of night,” Travis says.

  “The fair has 24-hour security,” Caroline says. She leans down and studies the sculpture closely. Her nose almost presses against the glass. “Do you really think this is an appropriate subject? Gay rioting is not exactly family friendly.”

  “Gay rights are an important social issue,” I say. “Evidently, you’re of the Anita Bryant school of thought.”

  “What does orange juice have to do with this?” Caroline asks, jabbing her finger toward Travis’s sculpture.

  “See, you don’t know anything about our history of suffering and persecution because you’re a homophobe, which makes my work all the more pertinent.”

  “This is a very violent scene you are sculpting. There are rules against depicting violence, you know,” Caroline retorts.

  “Hah! I’m a natural talent and I stand a very good chance of winning this,” Travis says.

  Caroline stares at him. “I thought Jamie was doing the carving. She’s the one that the committee agreed to.”

  Travis quickly backtracks. “I meant ‘we’ because I’m Jamie’s teacher, spiritual mentor, and life coach. We are in this as a team,” Travis says, glancing over at me for help.

  “Absolutely. We are a team and all of us living on this butter-filled planet are part of the big WE of the human race basking in the sun that gives us life and cows and butter,” I blather.

  Caroline purses her lips. “It doesn’t matter, when showtime comes, we will see who the best butter carver is. And just a word of advice: lose the gay thing. The judges are not going to like it and if they don’t like your subject matter the skill of your carving won’t matter.”

  Travis has a knife in his hand. I didn’t see him pick it up, but I recognize the look in his eyes. It’s the same look he got when he almost pushed the smoothie button on the blender with Lebowitz inside. I pry the knife out of his grip. Travis glares at me.

  I cock my head at Caroline and say, “I didn’t know you were a pet-sitter.” I’m hoping the element of surprise will catch her off guard.

  She looks at me blankly. “What are you talking about?”

  “Aren’t you bird-sitting for the Friedmans? I swear when I called, I heard Lebowitz in the background. ‘Make my day’ doesn’t ring any bells?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she says, abruptly turning on her heels and stalking away.

  Travis scowls after her. “I despise that woman.”

  “I noticed. You had a murderous look in your eye and a knife in your hand.”

  “I only thought about it for a tiny second,” he says pinching his forefinger and thumb together.

  “I think we found our perp,” I say.

  Travis looks around. “Who?”

  I shake my head. “Really?”

  “Really what?”

  “You don’t know who it is?”

  “If I did, I wouldn’t be asking,” he hisses back.

  “Think homophobe who stands to benefit and who’s mean enough to do it.”

  He sticks his fist in his mouth and bites his knuckles. “Oh, my god!” Then he lowers his voice. “It’s her,” he says pointing in direction of where Caroline had been. “I should’ve knifed her when I had the chance. She’s a murderess!”

  “We are not vigilantes,” I remind him.

  “If I was mad enough to contemplate murder,” he looks over at me, “momentarily, then she could’ve done the same thing to Lehane in a fit of anger.”

  “Or a moment of cold calculation,” I add.

  “Let’s go check out her booth. She hasn’t carved anything recently. Maybe she’s got that Lady Macbeth thing and it’s affecting her artistic abilities,” Travis says.

  We both glance around, and then try to casually walk toward her butter booth. Travis still has on his canvas apron which allows us to go back into Caroline’s station and not look out of place. I spot a small sculpture that’s in her butter storage area. It’s about eight inches by eleven inches and it’s a man carving butter. The sculpture the little butter man is carving looks familiar.

  Travis looks over my shoulder and gasps.

  “What?” I ask.

  “That’s a sculpture of Lehane carving his pivotal social commentary series.”

  I lean down closer and study the scene that the little butter man is carving. The tiny figures are seated in an old truck with all their belongs strapped in the back. “He’s sculpting The Beverly Hillbillies?”

  “It’s the Joad family as they make their way to California,” Travis says, placing his hand over his heart. “I cried when I read that book in high school.”

  “I know
you did.”

  “When Rose loses the baby but uses her breast milk to save a stranger, I was so touched by her generosity.” He wipes at his eyes quickly.

  “Why would she be doing this?” I ask as I study the sculpture.

  “It’s an homage to Lehane. That bitch. She’s going to tug at the heartstrings of the judges and make it look like she is so distraught by Lehane’s disappearance that she did this homage to her fallen butter competitor.” Travis narrows his eyes. “She did it. I just know she did. She killed Lehane.”

  “I totally agree. We just have to prove it,” I say.

  He snaps his fingers. “I bet she killed Lehane here in the butter barn somewhere. Even if she cleaned up really well there should still be blood stains, you know, the kind you can’t see with the naked eye. We need one of those black light thingamabobs to reveal the stains.”

  “And where are we going to get a thingamabob?” I ask.

  We stare at each other and say simultaneously, “London!”

  ***

  I’m on the phone with London. “You want what?” she says.

  “You know, the forensic kind of stuff so we can see if there’s invisible blood stains,” I say.

  Travis is listening in and hopping from foot to foot.

  “Whose blood stains?” London says.

  “Lehane Noster’s. We think…” I lower my voice, “that Caroline Swank killed him, so she’ll win the competition and get the hundred thousand dollar prize money.”

  “That is one hell of a good motive,” London says.

  “So, can we have the stuff?” Travis says.

  I ask London again.

  “It’ll take some doing but I think I can talk one of the forensic guys into it. He owes me a favor.”

  Travis jumps up and down in glee.

  “When do you want to do it?” London asks.

  I look to Travis for guidance. “After hours,” Travis whispers.

  “How will we get in?” I ask.

  “Betty has a key,” Travis says.

  “Can you do it tonight after the butter barn closes?” I ask.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” London says. “By the way, how are you this morning?”