We are a family of dessert whores, no doubt about it.
Mom puts the coffee on while we finish off our dessert. Griffin is glassy-eyed from all the sugar and he’s squirming in his seat... “Maybe you should go outside and run around a bit,” I suggest.
He bounces up. “Is the hula hoop still in the shed?”
“Yes, honey,” my mother says.
“Go burn off some of that extra energy,” Juniper says.
Griffin races from the kitchen. “Don’t worry, he’s going to crash, and you’ll have the evening to yourself,” I say. “One of the benefits of feeding children sugar.”
Juniper nods but doesn’t look convinced.
“Kids need a bit of freedom and fun,” my father says. This is his polite way of telling Juniper she’s got too tight of a leash on Griffin.
“I know,” Juniper says.
I sip my coffee. I’m still disappointed about not being able to catch Lehane’s killer. This will be my first failure as a private detective. My mother notices my sour mood. “What’s wrong?” she asks me.
“It’s the case I’m working on. I’m pretty sure that I know who did it but I can’t prove it. She’ll get away with murder and Lehane Noster – that’s the butter guy – will be a cold case. We don’t even know anything about his whereabouts.”
“He could’ve just disappeared because he’s in trouble and going off the grid is his only way out,” Juniper says.
She’s got a point, but I don’t think that’s what happened. Lehane doesn’t have a record. He pays his bills on time and doesn’t gamble. I already checked with my goombah contacts and he’s not in trouble with the mob. London checked his credit cards and bank account. If he did run off, he did it without any money.
“It’s not likely,” I say.
“Still no body?” my father asks.
“No body. We think the murderer hid it on the premises, but we’ve searched everywhere,” I say. I eye the last piece of panna cotta. My mother picks up the plate and takes it to the kitchen. She knows I’m prone to stress eating.
“Butter, huh?” my father grunts.
I have no idea what that means. “Yeah, so?”
“Lots of butter, right?” my father asks.
“Yeah, like eight-hundred-pounds of it goes into the sculptures. You need a lot to work with.”
“Maybe your dead guy is in the butter,” my father says. “That’s where I’d put a body that I couldn’t get rid of.”
I stare at him open-mouthed. “I never thought of that.”
“Who knows?” my father says. He sets his coffee cup down. “I’ll be out back with Griffin.” He gets up and leaves the table.
I look at Juniper and my mother. “Wow. Pop might’ve just solved the case.”
“Your father occasionally has clever ideas. Occasionally,” she stresses.
***
When I get home, I find Travis and Michael in the kitchen. Ivan runs up and licks my hand. He’s completely covered in beige powder. Veronica the cat is sitting on top of the fridge watching the situation as it unfolds.
“Why is Ivan covered in powder?” I ask. I know it’s going to be some cockamamie reason. It always is with these two.
“Accident,” Travis says. Michael is troweling foundation onto Travis’ face in an attempt to cover his stubble. He’s shaved but his follicles are still evident.
“What sort of accident?” I ask. I should just let it be, but I can’t help myself.
Michael sighs. “Veronica the cat got on the table and batted the face powder off the table and it landed on Ivan. I’m pretty sure she did it on purpose.”
“Sounds like something she would do,” I say.
“She’s almost as bad as Veronica the person,” Michael says.
“And that’s saying something,” Travis says. He peers down at the makeup tray. “What do you think about this gray? I think it brings out my eyes.”
“It’s great if you want to look like Sarah Sanders with her smoky eyes,” I say.
Travis shoves the gray eyeshadow away in disgust. “Not on my worst day,” he says and shudders theatrically.
“Ick,” Michael says. He picks up the eyeshadow and pitches it in the garbage can.
“Good choice.” I say. “Where’d you get all this stuff?”
“The store, duh,” Travis says.
“Don’t be mean. Some of the stuff we also got from the girls at Burt’s,” Michael says.
“How much makeup does a girl need?” I ask. I don’t wear any makeup.
“Enough for me to look like you. It’s called stage makeup,” Travis says.
Michael swats him on the back of Travis’ head. “Ouch! Why’d you do that?” he says, rubbing the back of his head.
“Because you’re being snarky to her and I told you to stop it.”
Travis looks over at me and bats his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m really nervous about this. What if it doesn’t work and Caroline calls me out as a fake?”
“She won’t,” I say confidently.
“How do you figure that?” Travis asks. He needs more assurance than I can give.
I get an idea. “I’ve got a plan.”
“I’m glad someone does,” Travis says. Michael glares at him. “I mean that in the nicest possible way.”
“Sure you do,” I say. “Listen. If Caroline gets suspicious, we’ll do a switcharoo when you come out of the booth. You’ll still be able to carve, but I’ll be close by.”
“Now, that’s a plan,” Michael says. “I like it.”
Travis exhales a long breath. “I feel better now,” he says. Having finished with his makeup, he plops the wig on his head. Michael and I stare at him. He looks like me. Only prettier.
Michael and I stand back and study him. If you’re expecting to see me then your mind is already predisposed to see me, Jamie Bravo, and not Travis.
“Do you think it’ll work?” Michael asks, chewing his lip.
“I think so,” I say. “Or we’ll be up butter river without a paddle.” No one laughs. “Speaking of butter…”
Travis interrupts, “Stop with the butter jokes. If I never see butter again in my life, I’ll be a happy man,” Travis says.
“What about corn on the cob?” I ask, knowing that Travis loves fresh corn.
“I’ll make an exception for that,” Travis says.
“What about toast?” Michael asks.
“Another exception,” Travis says. “And before you go on to list every other thing I like butter on, I amend my previous statement. I am sick of butter that cannot be eaten because it’s been carved.”
“That’s butter. I mean, that’s better,” I say, grinning. “I have another idea.”
“Oh, my, your brain’s been busy. Did your mother make dessert and did you have seconds?” Travis asks, cocking his head and raising an eyebrow.
“What does that have to do with anything?” I ask. “Besides, it was my father’s idea.”
I’m jealous and a bit perturbed that it never occurred to me.
We know that Caroline wouldn’t have the necessary strength to remove the body from the fairgrounds and also that disposal of the body into the butter composting would be the best way to cover up her crime. Without a body in her possession, there’s not enough circumstantial evidence to bring her up on charges. The only reason London was able to interview her was because she interviewed everyone who had any contact with Lehane.
“Well, what is your idea?” Travis says.
I was so engrossed in my ruminations that I’d forgotten about them. I look over at Travis. It’s disconcerting. I feel like I have a twin.
“Calling Jamie Bravo,” Travis says, making the phone gesture. I don’t tell him he swiped some of his foundation off in the process.
“My father thinks that Caroline may have concealed Lehane’s body in eight hundred pounds of butter.” Now that I float the idea aloud, I realize that my father may have been joking, making another one of his offhand remarks. It sounds silly. How
on earth could a person hide a body in butter?
“Oooh, that’s truly diabolical,” Michael says, reapplying foundation to Travis’s face.
“I think you’ve got it!” Travis says leaping up and getting a stripe of foundation down his neck in the process. Michael makes a sound like a strangled duck.
“Here’s what I can’t figure out. She’d still have to get Lehane into the big vat of butter. He’d be too large and heavy for her to do that,” I point out.
“It’s just like the Shroud of Turin,” Michael says, wiping off the foundation streak on Travis’s neck. Travis bats his hand away. Michael is so caught up in the idea he forgets to be annoyed. Usually, a careless remark or a small slight starts an argument that creates a grudge and a lot of drama beginning with the phrase “you don’t respect my feelings.” I hope we’re not going there. Not now, not at eleven o’clock at night, not when I’m already frustrated and exhausted.
“Okay, I’m confused,” I admit. “I don’t get where Jesus and his shroud fit into all this.”
“It’s like this,” Michael says. “Jesus was laid on a slab of stone and they covered him with a shroud that took the shape of his body.”
I shake my head, still confused. Michael continues, “What if Caroline put Lehane in a butter mold and covered him up?”
“How is the butter like the Shroud of Turin?” Travis asks, befuddlement written on his face.
“Yeah, I don’t get it,” I say. Ivan whines up at me. I pick him up and absent-mindedly stroke his velvety ears.
Michael flaps his arms like he’s a bird about to take flight. “Better analogy. Think of making a plaster mold. She somehow manages to get him in the mold, covers him up and lets the butter cool. Voila! Lehane is inside the mold.”
“Ah, now that makes sense,” I say. “Sort of.”
“All we have to do is…” I begin.
“Find him buried inside 800 pounds of butter,” Travis finishes.
Chapter Fourteen
Instead of going to bed, which was my original plan, I’m dressed like a ninja, looking at Travis who looks like me, and standing in the butter barn.
Travis and Michael insisted we come here tonight. I know they’re right. We’ve got tonight and only tonight to catch Caroline. If she gets her way, Lehane will be melted down and she’ll be a wealthy woman living in a country with no extradition. She’s one smart cookie, and the cold glances she’s been giving me could mean she knows that I know what she did.
I just can’t prove it. I thought my dislike of people was limited to Veronica, but I’ve found a new target for my aggressive disdain—Caroline Swank. I suppose if you’re going to truly despise a person, a murderer is appropriate.
Travis and Michael are searching the equipment room where the molds are stored. I’ve never been back here because I wasn’t even remotely interested in the making of butter blocks. I should have studied the butter pamphlet like Travis said. The room is filled with all sorts of strange machinery. Michael thinks Caroline put Lehane into a butter mold and poured butter over him. So that’s why we’re looking for molds that a man could fit into.
There are wood molds, silicon molds, and stainless steel molds, all of assorted sizes. Travis is using his phone to search butter competitions on the internet to see if anyone else has ever attempted a sculpture of the size Caroline is attempting. Betty has been promoting Caroline’s oversized butter block. She told me, albeit shamefaced, she has to use Caroline as the draw for crowds since Lehane is gone.
Her exact words were, “It’s the only way to keep the competition going. Lehane’s skill and innovation kept them coming back every year. Without him, we’re sunk. Caroline’s plan of the largest sculpture ever created at our Butter Fest is a lifesaver.” She blushed. “Figuratively speaking, that is.”
I realize butter is her life and this competition means a lot to her and a lot of other people, especially in this age of anti-butter. Betty thinks butter is making a comeback. She posted a butter fact sheet by the entrance of the butter barn informing people that butter substitutes are filled with so many chemicals you might as well drink cleaning supplies. I can tell you after reading that, I’m never putting margarine on my toast again. Knowledge is power.
Travis was so horrified that he’s putting warning Post-Its on grocery shelves where the stuff is located—he feels it’s his civic duty.
“Ah, ha! I think I’ve found it,” Travis says. He points to a large stainless steel mold shoved far in the back of the room behind carving tables, stands, stools, and tool benches. It’s long and thin with three dividers. It resembles one of those coffins that magicians use to saw people in half.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I ask them.
“If you’re thinking that it looks like a coffin, I’d say I am,” Travis says. He sticks out his hand to Michael. “Tape measure,” he demands, like a surgeon asking for a scalpel. Michael pulls one out of his tactical cargo pants and hands it to him. “Hold the end of the coffin,” he tells me.
I place my hands on the end. “What about the dividers? Please tell me she didn’t hack him into three pieces.”
Michael studies the dividers. He slides one out. I sigh with relieve. Cutting up bodies signals a serious psychopath to me. Committing a murder by a thunk on the head is bad enough, but cutting a body into three pieces signals a truly sick mind. “Well, that explains that,” he says.
Travis studies the tape measure. “It’d be a snug fit, but possible. Michael, you’re tallest. Get in the coffin so we can see if it’s possible.”
“I’m not getting in there,” Michael says.
“Do it for the team,” Travis says. “I’m dressing up as a woman, the least you can do is pretend to be dead inside a butter mold.”
I intervene, “It’s like you’re the main forensic guy. We can’t do this without you.”
Michael considers this, then says, “All right, I’ll do it.” He hoists himself into the mold.
Travis looks over at me and nods. “Plenty of room.”
“Wouldn’t he stink by now?” Michael asks, sitting up in the stainless steel coffin.
“Not so much if he was refrigerated,” I say. “A butter cooler would be the perfect temperature to store him. It’s the same temperature the bodies are kept at the morgue.” I recall what London mentioned the other day.
“Caroline is a master criminal,” Michael says, almost looking like he admires her work.
“She’s despicable,” Travis says, his voice laced with disgust.
“I don’t mean I like it. I just mean that what she did was pretty ingenious,” Michael retorted. He crawls out of the butter coffin.
I’m still trying to wrap my mind around the idea that Caroline stuck Lehane inside a butter mold. At what temperature does butter melt? Did she melt his face like when gangsters pour acid on dead bodies in bathtubs to cover their tracks?
“Travis, what temperature does butter melt at?” I ask.
Travis pulls out his pocket butter manual. It has all butter facts in a handy, dandy spiral book. Where he got it, I don’t know. “Betty didn’t give me one of those,” I say.
“Before you get all bent out of shape, I ordered it online. Betty didn’t give it to me.”
“I wasn’t getting bent out of shape.”
“Yes, you were.”
“Just give me the facts,” I say.
“How very Joe Friday of you,” Travis says.
“Why are you being so crabby?” I ask.
“I’m not crabby,” he says. He pooches out his bottom lip, which means he’s crabby.
“He’s wearing girl panties and it’s uncomfortable,” Michael says. Travis glares at him then openly pulls his underwear out of his butt crack.
I had noticed he had been poking around at the seat of his pants. I thought he might have the nervous butt sweats like I get under stress, but I didn’t want to draw attention to it. Then a more horrifying thought occurs to me. “Please tell me those aren’
t my panties.”
“Of course not,” Travis says. “I bought them yesterday.”
“Why are you wearing girl panties?” I ask, hoping there’s a good reason for it.
“Authenticity,” Travis says. “I can’t have boxer lines showing. I thought I should practice, especially since I appear to have issues with panties. I don’t see why women don’t wear more comfortable and sensible undergarments like boxers or briefs.”
“I don’t need a fly in the front of my underpants, that’s why,” I say. My inner feminist rears up. Who does he think he is to criticize a woman’s choice of underpants?
“Now is not the time for an underwear war,” Michael says.
“He’s right,” Travis says.
Michael and I stare at him mouths agape. “Did he say what I thought he said?” Michael asks. “Did he just say I am right?”
“He did,” I reply.
“It happens from time to time,” Travis says, reaching into his pants and making adjustments.
I turn away. “I wish you wouldn’t do that in front of me.”
Michael steps in. “Okay, you two, concentrate. We need to figure out how she got him in there. The sides of the mold are at least two feet tall. She’d have trouble enough dragging him over here, never mind hoisting him over the side.”
He’s right. We check out more of the equipment that is stashed in the room. Michael stops in his tracks. His eyes light up. “The butter lifts! She could’ve rolled him onto the butter lift. With enough adrenalin pumping in her veins, it’d be entirely possible.”
“Like mother’s lifting cars off their babies,” Travis says.
Michael wheels over two butter lifts. “Let’s do a test.”
I grab a piece of plywood that is resting against a wall. The lifts operate like a car jack only they have a flat platform on top. We arrange the plywood and Michael lies on the board. I’m not certain I could get him on top of it. Then I remember the adrenalin rush Caroline must’ve had after clubbing poor Lehane.
Michael sits up. “We need to see if Jamie could get me up here.”
“Why me?” I say.
“Because you’re not much bigger than Caroline,” Travis says. He studies the problem. “If she lifted half of him at a time, she’d need to counterbalance the other end, or it’d be like a teeter totter.”
For Butter or Worse Page 17
