(This recalls a memory. Juniper and I were on a teeter totter at the playground, doing the teetering and tottering when she leapt off while I was up high and sent me slamming to the ground. I swear she cracked my tailbone. She was an evil child.)
“How about this?” Travis says, putting a toolbox on one end of the plywood. “Do his head first.”
I noticed that I was unanimously voted in by secret ballot. I suppose they’re right but my back hurts just looking at Michael’s head.
“Stop being a pansy,” Travis goads me. He knows I hate being called a pansy.
Michael gets a tarp before he lies down on the floor. “Yucky dirty,” he mumbles. Who’s the pansy now? “Okay, ready for my head lift,” Michael says, letting his body go slack.
I put my arms under his shoulders and prepare myself. “Use your legs,” Travis warns.
“I wonder if Caroline saw a chiropractor after she did the lift?” Michael says.
“Your concern for her back is touching. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you like her,” I say.
“I’ve never known anyone with such nerves of steel. She killed a man and there’s a pretty good chance she’ll get away with it,” Michael says. “And I’ve never actually known a murderess.” He says all this with awe in his voice.
“He does read a lot of true crime,” Travis adds.
I ignore them. I squat down and put my arms under Michael’s shoulders. He’s heavy.
“Pssst, someone’s coming,” Travis says urgently.
My heart suddenly bangs against my ribcage and I feel my fight or flight mechanism start to kick in. “Where? What? When?” I ask.
“Just kidding,” Travis says. “Lift him now.”
“Why did you do that?” I ask.
“We’re doing a re-creation. It needs to be as close to the real thing as possible. Now use your surge of adrenaline and go!” Travis says.
I do as he says. I quickly lift the head end of Michael, place him on the lift, and then grab his feet and do the same. I have no trouble lifting him. My adrenaline makes me feel like I slammed down two espressos. I wipe my brow with the back of my hand and put my hands on my hips. “Done.”
Travis plugs in the lifts and raises Michael to the edge of the tank. He’d easily roll into the mold, but we don’t push him in because he’d land face first and possibly break his nose. Lehane’s face probably didn’t fare well, but in his condition (dead) he wouldn’t have been aware of it.
Which raises another question... “She’d have to fill half the mold with butter first or his face would stick out the other side.” I remember we got side-tracked earlier from discussing butter temps. “How hot does butter have to be to melt?” I ask Travis again.
“Ninety to ninety-seven degrees,” Travis says.
Lehane wouldn’t have suffered much more than a sunburn. Not that it mattered. I wonder if, as a world class butter carver, he’d have wanted to leave this world covered head to toe in butter.
“I’ll call London,” I say.
***
London stares down at the butter mold. She still has pillow creases on her face and her hair is tousled. Her breath is fresh though. And she looks very sexy in her tight jeans and black T-shirt. Travis insisted she dress ninja, too. When she didn’t question my request, I knew we were becoming closer friends, moving beyond our lustful trysts. I’m not afraid of having a connection. Maybe this could work, I think. Or, maybe, I just like the way she looks in tight jeans.
“Well?” Travis asks excitedly.
London squints her eyes at Travis. “Why do you bear an uncanny likeness to Jamie?”
“He’s getting accustomed to being me,” I say.
London raises an eyebrow. “Because?”
“He’s doing the butter carving while pretending to be me because I can’t carve butter and he can. I don’t think we’re going to have to do it now, though. We think we know where Lehane’s body is located.”
“Okay, and where would that body be?” London asks in a voice that seems to signal that maybe we’ve gone a little crazy, but she’s willing to go along for the ride just for shits and grins.
We take her out to the butter carving booths where Caroline’s oversized butter block sits on a low turning pedestal. Next to her booth is Travis’s booth with his block of butter that he’ll turn into the Stonewall Riots homage. I point at Caroline’s booth.
London stares, “I don’t get it.”
“He’s in there,” Travis says, jabbing a finger at the booth.
“In the butter,” I add.
“You mean to tell me Lehane is encased in butter?”
“I think he’d like the idea of being enshrined in butter,” Michael says, putting his hand over his heart and sighing. He’s a sensitive guy. Travis puts an arm over his shoulder.
“Yep, he’s inside the butter block,” I say, feeling more than a little proud of myself.
“How do you know for sure?” London asks.
“We worked out the logistics,” Travis says petulantly. “It could happen.”
“That’s great, but it’s not proof,” London says.
We stare at her astonished. “I don’t mean to burst your bubble but if Lehane is in that hunk of butter over there,” she says, pointing to Caroline’s booth, “we still can’t prove she put him in there. Anyone with access to the butter barn could’ve done it in order to frame her as the most likely person to benefit from his death.”
“Can we poke a hole in the butter? Just to see if he’s in there?” Travis asks.
“Won’t it tip her off?” I ask. “Won’t she wonder why there’s a big pokey hole in her butter block?”
“Not if we repair the damage with this,” Michael says holding up a blowtorch.
Travis beams at him like a proud parent. “You’re so smart,” Travis says, kissing him on the cheek and leaving a lipstick print.
“Why are you wearing lipstick? I don’t wear lipstick.”
“No, but you should. It’s a very subtle shade. You didn’t even notice it until now.”
He’s right. I didn’t notice but, in my defense, I’ve been preoccupied with other things. “What’s wrong with my lips the way they are?”
“You have very nice lips. Very kissable lips,” London says.
“Ick,” Travis and Michael say at the same time.
I glare. “Like I don’t have to put up with your PDA stuff. She’s simply making an observation,” I say, secretly delighted by the compliment.
“Lipstick would bring them out more, that’s all I’m saying on the subject,” Travis says. He picks up an ice pick. “It would help fill out your thin upper lip.”
“What are you doing with that ice pick?” I ask with my thin upper lip.
“I’m going to find out if Lehane is in the butter,” Travis says. Michael follows him.
I look over at London and ask, “This isn’t witness tampering or anything?”
“Nope, not if the only witness is dead. Let’s go see,” London says. She calls out after them. “Be careful, we don’t want to tip her off.”
“We got this,” Travis says over his shoulder.
London takes my hand. “I know you want to make this happen, but we’ve got to be extremely careful. Caroline is smart enough to know when to run. If she was out on bail, we could stop her, but she’s not been charged with anything. If she wants to leave the country she could, and there’s not a damn thing we could do about it.”
“I know.”
We might’ve discussed things further, but Travis’s screaming stops us. We run to find him down on the floor, quickly crab-walking away from Caroline’s butter booth.
Michael scrambles over him to take a look. (I must admit Michael has a cast iron stomach – I’ve seen him pull a poopy piece of grass out of Ivan’s butthole while Travis and I gagged and dry heaved.) Michael peeks into the butter hole and then leap frogs over Travis and stands with his fist jammed in his mouth. Whatever he saw must be much worse than a g
rassy butthole.
“What did you see?” I ask. “What’s in the butthole?”
“Butthole?” London says.
“I meant butter hole. What’s in the butter hole?”
Travis and Michael don’t answer. They’re too busy being horrified. London shrugs and walks over to take a look. She suddenly steps back. “Whoa,” she says under her breath.
Now, as with passing an auto accident, I have to look. I slowly walk toward the butter hole.
“Jamie, I don’t think you should look,” London says.
“C’mon. How bad can it be? I’ve seen dead bodies before.” Okay, one dead body. Veronica had a one-night stand with an old high school flame and Beth turned up dead in Veronica’s bed, but that’s another story.
I peer in the hole expecting to see a bit of skin, a shirt collar, not an EYEBALL! Lehane’s open, dead eye is staring out at me from the butter hole. I step back right into London’s waiting arms. I’m shaking and gasping for air. She cradles me like a baby.
“See, it’s creepy,” Travis says, dusting himself off. I can tell he’s embarrassed even though there is no shame in being freaked out by a dead guy’s eye.
“Are we sure it’s him?” London asks.
We all groan.
“He’s got blue eyes,” I say. And that eye is blue. Was blue. Is blue.”
“Right,” London says. “But a lot of dead guys have blue eyes. Travis, can we make the hole a bit larger, so I can get a positive I.D?”
Travis hands her the torch. “Go for it.”
“Right,” London says. She approaches the butter hole and turns on the blowtorch.
Travis advises her, “It doesn’t take much to melt it. Don’t make too much of a hole.”
London aims the flame. In the space of ten seconds the left side of Lehane’s face is exposed.
“Yep, that’s him all right,” I say.
“Well, we’ve got our body,” London says, handing Travis the blowtorch. “You’ll need to fix that hole.”
Travis hands the blowtorch to Michael and pleads. “I’ll do anything. Just please cover the butter hole.”
Michael senses an opportunity. “Can I bring over more throw pillows for your bed?”
Travis nods. “Fine.”
Michael continues, “Can I put the shawl over the lamp in your bedroom like I’ve been aching to do for months?”
Again, Travis nods. “Fine.”
“Can I…”
“Just cover the butter hole!” Travis explodes.
“Okay, okay,” Michael says, taking the blowtorch. He fiddles with the torch’s knobs and mumbles, “But I’m bringing over my personal I Love Lucy coffee mug.”
“Deal,” Travis says. He picks up a palette knife and hands it to Michael.
Michael takes a deep, steadying breath. He addresses Lehane. “I’m really sorry about all this,” he says, then begins to melt the butter over Lehane’s face. He quickly smooths out the melted butter with the knife so it covers up what we’ve done. Travis inspects his work.
“Perfect,” Travis announces. “You’re my hero.”
Michael beams and they lock lips.
“Okay, what’s next?” I ask.
“I think I have a plan,” London says.
Chapter Fifteen
Travis, dressed as me, sits on a stool in my butter booth. He intently stares at a block of butter like he’s imagining what to sculpt. Leonardo da Vinci was once asked what the secret of sculpting was. Da Vinci answered, “It is simple. You just chip away everything that is not a part of the sculpture.”
It probably sounded better in Italian.
London and I mingle in with the growing crowd. Under duress, I’m dressed as a stick of butter. I’m blocky, cardboardy, and yellowy. There are cut-out holes for my face and arms. I have to take tiny steps because this costume restricts my legs. To make matters worse, I have a tray of souvenirs strapped to me like one of those cigarette girls from the ‘40s.
“Why are you dressed like a banana?” London asks.
“I’m not a banana. I’m a stick of butter.”
“Oh. Well…You look great,” London says. Her lips twitch. That’s how I know she’s lying.
“My butt is itchy,” I say. “I can’t reach it to scratch.”
“I’d scratch it for you, but that might lead to other things and we don’t have the time right now,” London says.
As the crowd grows, I lean over and whisper in London’s ear, “I’m not comfortable with this.”
“The costume’s not that bad,” she says.
“I’m not talking about the damn costume. I’m talking about this plan.”
“It’s a good plan,” London says. Her lips twitch again.
“You mean it’s our only plan.”
“That, too,” she says.
London’s disguise is a cowboy hat, sunglasses, a western shirt with piping, tight Wranglers, and boots. “Why do you get to be Annie Oakley and I have to be a dairy product?”
“Life isn’t fair,” London says.
“I’m going to take this damn costume off,” I say. “I’m getting claustrophobic.”
“You can’t take it off. We have to make sure Travis passes as you, which means you have to look nothing like you,” London says. She’s trying to peer around a man built like a Mack truck who is wearing overalls and a straw cowboy hat. “Come on, let’s get closer,” she whispers.
We jostle our way toward the front of the crowd. A few people give us dirty looks but we’re on police business here and when we catch Caroline red-handed they’ll forgive us. At least I hope they will.
The element of surprise is our trump card. Caroline is not expecting to get caught. We’re hoping she’s been lulled into a false sense of security. She thinks she’ll win, get the prize money, and go on a long vacation to a country that has no extradition. Lehane will be melted down just like the wicked witch of the west and Caroline will be free and clear.
“Can I go check on Michael?” I ask. It’s not that I don’t trust him, but our whole plan hinges on his ability to flip the right switch.
“Discreetly,” London says. “Pretend you need to use the ladies room or something.”
I tiny-step my way toward the restroom. On the way there, I slip into the butter equipment room. I don’t see Betty anywhere. We haven’t told her what we’re planning. It’s not like we don’t trust her, but the less people that know about our plan the better. Betty isn’t a very good liar and I don’t think her poker face is any better. She might tip off Caroline by acting strangely. We need her to be authentic.
I see Michael standing on the far side of the equipment room, next to a couple of fuse boxes and a bunch of coiled electrical lines. The lines look like a horde of black snakes slithering across the cement floor.
“How’s it going?” I ask.
“I’m so nervous. Look,” he squeaks, holding out his hands. They’re shaking pretty bad.
I try to comfort him. “All you have to do is shut off the breaker to the refrigeration in Caroline’s booth. Easy peasy.”
“But what if I get it wrong? What if I turn off Travis’s booth instead? He’ll kill me. He’s worked so hard on the plans for his Stonewall Riots masterpiece.”
It seems he’s more worried about Travis than Caroline. Of course, Travis would kill him if his masterpiece was ruined even if it was to catch a murderer. I point to the switch on the fuse box. “It’s clearly marked.”
“What if Caroline switched the labels? She’s capable of something like that,” Michael says. “She has one of those evil genius minds.”
I hadn’t considered that. Would she? Could she? It’s possible. Should I get Betty in on it? She’s the expert on this building. “We need Betty.”
“I thought we agreed not to bring her in,” Michael says. He’s chewing his fingernails.
I grab his wrist. “Stop it!”
“I can’t help it.” He sticks a finger in his mouth.
“You’ll
ruin your manicure,” I warn. Michael is fanatical about his hands. He sighs and pulls his finger away from his mouth.
“Do you have a nail file?”
“Do I look like I have a nail file?”
“Check your purse,” he says.
“Michael, seriously? I’m dressed as an inanimate object. I’m a fuckin’ stick of butter. Sticks of butter don’t carry nail files or purses.”
He sticks his finger back in his mouth and gnaws nervously.
“I’m getting Betty,” I say. Michael has good intuition, and, as my mother has told me since I was a teenager, intuition is a powerful force. If Michael hears a little voice saying there was a switcheroo on the fuse box, we best listen to it.
I make my way through the crowd and stand casually near the judges’ table where Betty is sitting. Luckily, she’s sitting on the end. I follow her gaze to my booth where Travis is convincingly playing me. He’s got a good start on his sculpture, too. The paddy wagon is crisp and sharp and the Stonewall bar in the background looks like the photo. (I’ve never been to New York City so all I’ve seen are photos. Same goes for Travis.) They’ve got six hours to carve their masterpieces and every second counts. Caroline is sculpting a man. She’s got the face done and Betty is mesmerized. I study the head. “Is that Lehane she’s sculpting?” I whisper.
She nods.
“I need to talk to you for a minute. I’ll meet you in the ladies restroom,” I say.
She nods again. I weave and tiny-step my way through the crowd. There’s a long line for the women’s restroom, of course. It’s a universal phenomenon. Actually, I think it’s because men design most buildings and they have no concept of how long it takes a woman to pee and hoist up all her elaborate clothing.
Betty sidles up next to me in the line. “What’s so important?” she asks, keeping her voice low. “It’ll look suspicious if I’m not at the judging table. We don’t want to tip off Caroline. You know, Travis is doing a really respectable job. I think he has potential as a carver. We do need a replacement for poor Lehane.” She sighs like the weight of the butter world rests on her sad, stooped shoulders.
For Butter or Worse Page 18
