Footprints in the Butter (13 page)

I said, “What’s wrong, Bingo?”

“Nothing.” He glanced around the crowded room as if searching for a hidden nest of rattlesnakes.

I unwrapped my napkin and fiddled with one knife, one spoon and two forks. “Where have you been, Bingo? And why did you want to meet me here tonight?”

“I’m in trouble, Ing.”

Trouble. The seven-letter word for distress was trouble
.

I said, “What kind of trouble, Bingo?”

Before he could answer, Tad placed our drinks and a plastic bread basket on the table. “Are you ready to order?” she asked. “Our special tonight is Shrimp Alfredo.”

“Fine,” said Bingo.

“You’re allergic to shrimp,” I said. “Bring him spaghetti, Tad.”

“Do you want spaghetti, sir?”

“Fine,” said Bingo.

“Meatballs, sir? Sausage? Meat sauce?”

“Yes,” said Bingo. After polishing off his first drink, he reached for the second glass.

“Which one, sir? Meatballs?”

“Tad,” I said, “my friend isn’t feeling very well. Just bring him spaghetti. I’ll have the same.”

“That’s stupid, Ingrid. You can eat spaghetti at home.”

“You choose, Tad. No shrimp, no veal, okay?”

“Soup or salad?”

“Tad, leave us alone, I’m not kidding. Salad’s fine, and don’t you dare ask what kind of dressing.” I glanced at the Roman Colada. “When you have time, please bring me a real drink. Vodka, splash of tonic.”

“Stoli?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“You’re right, it doesn’t matter.” Abruptly, she turned and walked toward the giggly women.

I turned toward my ex who isn’t my ex. “What kind of trouble, Bingo?”

“Well, I…shit! Doesn’t she ever leave the room to get food or something?” Bingo nodded at Tad, who was within earshot, making a play for Life’s Hard Then You Die.

“Hey, he’s mine,” screeched the birthday girl. “I found him first. Bring us some more breadsticks or I’ll find a manager.”

Tad said, “Yes, ma’am, right away.”

I noticed we had breadsticks, too, and extended the basket toward Bingo. “Here, eat. Soak up some of that vodka, kiddo.” He really did look sick, generating my kiddo. “What kind of trouble, Bingo?”

Ignoring the basket, he lit a Pall Mall.

“It’s non-smoking,” I reminded him.

“Screw you! Screw everybody!”

“You’re not s’posed to say bad words like screw,” said a balloon boy. He stood by my elbow, right next to one of his little sisters. “And you’re not s’posed to smoke.”

“True,” I said. “But kids are
supposed
to behave and stay with their parents.”

“You’re gonna kill yourself, mister. You’re gonna get cancer and die. You’d better put that out.”

While I watched Tad balance an overloaded tray, Bingo extended his cigarette and burst Balloon Boy’s balloon. It made one hell of a noise.

Startled, the birthday girl dropped her wine glass and spilled red wine all over her white sweater.

Life’s Hard stood up and tried to catch the wine glass, but caught Birthday Girl’s breast instead. Birthday Girl instinctively lashed out with one pointy-toed foot, kicking Life’s Hard between his thighs. He clutched his crotch, sang “Ohsitohshitohshit,” and sank back onto his chair.

Balloon Boy said, “You’re not s’posed to say shit.” His little sister chanted, “Pop my bloon, too, mister, pop my bloon, too, mister, pop my bloon too, mister.”

Bingo complied, probably to shut her up.

This time the unexpected bang caused Tad to jump. Her tray jack fell and her tray seemed to jump out of her hand. Pasta, salad, bread sticks, and my vodka splash landed everywhere. Tad landed on the floor. “Ohmigod,” she wailed, “I think I broke my foot or sprained my ankle, something hurts.”

“You sonofabitch!” shouted Balloon Boy’s father. Lasagna covered his head like a cheesy toupee.

“Don’t cuss, dear,” said his wife. Removing lettuce leaves and black olives from her prominent bust, she turned toward Bingo. “You tried to burn my children with a lit cigarette, you bastard. I’m gonna call the cops.”

Bingo bolted.

“Wait!” I yelled, rising. “Bingo, wait!”

I fumbled inside my purse, extracted a ten dollar bill, and tossed it toward the Roman Colada. Stepping over Tad’s prone body, I heard her say, “Ingrid, it does matter. I’ve got to talk to you.”

I ignored Tad. Weaving my way through five balloon kids, two bus boys, and one apoplectic manager, I sprinted toward the lobby. Bingo wasn’t there. I checked the lounge, the parking lot, and the men’s room. No Bingo.

“Did you see a tall man wearing boots, jeans and a red plaid shirt?” I asked the hostess.

She stared at me as if I had lost my mind. The restaurant was filled with men wearing boots, jeans and red plaid shirts. In fact, somebody could have staged a production number for a new musical called
Colorado
.

“He looks a little like Moondoggie,” I said, desperately. “Only older.”

“Moon who?”

“Doggie. Never mind. My friend has white-blond hair and he was in one hell of a hurry.”

She glanced down at her pad of crossed-out names. “Mr. Barry?”

“No. Yes.”

“He’s gone, ma’am.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I backtracked toward the dining room, searching for Tad. And found her, standing in a small alcove near the kitchen—the servers’ station. Surrounded by beverage apparatus, holding an ice-filled napkin against her ankle, she looked like a genetically altered flamingo.

“Talk now, talk fast,” I said.

“I saw Wylie the night before he was killed, Ingrid. I was supposed to go home with Junior Hartsel, but he left after I danced with Ben. I guess he was jealous. Anyhoo, said the owl, I drank too much champagne. I’m ashamed to say it, but I was standing in the corner, singing round ’em up, herd ’em out, rawhide, and showing off my butt. I’m so embarr—”

“Hurry!”

“Dwight wouldn’t let me drive. I felt sick, so he and Alice took me to their house. Dwight went straight to bed. Alice brewed coffee. Somebody knocked. Alice opened the door. Wylie walked in. Alice was so mad she forgot I was there. Wylie didn’t see me. I was on the couch, curled into a ball, wishing I could throw up and get it over with.”

“Tad!”

“Wylie said he was sorry. Alice began to cry. Then Alice said something that sounded like tomorrow. I’m pretty sure she said tomorrow, Ingrid, even though she was sobbing. Wylie told one of his riddles, some dumb joke about mulligan stew.”

“How do you make an
elephant
stew?”

“That’s it. Wylie said he couldn’t wait. I passed out. Later I woke up and went looking for a bathroom. There was a lamp inside this guest bedroom, across from the bathroom. Its bulb wasn’t very bright, but I could see them. I guess they were in such a big hurry they didn’t lock the door. They didn’t even close the door. I guess they figured Dwight couldn’t walk in on them and I was out cold. At first I couldn’t see Wylie’s you-know-what, just his butt. But he must have sensed that someone was watching. He rolled away from Alice and he was under the light and he was still aroused and I could see he wasn’t wearing a condom. Isn’t that stupid, Ingrid?”

Not really, I thought, because Alice had been a virgin. She had never been…shall we say tainted?…by other men, not even her husband.

How do you make an elephant stew? Keep him waiting.

Obviously, Wylie couldn’t wait to get it on with Alice. But Alice had waited thirty years.

Ohmigod! After banging Alice, did Wylie refuse to divorce Patty? Could an angry, rejected, no-conscience Alice lose her cool and kill in cold blood?

Maybe.

A definite maybe.

Chapter Thirteen

My first impulse was to visit Alice and verify Tad’s story, but Alice could wait. Other, more pressing matters made me splash through parking lot puddles, fumble for my Jeep keys, nearly strip my transmission shifting gears, and run three yellow lights that were more red than yellow.

Would Bingo leave another message on my machine?

Was Ben home from the precinct?

Parking in my driveway, I saw Ben’s rental car, which meant nothing since Ben had been towed away, so to speak, by Lieutenant Miller.

It occurred to me that Ben’s car looked impersonal, almost alien. Jeep was my friend. I had driven Jeep up and down the mountains, seeking inspiration. Once upon a time, I had caught a TV special about Paul Simon, who composed his music inside a house by the ocean. Jeep was my house, Pikes Peak my ocean.

Why was I contemplating Jeeps versus rental cars? Why was I suddenly scared to confront Ben? Or was I just scared? I had this funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. Intuition? Hunger? Or did Wylie’s killer lurk? No way! Hitchcock would be barking his head off. Unless it was Bingo. We had adopted Hitchcock nine months before Bingo hit the road, and while my ex tended to verbally abuse wives, waitresses, and balloon kids, he had this thing for animals.

“I’m in trouble,” he had said. What kind of trouble? And why had he contacted me after the reunion, immediately following Wylie’s murder? Newspapers had touted the reunion, touted Wylie. Bingo, obsessively jealous, possessed Wylie’s picture. But Bingo was a pacifist. He couldn’t kill.

Yeah, right. People changed. I had changed. Patty had changed. And Alice, married, moral to the max, had slept with the late great Wylie Jamestone.

Why would Wylie sleep with Alice? He had fame and fortune, thus could score with any number of young, nubile nymphs. Except I wasn’t young or nubile, so why score with me?

Was it because I had mentioned Bingo’s impotence and my subsequent chastity?

In other words, Wylie didn’t have to worry about dropping dead after sleeping with me, and he definitely didn’t have to worry about Alice. She hadn’t even slept with Dwight, who had slept with Tad, who had probably banged the whole football team.

Alice and I had once rented
Sleepless in Seattle
. Alice said she loved that movie because there weren’t any scenes where Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan “buffed” each other. Alice meant boffed, of course. After one glass of diluted sherry, she had drunkenly confessed that she had never buffed Dwight.

Bottom line: Alice was clean as a whistle, unbuffed. Wylie was scared of catching a venereal, sexually transmitted disease. In a weird sense, it all made perfect sense.

A muted glow emanated from my family room’s window. I didn’t remember flicking the wall switch off, so I could have left it on.

Stop procrastinating, Beaumont! Open the damn door!

Hitchcock greeted me joyously.

Doris Day smiled brainlessly.

Ben’s eyes were icy.

“Goodbye, Ingrid,” he said. “I thought you’d be here waiting, but you obviously consider Wylie’s treasure hunt more important…” He paused, breathing hard. “I wish I could say it’s been fun and games, but all it’s been are games.”

Staring down at my boots, contemplating toenail polish, I noticed four distinct objects—Ben’s sneakers and a set of matching luggage. Since I was bothered, to put it mildly, I blurted the first thing that popped into my head. “Would you cook me one last meal?”

“
I’m
the condemned prisoner, Ingrid.”

“Please, Ben, I’m hungry.”

“Where the hell have you been?”

“I was at the Olive Garden restaurant.”

“That’s probably why you’re hungry.”

“I didn’t eat anything, not even a breadstick.”

“You went to a restaurant, but didn’t eat? I suppose you’ve smoked pot but never inhaled. What did you do at your damn restaurant? Visit their rest room?”

“No! I met Bingo and—”

“You played bingo?”

“Not played, met.”

Alice’s newsletter had publicized the blissful union between Ingrid Anastasia Beaumont and Barry Isaac Nicholas Gregory Oates. During a calmer moment, Ben might have been able to decipher an obvious acronym. But he wasn’t calm. He wasn’t even listening.

“I’ve tried to understand why you want to jeopardize our relationship,” he said. “Maybe your so-called ex was right. Maybe he sensed your deranged devotion to Wylie and that’s why he took off with your prom picture.”

“Ohmigod, Ben, that’s so unfair.”

“You have the nerve to talk about unfair after your Patty accusation?” His craggy jaw jutted. “Patty’s vulnerable. She just lost her husband!”

“Her
husband
entrusted me with a mission. If I got killed and left you a clue, wouldn’t you follow up on it?”

“That’s a ridiculous hypothesis.”

“Patty wants to sleep with you, Ben. If I’m dead, it will make it so much easier.”

“I’m shoving off, Ingrid. I just waited around to wish you a happy life.”

“You could have left me a note. Everybody leaves me notes,” I said, trying to sound tough, failing miserably.

“A note would have been inappropriate, all things considered.”

“Define all things considered. My multiple orgasms? My near hit with death?”

“Goodbye, Ingrid.”

“Are you going back to Tulsa?”

“No. Wylie’s memorial service is Sunday. Besides, the cops told me to stick around.”

“Sunday? Why would Patty wait so long?”

“Celebs have to adjust their schedules.”

“Oh. Of course. And Wylie’s sister—”

“Isn’t coming.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. Patty didn’t offer an explanation.”

“When did you talk to Patty?”

“Are you nuts? Last night. We discussed more than milk and cookies.”

“Not cookies, Ben, pie. Poisoned pie!”

“Whatever.”

“Do you…” I swallowed rocks for the third time in twelve hours. “Do you plan to stay at Patty’s house?”

He shook his head. “I’m not an idiot. You’re playing detective, and you believe Patty and I are lovers. Why would I stay there?”

“I didn’t say you and Patty—”

“You didn’t have to. Your expression this afternoon said it all.”

Rats! Was I getting that transparent? I had trained myself to feign dispassion, exhibit frigidity. Indifference is a powerful aphrodisiac, especially in Hollywood. I had been awarded more than one assignment based on my lukewarm attitude, I’m not exactly sure why. Human nature, I guess.

Mother Nature was whipping up another thunderstorm. I could hear my window panes shudder. And Hitchcock, not the bravest mutt in town, was trying to wedge himself between Doris Day and the fireplace grate.

Glancing toward the window, I saw that there was a bee trapped between the screen and glass. “What,” I said, “goes zub zub?”

“A bee flying backwards,” said Ben.

“I thought you weren’t good at riddles.”

“I can spell.”

“Okay, but you can’t go outside in this weather,” I pleaded. “Stay until morning. Please?”

Ben hesitated.

Then, of course, I blew it. “What happened at the precinct, Ben?” I said. “Why did you ask for an attorney? Does Lieutenant Miller honestly think you had something to do with Wylie’s murder? It couldn’t be the jacket alone. That’s too circumstantial. What other evidence have they collected? Anything that pinpoints sweet, innocent Patty-Cakes?”

“Riddle yourself to sleep, Ingrid.” His icy eyes melted a smidgen. “I’ll be at the Broadmoor Hotel. Call if you need me.”

“Ben,” I called, “I need you.”

But the bang of the front door smothered my cry.

I sank onto the couch like a slow motion deep sea diver. Hitchcock sensed my mood. Tail between his legs, he pressed his fuzzy muzzle between my knees.

I scratched his ears. He whined and burrowed closer while I thought of two things. First, Jimi Hendrix had said that the story of love is hello and goodbye…and hello again. Second, the Broadmoor Hotel was only a few short blocks from Patty Jamestone’s house.

I shifted positions on the couch. That way my gaze could wander toward the window and I could see Ben return if he changed his mind. I pictured him bursting into my family room, arms extended, mouth forming the words “I’m sorry.” My mind conjured up background music. Something romantic, something Sleepless-in-Seattle, something Barbra Streisand and Neil Diamond.

There was a small hole in the window screen. The bee buzzed frantically, failing to catch the hole. He reminded me of me.

Watching the bee, my hand drifted under a couch cushion. Whereupon, I encountered a lump surrounded by cellophane.

The missing fortune cookie!

Its wrapper had a tiny printed name—The Four Leaf Clover Company—plus an address that included the words Clear Lake City, Texas. Its strip of paper read: “A peace rally is as much of a misnomer as a slumber party.”

* * *

I slumbered on the couch, waking once to scarf down a huge bowl of banana-garnished Cheerios, twice to use the bathroom, and three times to check on the bee’s progress. Finally, as the sun ventured to rise through leftover storm clouds, I struggled to open my stubborn window and unhinge the screen. Ben had fitted the window with an old closet-stored screen while I was in the hospital. Did that mean he believed my kill-Ingrid supposition? Or was he merely being considerate? Probably the latter.

Just like Ben, the bee winged its way toward a more receptive environment, still buzzing up a storm.

It was too early to call Texas, so I brewed coffee, avidly consumed a thick peanut-butter-banana sandwich, showered, dumped a ton of laundry into my washer, and fed Hitchcock. Just for grins, I checked the credit limit on my last Visa statement, shook my head, and reached for my American Express card—don’t leave home without it.

I glanced at my ersatz Coca-Cola clock, the kitchen phone extension, the clock, the phone again. Then, after stuffing my laundry into the dryer, I touch-toned Information.

“The Four Leaf Clover Company,” I said, feeling dumb.

The operator’s computerized tape recorder actually had a number, only the business was based in Houston.

Strike one
.

I was positive Wylie’s sister knew the answer to my fortune cookie conundrum. She lived in Clear Lake City, not Houston proper. But to Patty, who believed that Brooklyn Heights was a spit away from Long Island, Clear Lake City and Houston were the same. They weren’t, of course. It would be like saying Disneyland was an L.A. suburb.

I had once visited my friend Charlie Daniels, who was singing his devil-went-down-to-Georgia song for the movie
Urban Cowboy
, filmed in Pasadena Texas, truly a spit away from Clear Lake City. During that visit, I had fallen madly in lust with John Travolta and “done lunch” with Diane Jamestone.

Searching my memory bank, I tried to recollect everything I knew about Wylie’s sister. Diane “Woody” Jamestone looked like Woody Allen with breasts. While Wylie’s resemblance to Woody Allen had been charismatic, Diane’s had been catastrophic. For reasons known only to her, and possibly Wylie, she had never opted for plastic surgery and/or marriage. She worked as a paste-up artist for the local telephone directory.

Information had her number. Woody’s machine answered. Her recorded voice sounded brusque. “If your call’s important,” she said, “leave your name and number at the sound of the beep. If you’re calling about Wylie Jamestone, stick it up your jumper!”

Strike two!

“Hello, Woody, are you there?” I waited; no response. “This is Ingrid Beaumont. I’m not calling about Wylie. Well, in a way I guess I am. This is stupid. Look, I’m flying into Houston and I have your address, at least I think I do. Please let me talk to you. It’s important. I’ve got a message from Wylie, something he said the night before he was killed.”

With that, I hung up. I didn’t care to overstate my case and I wanted to pique Woody’s curiosity.

Next, I asked the kid next door to feed, walk and play with Hitchcock. I left him a list of people who had access to my house. The list was short. One name. Ben Cassidy.

Upon returning home, I spread the last of my peanut butter between two slices of bread. The bananas were depleted, but not my curiosity. Ben would probably call it meddling, or, considering that he was a veterinarian, he might call it mousing.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” I told Hitchcock.

His ears twitched at the word cat, yet he remained by my side. Maybe he wanted to catch a few crumbs from my sandwich. Maybe he sensed my pending departure and wanted a few crumbs of affection.

I knew exactly how he felt.