Footprints in the Butter (15 page)

The dashboard clock didn’t work and my watch had stopped at three-ten. I figured it was now around three-fifty. For the first time in a long time, I desperately wanted a cigarette. But cigarettes cost money, the real reason why I had quit. My gaze strayed toward the car’s ashtray. Most of the butts had been smoked down to their filters. However, one survived. Pressing the lighter into the dash, I lovingly smoothed out the ciggie’s crumpled tip.

The lighter didn’t work. I wasn’t surprised.

Then I remembered the motel matches and fumbled inside my purse.

Half the matches were missing, probably because the cheap-spirited motel manager didn’t bother replacing used matchbooks with new. Curious, I extended my hand toward the car’s window, catching the street lamp’s glow. What dopey western motif had she used on the cover? Roy Rogers? Gene Autry? Champion?

Not even close. The matchbook was discreet. A white cover with black lettering. THE PALMER HOUSE HILTON.

My
Killer Shrink!
buddy-cop movie had used the Palmer House Hilton’s magnificent lobby for one scene. The Palmer House was located in Chicago.

Focusing my mind on the motel room, I remembered the toilet seat’s paper strip. A maid had changed the sheets and cleaned the room. She would have discarded the matches if they had been left by a previous guest. Which meant that they had been left by the intruder.

Chicago
. According to lounge entertainers, I had the time of my life. Obviously, those loungers hadn’t been with me when I visited Richard Daley’s city for the 1968 Democratic National Convention. I never saw a man dance with his wife, but I did see police dance with protesters. They rocked, rolled, swayed, swung, whirled, twirled, and, in general, tripped the nightlife fantastic. My most prominent Chicago testimonial was a scar on my forehead, which I covered with my bangs.

Chicago
. I had been very dissonant, very dissident,
very
visible. Was there a pro-Vietnam activist stalking? Avenging? But why would she wait twenty-plus years, then follow me to Texas and trash my motel room? That made even less sense than my Bingo jealousy theory.

My hands were trembling. I struck three matches before one ignited. Finally, I drew stale nicotine into my lungs.

Dear God! The rush! My head practically exploded while my bladder demanded instant discharge. In other words, I had to pee. Badly. And if I pissed off Woody, too bad.

The
60 Minutes
ladies had toted portable potties. I was parked in a residential neighborhood, and seriously doubted that I could make it to the nearest gas station in time. So I really had no choice. Gathering my courage and resolve, I staggered toward Woody’s front door and rang her bell until she answered.

She wore a brown terrycloth bathrobe, minus belt. Her nightgown was red flannel. Her short mussed hair matched her robe. Her eyes matched her nightie. She had been crying. Or maybe she had some sort of allergy.

Yup. She did. She was allergic to me.

“Go ’way, Ingrid,” she said, and began to shut the door.

“Bathroom,” I gasped. “Please.”

Her mouth twisted into a scowl. “Hey, I’m not stupid.”

“Hey, I’m not kidding. If you don’t let me inside, I’ll pull down my jeans and squat on your doorstep.”

Her scowl became a lopsided grin. “I’ll just bet you would. Wylie—” Her grin vanished. “Wylie told me about the coach’s office. Prom night.”

“That was a mail slot,” I said between clenched teeth, “and I didn’t pee, I—wait a sec! How did Wylie know about the coach’s office?”

“Wylie knew everything.”

“Woody, please! I’ll leave after I use your bathroom, cross my heart.”

“Okay, Ingrid.” She opened the door wide and stepped aside.

From the tiny vestibule, I could discern a living room on my left, a dining room on my right. They were both furnished but the walls were white, empty. Not one picture, not even a clock.

“You look like shit,” Woody said.

The bathroom’s fluorescent lighting did nothing to contradict her comment. The bloom was definitely fading from the Rose, and I wondered why Buddy had initiated his seduction. Perhaps his eyesight was failing, along with his better judgment. And why did men tend to age with grace while women just tended to age?

Ben was even better looking now than he had been thirty years ago, and Wylie hadn’t really needed his fame or fortune to attract groupies. Despite his scorn for jocks, Wylie had matured into a shorter, whiter, skinnier Michael Jordan.

Dwight Cooper, always a hunk, was graceless below the waist. But above his belt, he still resembled Steve Reeves, that non-acting actor who had played all those marvelous “Hercules on a Freaking Rampage” roles. Dwight’s eyes had appeared zombie-ish during the reunion dance, but usually they shined with intelligence. Once upon a time he had been a virtual blur on the football field. Now he sold insurance with the same whiz-bang proficiency.

Even Buddy boy, disillusioned, disenchanted, not to mention dishonorable, had presented a tempting facade.

Only Junior Hartsel and Patty Jamestone broke the mold. Patty because she had aged with grace, and Junior because he hadn’t.

What about Bingo? Well, if he exercised and paid the barber a visit, he’d pass muster.

My
hair looked drab, a magnified version of the skunk cabbage’s cowl-shaped spathe. For the first time in my life, I wished that I possessed Alice Shaw Cooper’s expertise with a comb and bleach bottle. Alice had aged neatly. But then Alice had always looked fifteen going on fifty.

On the other hand, Tad was trying to reconstruct those wonderful days of yesteryear, when she had mooned her butt at the drop of a hat.

I heard a knock on the bathroom door. “Are you asleep, Ingrid?” Woody said. “Or did you fall in?”

“I’m asleep.”

She actually chuckled. “I could brew some coffee. That might wake you up.”

“I’d love a cup of coffee, Woody, thanks.”

“Why were you parked outside my house?”

I sighed. “It’s a long story.”

“You can start by telling me what Wylie said the night before he was killed.”

Chapter Sixteen

“Wylie’s last words were a riddle?”

“Yes.”

“How do you make a statue of an elephant? That’s what he said?”

“Yes.” Seated at Woody’s kitchen table, I sipped her strong black coffee and sighed with pleasure. “Wylie left the dance in a hurry, and was killed before he could give me an answer. I don’t suppose you know the answer.”

Woody’s eyes looked like Fourth of July firecrackers—red, white, blue, and sizzling. “Damn you, Ingrid! I thought from your message that Wylie’s last words were about
me
.”

“Well, he didn’t exactly know his riddle might turn out to be his last words. I mean, they weren’t really his last…I assume he said something between the dance and…okay, my message was tacky, but I needed to see you.”

“Why?”

“This.” I reached for the cookie wrapper, which, fortunately, I had kept in my back pocket. Otherwise the thief might have added it to her stash of goodies. “Tell me about The Four Leaf Clover Company.”

“Would you like something to eat?”

“Sure. Thanks. Have you ever heard of a company called The Four Leaf—?”

“No.”

“No?” My eyebrow skimmed my bangs as I crinkled cellophane between my fingers.

“Maybe Wylie mentioned it,” Woody said, reluctantly.

“Mentioned it or created it?”

She opened the refrigerator door. “I have some leftover chicken, liverwurst, and three hard-boiled eggs.”

“Do you have any egg rolls? I love Chinese food. During the reunion, Wylie recommended a local Chinese restaurant. I think he wanted me to read your cookies.”

“What do you mean
my
cookies?”

“Your address is on the cellophane. How do you think I found your house?”

“I assumed you looked it up in the telephone directory.”

“Rats! That never occurred to me. I’m digging a damn hole with a damn spoon.”

“Ingrid,” said Woody, slamming the refrigerator door shut, “what do you want from me?”

“Answers.”

“It’s none of your business!”

“I’m making it my business. Wylie made it my business. He told me a riddle that may or may not have something to do with his murder. He left me a painting of Doris Day. Pillow-talking, once-I-had-a-secret-loving
Doris Day!
You’ve been very nice, Woody, and I feel like some damn parasite, but I really have no choice. I’ve been poisoned, abandoned by the only man I’ve ever loved, robbed at the Norman Bates mo—”

“Calm down.”

Gasping for breath, I pounded on the table with both fists. “Somebody owes me an explanation!”

Woody walked over to an old-fashioned bread box, opened it, and retrieved three slices from a loaf of seeded rye. I could sense the intelligent wheels in her head spinning.

“Since Wylie named you his parasitic beneficiary, so to speak, I’ll explain what I can,” she finally said. “But first you must understand one thing. Wylie and I hated each other.”

“Why?”

“Politics. Ideologies. Sexual preferences.”

I stared at her. “You’re—”

“Happy with my lifestyle. No regrets. No guilt.”

Well, that certainly explained Wylie’s reaction to my Peter Pan is always played by a woman remark.

“Despite his repugnance and repudiation,” Woody continued, “Wylie always confided in me, don’t ask me why.”

“Please sit down.”

“At first Wylie savored his success,” she said, ignoring my plea to sit. “It brought him money and power and Patty. Pretty Patty. She couldn’t spend my brother’s money fast enough. He encouraged her, laughed when she bought their mansion on Long Island, their status cars, jewelry. But she desperately wanted a movie career, which he wouldn’t buy her.”

“Why not?”

“I think the deal was that she could only perform for him. Tit for tat. Patty’s tit for tattered dreams.”

God, what a great line! Maybe I could write it into my Bonnie Raitt song, the one about doormats. I’d have to make tit a bird or something, but I could call my song
Tattered Dreams
.

“Remember how Patty starred in almost every Colorado Springs Community Theatre production?” Woody asked.

I nodded.

“Well, I think she married Wylie because he was accumulating mega-bucks and he planned to move to New York. Broadway beckoned. But Wylie wouldn’t let her audition. He was always so damn stubborn.”

“I know. Once he got an idea into his head, you couldn’t change his mind. He’d simply manipulate—”

“Mustard or mayo?”

“What?”

“I’m fixing you a club sandwich, Ingrid, with chicken, liverwurst and eggs.”

“Mustard. Just chicken and eggs, please. Kill the wurst. So what happened to rock the boat?”

“Patty had an affair.”

“With who? Whom?”

“Someone who lives in Colorado Springs.”

“You’re kidding! When did Patty visit the Springs? And why didn’t Alice spread the news?”

“Are you kidding? Why would Patty broadcast her visits when she was having an affair?”

“Yeah, right. Good point.” I felt my cheeks bake. “How did Wylie find out? Private detective?”

“I don’t know. But Wylie knew. And he threatened Patty with divorce.”

“Why didn’t she take him up on it? With her settlement she could have financed her own play, or even a small movie.”

“Patty signed a prenuptial agreement. If they divorced, she’d get practically zero. Here’s your sandwich, Ingrid.”

“Thanks. Why would Patty sign a prenuptial agreement? I thought Wylie wanted his Somebody-I-Adore very badly. He was nuts about her.”

“He was nuts about you.” Having served the sandwich, Woody finally sat.

“Me? That’s crazy. He never even gave one hint—”

“Wylie couldn’t handle rejection, and you would have rejected him. You were in love with Ben Cassidy. Wylie told me intimate details about you and Ben.”

“The prom! Wylie must have spied on Ben and me. That’s how he knew about the coach’s mail slot. Then there was Stewie’s wake, marathon sex with Ben. Ohmigod! New York!”

“New York?”

“I rejected him and he couldn’t deal with that. Never mind. Snagged pantyhose.” Ignoring Woody’s puzzled expression, I stood and leaned against the table. “I presume Patty promised to clean up her act.”

“Correct.”

“That doesn’t explain the fortune cookies.”

“Enter Junior Hartsel.”

“Junior? I don’t understand.”

“Eat your sandwich and let me talk.”

“Sorry.” I plopped my butt onto the chair again. It was a comfortable chair, the white cushions patterned with those adorable Jewish ducks, ducks that wore kerchiefs on their heads and looked like they quacked in Yiddish.

“Junior had this brilliant advertising scheme,” said Woody. “He wanted to produce fortune cookies with ads inside. For example, the strip of paper might read ‘A single rose for the living is better than a costly wreath at the grave.’ On the back it would say So-and-So’s Flower Boutique, address and phone number. Junior wanted my brother to invest.”

“But the cookies I saw didn’t—”

“Let me finish.”

“Sorry.”

“I was involved because of my P.R. background. Before I went into layout and composition, I sold ads. Anyway, Wylie thought the idea stupid, but he led poor Junior on a merry chase. They flew to Houston and met with me to discuss details. Junior had computer printouts that showed labor costs, profit margins, test markets, even a name for the corporation. Coyote’s Cookies. Wylie suggested Acme.”

“Of course. Roadrunner cartoons. Wylie always loved them.”

“Junior was ecstatic. Then, after weeks of procrastination, my brother reneged.”

“Why would Wylie do that to Junior?”

“His thing about jocks.”

My sandwich tasted like sawdust as I suddenly realized that Wylie had spiked the prom punch on purpose, challenged Dwight on purpose, even if it placed all of us in danger. Wylie had always been intuitive. He knew that Dwight, drunk or sober, wouldn’t let anybody drive his new convertible. Had the top been down? Yes. Wylie had sat on the folded-down top, his legs dangling around Alice. Patty had sat in Stewie’s lap while I had sat in Ben’s. Tad had perched up front, next to Dwight, so that he could cop a feel every now and then. And nobody had suspected Wylie’s ingenuity. Or his duplicity.

“Wylie,” Woody said, “took it one step further. Using Junior’s computer printout, he established The Four Leaf Clover Company. Then he began to test market his own cookies.”

“But I thought he thought the idea was stupid.”

“Wylie didn’t care if he lost money. You see, my brother no longer savored success, don’t ask me why.”

I didn’t have to ask. I knew why. Wylie honestly believed he’d sold out, and the price of his success wasn’t happiness, or even self-fulfillment. He hadn’t gone from nothing to something, except financially. He hadn’t developed that God-given talent, merely exploited it. Which in my book, and Horatio Alger’s book, was okay. Except Horatio Alger preached hard work and resistance to temptation. In the beginning, Wylie had tempted resisters with his satirical antiwar lampoons. Then he had tempted investors. Finally, inevitably, he had succumbed to temptation.

Had it led to his death?

He must have known death was a possibility, else why the treasure hunt? Why leave the painting to me?

Because once upon a time we were kindred spirits?

Because, according to Woody, Wylie was nuts about me?

Had perfect Patty known that Wylie was nuts about me? Could her motive be jealousy?

Nah
, to quote Kim O’Connor. I wasn’t nuts about Wylie. Besides, according to Patty, her husband had been screwing around for years. Why kill him now?

Or had Junior killed Wylie?

Maybe they were working together. Patty for her freedom, Junior for vindication.

On the other hand, who gave a rat’s spit? After my prom revelation, did I really want to identify Wylie’s killer?

Of course I did. Because the killer was now after me!

A contemplative Woody refilled my coffee mug. I sipped through steam then said, “Why did Wylie put your address on the cookie wrappers?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I suppose Wylie sensed his mortality and felt familial. He bought me a brand new Honda for my birthday last summer, and his card read ‘Sell it or drive it, I don’t care. Love Wylie.’ Love Wylie. There was no comma. I was supposed to love him…” She paused and shrugged.

I didn’t mention that her Prelude still squatted in her carport. Or that her eyes had been very red when I knocked on her door. Truthfully, Woody and Wylie’s love-hate relationship was none of my business. Unless she had traveled to Colorado Springs and bopped her brother over the head. Unless she had seen my rental car earlier, followed me, written it’s time to stray on my motel mirror, stolen my credit cards, and slashed my mattress with a stupid guitar-handled knife.

“Your address,” I prompted.

“Before he started test marketing cookies, Wylie put the company in my name. He wanted any profits to go to me, his pet charity. You see, I would never take a penny from him.” She tried to shrug again, but her shoulders were still humped from the first shrug. “My attorney is dissolving all assets even as we speak.”

“Are there any assets?”

“Yes. Wylie didn’t take a bank loan or private loan to pay for his new business. He dissolved his own assets and paid cash for everything. Bakery equipment, a fleet of trucks. It was like that Richard Pryor movie.”

“
Brewster’s Millions
. The premise was to spend millions of dollars within a certain time limit. Pryor’s film was a remake. When we were kids, Patty and I watched the original on TV, and we would type up long lists, determining how we’d spend the money. Does Patty know about the fortune cookies?”

“I guess. Why?”

“She might have planned Wylie’s murder to stop his wild spending.”

Woody looked startled, and my guess was that she suspected Junior Hartsel.

As if she’d read my mind, she said, “I thought about turning the company over to Junior, I really did, but I wasn’t sure Wylie would approve.”

“How could he approve or disapprove? He’s dead.”

“I know. But Wylie always promised he’d resurrect as a Stephen King corpse.” This time her shrug was emphatic.

“Woody,” I said, “your walls are so…unadorned. How come you don’t have any Wylie Jamestone paintings prominently displayed? Every home I’ve entered recently sports at least one.”

“I own one, but I keep it upstairs, inside the guest room closet.”

“Why?”

“I don’t like it. Art should be pretty.”

Rising, she approached the kitchen counter, grabbed a pad and pencil, and returned to her chair. Within minutes she had sketched a truly remarkable representation of Woody Allen. Or was it Wylie? No. It was Allen. The face on the pad wore glasses and he wasn’t bald. His bubbled blurb read: THE LION AND THE CALF SHALL LIE DOWN TOGETHER BUT THE CALF WON’T GET MUCH SLEEP.

“Woody,” I said, “that’s great.”

“No big deal.”

“Who’s the calf?”

Her lopsided grin appeared. “I underestimated your intelligence, Ingrid. Patty’s the lion.”

“But you seemed startled when I suggested that Patty might have killed your brother.”

“True. Then I remembered what you said before, when we first began this inquisition. You said that Wylie had left you a painting of Doris Day.”

“So?”

“Patty always wanted to emulate Doris Day. Or Debbie Reynolds. Or Sandra Dee. Audrey Hepburn came in fourth.”

“No, first. Wait a sec! Wylie never made his clues that easy. And if, in this case he did, why would Patty hand over the painting?”

“The police had already seen it so she couldn’t pretend it didn’t exist.”

“The police didn’t believe it meant anything. They thought Wylie was playing one of his dumb treasure hunts.” Woody started to speak, but I held up my hand like a school crossing guard. “Okay, your brother was never dumb. But why didn’t Patty simply give me a different painting?”

“I don’t know, Ingrid. Maybe she wasn’t thinking straight. Even if she planned Wylie’s murder, she’d still be agitated.”

“I saw her the day after the murder. She was very calm.” I remembered Patty’s
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
crying jag. “I guess she wasn’t all that calm.” The Houston sun was beginning to spike the foggy dew. “Maybe Patty thought I couldn’t decipher Wylie’s painting. After all, the virgin clue is a tad obtuse.”