Footprints in the Butter (22 page)

“Yes,” I said.

“Bullshit!” Alice shouted. She’d heard enough defamation and was defending her lover.

Due to my afternoon session with Alice, I was immune, but Dwight and Patty glanced around the kitchen, searching for a hidden ventriloquist.

With their attention temporarily diverted, I made a run for Patty’s gun.

We wrestled. Dwight joined us. Alice didn’t, and I felt my strength waning.

Then I saw it. Her. Sinead. Entering from the basement stairwell, sauntering across the kitchen, she headed straight for legs. Because she was hungry and the leg trick had worked before with Jeff-the-Thief. Cats are smart. They remember little things like that. Or maybe it was instinct. In any case, Sinead chose Dwight’s legs.

“
Cat
, Hitchcock!” I screamed. “Chase the
cat!
”

Hitchcock didn’t hesitate. Jeep had apparently taught him what a cat looked like, or maybe it was instinct. Hitchcock bounded toward us, a shaggy black avenger.

When the dust settled, a spiky-furred Sinead sat on top of the kitchen counter, hiding behind a huge stuffed elephant. Hitchcock had his front paws on the counter. Patty looked dazed. Dwight was sprawled on the floor. And I held the gun.

“Alice,” I said, “call the police.”

She didn’t have to. Lieutenant Peter Miller entered the kitchen, slightly
after
the nick of time. He was followed by his partner, Shannon LeJeune, and Ben.

“Did you just happen to be in Patty Jamestone’s neighborhood?” I asked, handing Miller the gun.

“Not exactly,” he replied.

“Cee-Cee Sinclair phoned Bill from Aspen?”

“No.”

“Then how—”

“The police don’t spend every minute hassling antiwar protesters,” Miller interrupted with a gritty grin. “Sometimes we investigate a murder, especially when the murder weapon is conveniently found at the scene of the crime.”

“But there were no fingerprints.”

“The people who own this house didn’t seem the type to buy authentic reproductions. They’d want the original Thinker. So we started checking out knick-knack stores, novelty shops, furniture stores, catalogues. Nothing.” His gaze touched upon Shannon. “My partner said she was addicted to the House Shopping channel.”

“Home shopping,” I corrected.

“Right. I won’t bore you with details, but it seems that Dwight Cooper bought one statue.”

“I used your credit card, you son of a bitch,” Alice hissed, her angry look directed toward Dwight. “After withdrawing enough instant cash for Preacher Starbuck, my credit cards were over the limit.”

“We drove to the Cooper residence,” Miller continued, “where we found Dr. Cassidy breaking a window.”

“Oh, no!” screeched Alice. “Not my unicorns.”

“Sorry.” Ben grinned sheepishly. “I slept late, then jogged. Ingrid and Hitchcock were missing, so I checked the answering machine. Ingrid said she was at Alice’s house and planned to visit Patty. I tried Alice first. Her door was locked. When nobody answered the doorbell, I thought maybe Alice was the killer, so I picked up a rock and—”

“Killed Alice’s goofy unicorns,” I said.

“Not all of them. Lieutenant Miller arrived and we drove over here. Are you all right, babe?”

“I will be if I can ask a few questions.” My eyebrow skimmed my bangs as I stared at Miller.

“Be my guest,” he said.

My gaze shifted to a handcuffed Patty. “Dwight drove Alice’s BMW.”

“No, Ing, he took a bus. Of course he drove Alice’s car.”

“That’s a rhetorical question, Patty. Here’s a real one. Are you allergic to cats?”

“Yes. Long-haired ones. Their fur makes me sneeze. Why do you ask? The car keys?”

“No. Ben said you went inside the studio to kiss Wylie goodbye. But Wylie had already left the house. Kim, the kid next door, saw him. When you emerged from the studio, your lipstick was smeared. Ben also said Mancini was on the stereo, which sounded odd since Wylie didn’t particularly care for Mancini while you love him, but I didn’t follow through. How come your lipstick was smudged? You kissed the cat, right?”

“Yuck! Why on earth would I kiss a cat? I kissed a painting.”

“Doris Day or Charles Manson?”

“Manson.”

“That was sick, Patty.”

She shrugged.

“Speaking of sick,” I said, “what about the poisoned pie? Junior didn’t buy it from a church lady.”

“Is that another rhetorical question?”

“Yes. No.”

“I looked up poisons in a book. Then I remembered reading a mystery series written by Diane Mott Davidson, a Colorado author. Her books include recipes, so I ferreted out her telephone number, called her, and said I wanted to write a mystery novel. I asked her where one would find baneberries and she told me. By the way, she’s very nice. I asked her how a killer would bake a baneberry pie. Then I baked the pie and poured your crème de menthe into the potted plant so that Ben would think you were drunk. But I never meant to kill you, Ing, cross my heart and hope to die. I just wanted to frighten you.”

I believed her. “What about the milk?”

“There was no milk. The thief put an empty carton—”

“Why did you lie about Ben’s jacket?”

“I wanted the cops to suspect Ben. I knew he had threatened Wylie. Dwight heard him at the dance. I didn’t think the cops could actually prove anything, but I figured the longer it took to solve Wylie’s murder, the safer we’d be. Dwight and me. If it hadn’t been for you and your damn dog…” She glared at Hitchcock, waggishly wagging his tail. Her angry gaze moved to the bristly, bewhiskered, bewildered cat, still atop the counter, and she issued forth a loud
ah-chew
.

Ben, Miller, Shannon, Dwight, and Alice all chorused, “Bless you.” I didn’t. It seemed wrong, somehow, to bless a murderer.

Last night I had wondered if Patty would sneeze during a climax. I guess that answered my question.

“Do you love Dwight?” I asked, curious. I thought maybe she did, even if she loved herself most of all.

“Love is hello and good-bye,” she said.

“And hello again.” I looked at Ben. “Hello.”

“Hello.”

“See you later, alligator,” Patty chanted, as Shannon escorted her through the kitchen.

“After a while, crocodile,” I replied automatically.

She smiled and a shiver ran up and down my spine. I didn’t smile back, because one never smiles at a crocodile.