Footprints in the Butter (5 page)

Returning to the table, I murmured, “Where were we?”

“Alice Cooper.”

“Right. Alice Cooper, nee Shaw, wanted to be a Clover, but Wylie wouldn’t let her.”

“Why not?”

“She couldn’t carry a note in a bucket, much less a tune. After graduation, Alice sent out monthly newsletters, touting marriages, progeny, divorces, recipes. Alice thought up the reunion. She was so excited. At first Wylie said he couldn’t make it, but he capitulated, obviously. Wylie was a workaholic. He flew his paints and canvasses from New York, and borrowed a friend’s house. That’s where he was killed.”

“Who would have a motive?”

“Me,” I blurted.

“Why you?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’m a good listener.”

“Maybe later,” I said, shifting in my chair, crossing and uncrossing my legs. “Okay?”

“Okay.” She waited until the waitress had refilled our coffee mugs. Then she said, “Did you kill him, Ingrid?”

“No.”

“Anybody else with a motive?”

“Patty, I guess. Isn’t the wife always a suspect?”

“Is there a big life insurance policy?”

“Patty doesn’t need money. At the reunion dance she wore a white number that must have cost a couple thousand. Her bracelet was twenty-four K, her perfume potent, and her ring was so ostentatious it obscured her knuckle. Wylie was
very
successful.”

“Maybe he kept her on a short leash, limited but expensive wardrobe. The gems and perfume could be birthday presents.”

“Patty doesn’t have birthdays.”

“She has them,” Cee-Cee said, fingering her sweatshirt’s black and white Sylvester. “She just doesn’t celebrate them. Don’t forget, Ingrid. Wylie’s paintings will increase in value now that he’s dead.”

“I’ve known Patty since kindergarten, Ceese. She has her faults, who doesn’t? But she couldn’t murder in cold blood. Patty won’t even watch a horror flick. She once apologized over the phone because I had scored a chainsaw massacre movie and she didn’t have the guts to watch it. Besides, Wylie worshipped Patty. You can’t buy that kind of pedestal with filthy lucre.”

“Sure you can, or else the word gigolo would have vanished from our vocabulary. Look, money can’t buy happiness, but it sure helps you to be unhappy in comfort.”

“That’s a Wylie philosophy. Don’t tell me you like elephant jokes.”

“Love ’em.” Cee-Cee winked. “Why do elephants have teeth?”

“To chew their toenails.”

“Why do elephants have toenails?”

“So they can have something to chew?”

“Very good.” She pulled a stray thread from one of Tweety Bird’s guileless eyes. “Okay, let’s chew. Who else was motivated?”

“Alice. Not because of the broken engagement, but because she was pissed. Wylie ruined her lovely reunion dance.”

“Really! How?”

“He acted crazy. Hypercritical. Rotten, like a shiny red apple that’s wormy inside. To paraphrase the young girl who found Wylie’s body, Alice didn’t faint or scream, yet you could practically see the steam rising from her ears. And she pursed her lips. When Alice becomes agitated, she compresses her lips until she looks like she’s blotting lipstick on a tissue.”

“You said Alice was a mouse.”

“She is. I think we’re on the wrong track.”

“Okay,” said Cee-Cee, gesturing toward the waitress with her empty mug. “Who else had a motive?”

“Dwight Cooper, Alice’s husband. He’s always blamed Wylie for the car crash. By the way, that’s the reason Ben and I split. He was the only male sober enough to drive and Dwight wouldn’t let a girl touch his new convertible. I think we all felt guilty, but I blamed Ben. We argued. Ben wasn’t into politics. I called him lazy and brain dead. He called me an idealistic bitch, and worse. I told him I never wanted to see him again. God, I was so stupid.”

“You were young. Why did Dwight blame Wylie? I mean, why didn’t he blame Ben?”

“Because Wylie always made fun of jocks. He drew cartoons for the school paper; athletes with enormous bodies and tiny heads. And there was never the slightest bulge between their thighs. You know how guys feel about that. In my opinion, wars are started by large egos and small dicks.”

Cee-Cee grinned then turned serious again. “So Dwight’s our prime suspect?”

“I suppose.”

“You sound uncertain.”

“Dwight is confined to a wheelchair. Even if he managed to silently maneuver his chair through the house, how could he clunk Wylie over the head?”

“Brute strength. Dwight’s arms might be powerful.”

“They are. But I’ll bet my next royalty check that Wylie wasn’t seated.”

“Seated?” Cee-Cee mopped up the last of her eggs with the last of her bagel. “Oh, I see. If Wylie was busy painting, he’d be standing up.”

“Wylie was fidgety. He’d never paint from a stool.”

“Is that it?”

“Suspects? I guess. At the reunion dance Wylie pissed off this ex-cheerleader. She told him to eat shit and die, but that’s a tad farfetched, don’t you think? Then there’s this ex-football jock, Junior Hartsel. Wylie put him down, made fun of him physically, but Junior hasn’t got the stomach for murder. I mean, he’s all whine and no bite.”

What happens when an elephant steps on a grape?
The grape gives a little whine
.

Could the whiner give a little grapple?

“What about your note, Ingrid?”

Still picturing Junior, passed out on the drum, I glanced down at the piece of paper, anchored by the salt shaker. “Do you think Wylie had a premonition, Ceese? He didn’t say anything during the dance, at least he didn’t pinpoint murder. He never mentioned the painting, either.”

“Who’s on the painting?”

“I don’t know. When I questioned the homicide detective, he said that the subject was a famous blonde.”

“Marilyn Monroe?”

I shrugged. “Maybe I’m a suspect, and the detective thought I’d let something slip, like I wonder why Wylie painted Marilyn Monroe, oops. In any case, my taciturn cop would only admit that the subject was blonde and famous.”

“Well, that certainly narrows it down.”

“I plan to visit Patty after breakfast. But Wylie couldn’t have depicted his killer, Ceese, or the police—”

“I’ll call Bill,” she interrupted eagerly.

“I thought Bill was retired.”

“Cops never retire. Bill says the worst thing about retirement is having to drink coffee on your own time. I suspect he knows all about yesterday’s murder, every sordid detail, so I’ll give him a quick ring. Okay?”

“Okay. But first I’ll confess
my
motive. You’re probably curious.”

“No, I’m not. Well, maybe a little.”

I sipped my coffee then said, “You’ve got to promise you’ll keep it a secret.”

“Why? Do you honestly believe you could be charged with Wylie’s murder?”

“Nope. I have an alibi. The Broncos-Cowboy game. Of course I could have driven to the stadium during the first half, and my middle-finger gesture could have meant screw you, Wylie Jamestone!”

“Ingrid, you’re losing me.”

“To make a long story short, last year when I visited New York, Wylie came to my hotel suite and he, um, wanted me to sleep with him.”

“How did you respond?”

“Wylie was persuasive and I was tempted, but I couldn’t do that to Patty, so I refused. Wylie was very nice. Wink-wink, only kidding, maybe another time. Then he raped me.”

“He raped you? Ohmigod!”

“Did I say rape? I meant seduced. You see, he plied me with vodka until I was weepy, defenseless and—”

“Did he force you?”

“At first he was sympathetic. I was a leaky water faucet, dribbling tears and—”

“Did he force you, Ingrid?”

“He listened, urged me to gulp down more booze until I was practically comatose. Then he made his move. I kicked, scratched, bit…finally capitulated. That’s the worst part. I submitted, even climaxed. Afterwards I said I’d have him arrested, but he just laughed. He knew I wouldn’t. After all, I had climaxed! And there was Patty. I figured he’d have one hell of a time explaining his scratches, so I merely screamed something about bashing his head to bits if he ever touched me again.”

“Did that sorry bastard ever touch you again?”

“I never saw him again, not until the reunion.”

My impulse was to calm Cee-Cee down. Picasso was wrong. I wasn’t a goddess. I wasn’t a doormat, either. Yet doormats got stepped on and still spelled out WELCOME. Wow! I’d have to remember that line for a song, try something Bonnie Raitt. I could ring up Bonnie and ask her to record my doormat song, maybe even shoot a video.

While I was visualizing Bonnie and videos, Cee-Cee calmed down on her own. “You poor baby,” she said. “Did you tell anyone?”

“No.”

“Not even your parents?”

“God, no. My father’s deceased. Mom thawed somewhat after I abandoned my life as Rose Stewart, but she’d insist that it was my fault and she’d be right.”

“Wrong!”

“Listen, Ceese, technically it wasn’t rape. I shouldn’t have said that. It was seduction, plain and simple.”

“Simple? Ingrid, you need professional counseling. I know a psychologist who—”

“Please! I’ve learned to deal with this. I even forgave Wylie.”

“When?”

“At the reunion dance. No big deal.”

“No big deal? Rape is a violent crime.”

“Seduction. Wylie didn’t hurt me, not physically, and I think I wanted it to happen, else why get drunk and weepy? I wanted someone to love me.”

“Rape isn’t love.”

“
Seduction
, damn it!”

“
Semantics
, damn it! You said Wylie worshipped Patty. If that’s true, why did he make his move on you?”

“I don’t know. Who could I ask? Patty?”

“Okay,” Cee-Cee said thoughtfully, “you couldn’t discuss this with anyone. But why confess now? To me? If you didn’t report the rape, you’d never be one of Wylie’s murder suspects.”

“Well, I goofed and told Ben. We were getting ready for bed and he caressed me. It was the first time I had been touched by a man since New York, so I flinched. I didn’t use the word rape, but Ben was furious. He threatened to destroy a different part of Wylie’s anatomy, south of his head.”

“Wait a minute! After high school you and Ben split up.”

“Three nights ago, during the reunion’s introductory cocktail party, Ben pinned my nametag above my left breast. I stumbled backwards. Ben caught me, but not before I fell. In love. For good.”

“Good for you.”

Cee-Cee patted my wrist and I felt an overwhelming urge to weep against her shoulder. But I had kept my emotions in check for such a long time, I couldn’t self-destruct now.

“Ingrid,” she said, fingering Daffy Duck’s plumage. “Do you think Ben killed Wylie?”

“Ben heals sick animals. He’s a
doctor
, Ceese”

“Doctor’s kill, especially on those tabloid news shows.”

“You watch that junk?”

“I surf through the channels.” Her cheeks turned one shade lighter than her scarlet lipstick. “Okay, I watch. It’s a substitute for junk food.”

“Junk food. How I used to love those miniature blueberry pies. Then I joined Weight Winners, Ellie Bernstein’s diet club. Goodbye pie.”

“You look great, hon. You even looked great on TV, and that’s supposed to add ten pounds.”

Compliments again. I felt my face flush. “Could you call Bill now?”

“Sure. But only if you promise to call a rape counselor.”

“I promise to think about it.”

While Cee-Cee headed toward a pay phone, I dismissed the counselor bit. Once again, I thought about Saturday night’s reunion dance. Wylie and Patty had made quite an entrance. Pretty Patty. Her face looked so much like an Impressionist painting that you had to smile at the irony of Wylie’s phenomenal success.

He created colorful canvasses with cartoon heads and bubbled blurbs.
Taylor-Made
was Wylie’s most photographed piece. To the right of Elizabeth Taylor’s beauty mark, inside a bubble, was her famous quote: I’VE ONLY SLEPT WITH THE MEN I’VE BEEN MARRIED TO. HOW MANY WOMEN CAN MAKE THAT CLAIM?

Squeezing my eyes shut, I pictured a very young Wylie, his lips pressed against a microphone.

Pre-senting The Four Leaf Clovers
.

Sunshine
. Ben wanted to save sick animals.

Rain
. Stewie wanted to kill sick animals and save the world. He believed that Vietnam was John Wayne’s Alamo. Which, in a sense, it was.

Roses
. Where did all the flowers go? Ingrid the Idealist wanted to defeat death by writing protest songs that made the whole world cringe.

Somebody I Adore
. Adorable Patty wanted to be Audrey Hepburn, Debbie Reynolds, Doris Day—innocent, seductive, larger than life. And although Patty never graced a movie screen, she achieved star status as Mrs. Wylie Jamestone.

Patty was a butterfly trapped inside a rainbow. When she walked into a room, all the harsh colors turned pastel. If you could market her mystique, you’d earn a fortune.

Suddenly, I visualized J.C. Penney’s cosmetics aisle.

Before the reunion, shopping for my sweater, I had lingered in front of Penney’s perfume counter. Among the sample spray bottles was a potent scent called Poison, much too expensive for my limited budget.

I conjured up another image. Patty at the reunion dance.

Behind her perfect ears, between her perfect breasts, Patty had dabbed Poison.

Chapter Five

“Small world,” said Cee-Cee.

Her presence brought me back to the present. “What do you mean small?”

“Your homicide detective, Lieutenant Peter Miller, just happens to be Bill’s good friend and protégé.”

“So Bill knew all about the murder?”

“He did. In fact, the case has been solved, the perpetrator arrested. Motive, robbery. The killer knew Wylie’s friend would be wintering in Arizona. Patty had the rental car and the house looked deserted, only it wasn’t, so the sneak thief bopped Wylie over the head.”

“How did the cops find him? Her. It.”

“Him. Through fingerprints. Bill says he was really stupid. He wiped the murder weapon clean but left prints on the refrigerator and milk carton.”

“Milk carton?”

“For some ungodly reason, he decided to give the cat some milk.”

“Sinead O’Connor. That’s the cat’s name,” I explained. “It was on the news. Sinead’s owner found Wylie’s body. Didn’t the thief wear gloves?”

“He did. But it was a new milk carton and he had trouble opening that vee-shaped, push up here part—”

“Where the wax usually sticks. I think they over-wax it on purpose, Ceese. Whoever invented that milk carton has a grudge against humanity. Everybody lately has a grudge against humanity, although I’ve been trying very hard to un-grudge. Sorry. Please go on.”

“The killer took off his gloves to get a better grip. Then he placed the carton back inside the refrigerator. What a dope!”

“The elephant,” I murmured, “left footprints in the butter.”

“What?”

“It’s a riddle. Wylie riddled me Saturday night. Speaking of which, how did Bill explain Wylie’s painting and message?”

“Bill thinks Wylie was playing a practical joke. Patty told Miller that Wylie liked jokes and treasure hunts.”

“True.” I pushed my cold plate of cold eggs toward the edge of the table, where the waitress, who had probably finished her shift by now, could pick it up. “Did the thief confess?”

“Not really.”

“Define not really.”

“He was wasted, couldn’t even spell his own name. Before he exited the murder scene, he pocketed enough loose cash to buy drugs.” Cee-Cee’s cheekbones turned the same shade as our neglected strawberry jam. “I’ll probably find out more tonight,” she said, “when I wheedle.”

“You plan to visit Bill tonight?”

“I do.”

“You wheedle with sex?”

“I do. A marinated roast, dry red wine, plus an obvious lack of panties—”

“Cee-Cee! Shame on you!”

“Bill’s a big boy. He can always cop a plea.” She winked one turquoise eye.

“Ouch! What an awful pun.”

“How about this? After I wheedle, Bill lets it all hang out. Oh good, I’ve made you smile.”

“I shouldn’t be smiling. Despite what happened in New York, Wylie was my friend. Once upon a time we were both so idealistic. Me with my protest poetry, Wylie with his smart-alecky cartoons. I think he truly believed he had sold out. Then, at the reunion dance, I pushed some kind of button and Wylie exploded. He jumped up onto the bandstand, grabbed the mike, and started sermonizing. He insulted everyone, especially Junior Hartsel.”

“The ex-jock?”

Face grim, I nodded. “Everybody booed, but the cheerleader really got upset and—rats! I just thought of something.”

“What?”

“The cheerleader. She was Dwight Cooper’s date at our senior prom. She could hold a grudge against Wylie.”

“Why?”

“Wylie spiked the punch and challenged Dwight to that stupid drinking contest, which led to the car crash. Dwight was a big shot and she had snagged him good. After the crash, she dropped him like a hot potato. I don’t remember her name, but Alice would know.”

“Ingrid, they caught Wylie’s killer.”

“Yeah, right. Just the same, I plan to follow Wylie’s treasure hunt to its conclusion. I owe him that much.”

“You don’t owe him anything,” Cee-Cee said indignantly.”

“Patty, then.”

“Why do you owe Patty?”

“New York. I can blame what happened on my failed marriage, the liquor, even Wylie’s forceful strength, but I can’t deny my capitulation. Don’t you understand? I screwed the husband of my best friend.”

“No, Ingrid, you were screwed by the husband of—”

“Maybe Patty found out. Maybe she blamed Wylie. If she did, and if she killed him, Wylie’s death is my fault.”

* * *

Patty’s street was filled with cars and vans so I parked in the Broadmoor Hotel’s lot and walked eight blocks. But first I searched through my Jeep’s debris and retrieved my black turtleneck sweater, impulsively purchased when the Broncos lost Superbowl XXII. Unlike the Broncos, my sweater smelled musty. But it was large, loose, cable-knit and comfy; perfect for an afternoon that wasn’t freeze-your-butt-off-cold. Even so, the weather was chilly enough to melt the sun, which looked like a scoop of lemon sorbet.

The musty sweater smell diminished when I caught the scent of greasy burgers, fried chicken and Styrofoam coffee. Damn! They were holding an alphabet convention. ABC, CNN, NBC, CBS, even ESPN….
ESPN?
…had come to broadcast Wylie’s death, witness Patty’s grief, and hopefully catch a glimpse of the Rich and Famous.

Why hadn’t Patty moved to the Broadmoor? Why remain at the murder scene? Why ask why? My immediate problem was how to avoid those wagtail newshounds. I wasn’t rich but I was infamously famous, and Ingrid Beaumont, a.k.a. Rose Stewart, wanted to avoid publicity.

Once upon a time I had craved publicity. Once upon a time I had chained myself to recruitment center gates and asked my short-lived
rock group
to belt out “Clowns,” because I had promised never to sing until Stewie came marching home again, hurrah, hurrah. Once upon a time I had created a top-ten song through hostile hype. But once upon a time ended when government officials insisted that marijuana killed brain cells and the FBI swore that antiwar demonstrators smoked dope.

Therefore, rebellious Rose Stewart had defied Darwin and evolved backwards, finally regressing into Ingrid Beaumont, who scored buddy-cop movies and horror flicks.

I glanced toward the media crowd, milling about like wasps without a hive. Was I flattering myself? After all, the years had swiftly flown, I had aged, and I didn’t spend lots of money on Wylie’s face creams or plastic surgeons. Well, maybe the face creams, not to mention Ellie Bernstein’s diet club.

Hell! Why all the internal fuss? I could probably stroll through that alphabet convention, flash a few brainless smiles, and never be recognized.

On the other hand, why take foolhardy chances?

Skirting the next door neighbor’s front lawn, I climbed their back fence, cut across their yard, and heard the sound of thundering bass—a deep growl that momentarily left me standing stock still. Then I saw it, and my sneaker-clad feet, on their own accord, began to skim grass, decorative rocks and cultivated flower beds. I hurdled an ornate doghouse that boasted the letters T-O-N-T-O. I heard the Lone Ranger’s theme and recalled Wylie’s wrinkled-toothless comment.

Although Tonto was wrinkled, he definitely wasn’t toothless. A combination Shar-pei and Loch Ness monster, he very nearly bayoneted the seat of my jeans.

Desperate, I turned and shouted, “Tonto,
sit!
Tonto,
stay!
Tonto,
friend!
Tonto,
kemosabe!
”

It worked. The monster flopped to the dirt, drooled saliva, and glared at me from above his corrugated snout.

After climbing the fence, I swung my shaky legs over the top, loosened my hold, and landed in Patty’s backyard. My ankles protested but no bones snapped. Then I listened for the sound of Tonto’s body whooshing over the fence, or his paws digging, but all I heard was a disappointed growl-whimper and the muted music of the buzzing media.

How would I return to my car?

I could try the Tonto stay, Tonto friend bit again, but I had a feeling the dog’s cerebral hemisphere was already regretting his capitulation. Next time he’d savor the fleshy cheeks inside my jeans.

Patty’s backyard was serene, almost pastoral. A manicured lawn—with birdhouse rather than doghouse—was protected by a periphery of blue-barked willows, gray poplars, white birch trees and dark green firs. No wonder the cat, Sinead, had chosen this safe haven over Tonto’s intimidating turf.

And yet a dark pall of despair curtained the sorbet sun, not to mention the birds who chirped their do-waps above the feeder.

Or was I imagining things?

One can’t see the forest for the trees, I thought, as I walked toward Patty’s back door.

She was standing there, watching me, an enigmatic smile on her face. As she ushered me into the kitchen, I had a momentary memory flash:
Jacqueline Kennedy
. Patty reminded me of Jackie, after the assassination. Brave. Self-possessed. Even Patty’s tapered pants and cowl neck blouse had assumed a pleated, royal blue dignity. In high school she had worn her hair loose, a charcoal cloud. Now she tended to pull it away from her oval face. Today she’d clasped the shiny strands inside a jeweled barrette, emphasizing the two diamond teardrops that pierced her perfect earlobes. However, not one salty teardrop betrayed Patty’s cool-as-a-cucumber demeanor.

“Your sweater smells moldy,” she said by way of greeting, crinkling her cute nose.

“Hey, kiddo,” I said softly. “This is me, Ingrid. You don’t have to keep your true feelings hidden.”

Her velvet-brown eyes revealed—what? Exhaustion? No, annoyance.

Strolling over to a window, she straightened the frilly curtains, pulled a dead leaf from a window plant, turned toward me again.

“What do you mean by hidden?” she asked.

“Cry, Patty. Boohoo, keen, wail…”

I paused as I recalled her reaction upon learning about Stewie. Everybody else had gotten rip-roaring drunk. We had listened to Jimi’s fire-breathing anarchy, especially his controversial “Star Spangled Banner.” Then, while Marianne Faithful crooned “Sister Morphine,” Ben swiftly propelled me into the bathroom and held my head. Afterwards, gargling mouthwash, I vowed never to drink again. Naturally, I broke that vow. Because booze dulled the anguish. Because booze brought a nebulous state that allowed my body to experience guilt-free orgasm, to explode internally, even though I couldn’t erase the image of Stewie’s body exploding externally.

Ben and I had already parted. In fact, he had flown back from Ithaca and attended our improvised wake with a brassy-haired, sloe-eyed creature, who sprawled naked and comatose across Wylie’s beanbag chair. However, through impotent rage, not to mention wretched heartache, Ben and I had come together, as if our imperative screwing would have to last us a lifetime, which it almost did.

When we emerged from the bedroom, I heard a very drunk Wylie chanting, “This is your lucky day, this is your lucky day, this is your lucky day.”

“Make him shut up!” I screamed. Then I wept against Ben’s chest until he guided me back into the bedroom, lowered me to the mattress, and calmed my hysteria with more sex.

Sometime during the night, Alice Shaw consumed an hallucinogen and threatened to jump from Wylie’s first story window. We let her jump.

Later Alice denied the drug, the bad trip, and her “suicide leap.” We let her deny.

Patty accepted the tragic news stoically. She attended Stewie’s wake, but she didn’t indulge, even though Wylie urged her to drink, snort, smoke, swallow the ample supply of amphetamine candy. Instead, she drifted through the room like a wraith, changing records, covering Ben’s drugged-out date with a blanket, emptying ashtrays. And nobody—not even I—tried to turn Patty inside out to expose the hurt and allow it to heal.

“Earth to Ingrid.”

I rubbed my eyes like a swimmer who had just emerged from a chlorinated pool. “Sorry, Patty, daydreaming. I do that a lot. Old age.”

“We’re the same age,” she replied indignantly, “and I don’t consider myself old.”

“Neither would anyone else,” I soothed.

It was true. Patty and I had been born three months apart, yet she looked ten years younger. An almost invisible web of fine lines, radiating from the corners of her sad eyes were the only evidence that she had tiptoed past the big four-oh and was gracefully heading toward decade five. Maybe there was a senescent portrait inside the Jamestone attic.

As if she had read my mind, Patty said, “Do you want to see Wylie’s painting? It’s considered part of his estate, but he wanted you to have it and I shall honor his request.”

“I’d rather talk about Wylie.”

“I don’t want to talk about Wylie.”

“Hey, Patty, we’ve been best friends since kindergarten. We’ve shared everything from our first period to our first set of high heels. We cried together over
Bambi
and that part in
Lassie
where the little dog dies, and we practically destroyed our friendship when we both chose the same Beatle to marry.”

“Paul.”

“No. We wanted to marry George.”

“You’re wrong, Ing. It was Paul. We wanted to sleep with George and marry Paul.”

“We wanted to sleep with John.”

“Alice wanted to sleep with Wylie.”

“What?”

“It’s true, Ingrid. Alice once told me that if she couldn’t F-word Wylie, she’d die a virgin.”

“Alice doesn’t use the F-word, Patty. Do you think that’s why she married Dwight? So she’d stay a virgin?”

“I don’t know. Probably.”

Subtle me changed the subject, hoping to elicit tears. “Are you planning to bury Wylie in New York?”

“I don’t plan to bury him at all.”

Aha
, I thought.
That’s why she won’t talk about Wylie. Because she can’t admit he’s really gone
.
Maybe that’s the reason she acted so dispassionate following Stewie’s death
.

“My husband had some very definite ideas about his funeral,” Patty continued. “He insisted that we wait for a windy day, stand on that rise above Cripple Creek, and scatter his cremated ashes.”

“We?”

“The Clovers. He wanted us to sing that old song Ray Charles recorded with Betty Carter.”

“Baby, It’s Cold Outside?”

“Correct.”

“God, that’s so Wylie. Why Cripple Creek?”