Footprints in the Butter (11 page)

“Where did you find Ben’s jacket, Lieutenant?”

“It was stuffed inside a green plastic bag,” Shannon LeJeune offered eagerly, “waiting for Monday’s trash pick-up.”

Miller grimaced and LeJeune’s face flushed.

My mind raced. Why didn’t Patty burn the jacket? Because she wanted to frame Ben. Which erased the romantic liaison theory and took me back to step one.

I only knew that, despite my recent suspicions, I had to protect my significant lover. “Spilt milk,” I said.

“What?” Miller looked bemused.

“Sunday night’s TV broadcast. They said the only witness was a calico cat, and that Kim O’Connor found her cat standing next to a bowl of spilled milk. The thief swore he arrived after Wylie was killed. Wylie was bashed on the head, which meant he bled. Maybe the thief sloshed milk on the floor and tried to clean it up with Ben’s jacket and got blood on the jacket.”

I realized my theory was a tad ridiculous and the cops would never buy it, but I had to say something.

Miller’s gaze blistered the bridge of my nose and I felt my cheeks scorch. “What makes you think the thief arrived after Wiley Jamestone was killed?” he said. “Sunday night’s broadcast didn’t mention it. Neither did Monday’s. In fact, we kept it a secret.”

“Patty mentioned it.”

“How did
she
know?”

“Ask her,” I shot back.

Cee-Cee had mentioned it, of course, but two could play the same game. I’d throw suspicion at Patty, where it belonged.

“Maybe,” I said, “Patty was so drunk she didn’t remember wearing Ben’s jacket. Or maybe she was afraid she’d be blamed for Wylie’s murder and took measures to frame Ben, just in case the thief didn’t work out.”
Better
, I thought.

Miller wasn’t impressed. “Dr. Cassidy,” he said, “would you please come downtown and sign a statement? Ingrid, do you have a friend you can call?”

Sure, I thought, my best friend. Patty Jamestone. She can bop me over the head and stuff me inside a green plastic trash bag.

“I don’t need anybody,” I said. “I’m feeling a little weak but I’m not incapacitated. My brain is functioning very well. Over the last few days I’ve been neglecting my music and I have a score to settle…compose.”

Nobody caught my slip of the tongue. Shannon LeJeune was busy retrieving her thermos. Peter Miller was fetching his Hush Puppies, standing like sentries at my front door. Ben was glancing toward the window, anticipating saturation.

“I’ll dictate and sign your damn statement, Lieutenant,” Ben said, giving Hitchcock a hearty chin scratch. If my mutt had been the lion he bore an uncanny resemblance to, he would have purred.

“Ingrid, keep the home fires burning,” Ben added for good measure.

Chapter Ten

I didn’t burn any fires, but I did bathe.

Then I pulled my last clean pair of jeans from my bureau drawer. Bleached a murky combination of white and light blue, the jeans had butt-patches and were air-conditioned at the knees. I’d have to do laundry soon, or buy some new used jeans at one of the thrift shops I frequented.

My sweatshirt drawer was thinning rapidly, too. In fact, only one sweatshirt remained; an old gray cotton jersey with a hand-painted peace symbol.

Maybe I should wear a more conservative top. Kim O’Connor was on my agenda, and if she was anything like her mother, she might regard my shirt with suspicion. Or she might consider rebellion an asset, which would be to my advantage.

Compromising, I donned a black velvet vest.

My lips curled as I realized that my what-to-wear dilemma was unnecessary. The shirt and vest would be covered by my camel’s hair jacket. Camel’s hair jackets had been popular in the late fifties and early sixties, but were making a comeback.

Just like Rose Stewart
, I thought, anticipating mental, possibly even physical battles.

Finally, I tugged on cowboy boots, re-soled countless times. The old boots were as comfortable as wearing bare feet. The boots gave me confidence and I needed confidence, because my battle plan included a confrontation with Patty.

One thing bothered me. Wylie’s Doris Day clue. “I knew her before she was a virgin.” That wasn’t Patty. Patty had never even
pretended
to be virginal.

With that last thought, I added Alice Shaw Cooper to my agenda.

* * *

Rainy sleet had washed away the scent of hamburgers and fried chicken. The sky had stopped spewing, and the air was refreshingly fresh, as wet and cold as Hitchcock’s nose. No new fowl smells wafted or enticed because the media was missing. Which meant, of course, that Patty was missing.

I didn’t care. Boldly stomping up the path, I rang the doorbell and shouted, “Hello, Patty, it’s Ingrid! Open the door, you traitor! You liar!”

The fury of my brush with death was in those last few words, and yet I sounded as if we were still in high school. All I needed to add was: “Long time, no see.” Instead, I absurdly added, “Please, Patty, if you’re home and hiding, open the door.”

Granted, my lungs and larynx had not been primed by the hospital’s stomach pump. But I was loud enough for Tonto to hear. He barked.

A young voice yelled, “Shut up, numb-nuts!”

Kimberly O’Connor?

Yup. I heard the bang of a screen door and watched her walk toward me. Kim wore an oversized Denver Broncos jacket, unzipped. It was the only thing oversized about her.

“The merry widow ain’t home,” she said.

“Why do you call her that?”

“She’s a widow, ain’t she?”

Kim O’Connor was too well-bred for ain’t. Verbal rebellion?

“She’s a widow,” I said. “But she’s not very merry.”

“That’s what you think.”

“What makes
you
think she’s merry?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” Kim chanted, sounding
very
young.

“Why did you call Tonto numb-nuts?”

“Because he’s been fixed. That’s the word Mom uses. My boyfriend says Tonto’s balls were
nixed
. Hey, how’d you know his name’s Tonto?”

“It’s painted on his doghouse.”

“You were trespassing,” Kim said in an older, self-righteous voice.

“True. But I have a good excuse. You see, I wanted to avoid reporters.”

“Why?”

“If I appeared on TV, there’d probably be recriminations. Punishment, so to speak.”

“Who’d punish
you?
”

“My mom,” I answered truthfully.

Kim’s face changed instantly, just like the weather. Her scowl became a smile, revealing a previously hidden Shirley Temple dimple. Her blue eyes opened wide. Even her permed brown hair seemed to spring into life, as if a sharp knife had slashed through a tightly coiled mattress.

“Boy oh boy,” she said, “sometimes a person doesn’t mean to be bad but she gets chewed out just the same. My mom gives demerits. Can you believe that crap? I get one demerit if my room’s messy, even though we have a maid. Three demerits if I’m late for dinner. Ten demerits if I flunk an exam. Last week my math teacher gave a surprise quiz, but I turned the F into an A.”

“How many demerits did you get for talking to reporters?”

“None. Mom grounded me. I can’t even use the phone. It was disconnected.”

“Your mother disconnected the phone? How can she make calls?”

Kim stared at me as if I had suddenly sprouted wings. “Mom turned off
my
phone,” she said. “It’s a Snoopy phone. Do you want to see it?”

I wondered how anyone could sound so old and young at the same time. The bumps beneath Kim’s blue Cashmere sweater and the curved rump beneath her tight white jeans suggested fourteen, fifteen, maybe even sixteen, but her do-you-want-to-see-it was pure preadolescent.

“Is your mother home?”

“Nah,” said Kim. “She’s at the thrift shop. It’s her pet project. She and her friends sell junk for charity.”

“I’d love to see your Snoopy phone, honey.”

Kim led me toward her front door. “I left it unlocked,” she said, grinning impishly. “Five demerits.”

My cowboy boots echoed along the vestibule’s genuine marble floor, and I’d barely had time to glance toward a prominently displayed, ornately framed Wylie Jamestone painting before Kim eagerly guided me up a staircase. We turned right and walked down a hallway. Hanging a left, we entered her bedroom.

A man sprawled atop Kim’s patchwork quilt, amid a virtual plethora of stuffed animals and dolls. Raggedy Ann lay across his groin, face down. But even Ann couldn’t hide the fact that he wore his birthday suit.

In other words, he was as naked as the day he was born, which was probably twenty-plus years ago.

Chapter Eleven

While I had fantasized a brief but lasting relationship with Blood Sweat and Tears, the man on Kim’s bed had been conceived. While I was protesting Lyndon B. Johnson’s Vietnam policy, the naked man on Kim’s bed had been born. While I was “bonding” with Kim O’Connor, the man on Kim’s bed had sneaked through the unlocked front door, entered her room, and removed his clothing, every stitch.

Instinctively shielding Kim with my own body, I shouted, “Run, honey! Call the police!”

“Don’t be silly,” she said, stepping around me. “Hi, Dex.”

“Hi, kid. Who’s your friend?”

She swiveled. “What’s your name?”

“Ingrid Beaumont,” I replied, totally nonplused.

Kim made an about-face. “Her name’s Ingrid something, but I call her Grid for short.”

That was a new one. I had been called Rose, occasionally Ing, but never Grid. It was too rich, too Ivy League, too touch-football.

“You picked a crummy time to invade my bedroom, Dexter,” Kim said. “Grid was next door,” she added, apropos of nothing.

Dex sat up. Raggedy Ann still hid the family jewels, but only temporarily. Without embarrassment, he tossed the doll toward a mirrored dresser, found the carpet with his feet, walked over to a pink-tufted chair, and donned underpants, black slacks, and a white shirt.

Kim had apparently witnessed this performance before. She didn’t blink or hide her eyes. Neither did I.

Dex noted my lack of feminine squeals. “Mary…Mrs. O’Connor is doing her charity thing. I’m supposed to pick her up at five, but I think charity begins at home.” He nodded toward the bed. “Let’s get it on.”

Kim’s dimple vanished. “Shut up, numb-nuts.”

“Hey, kid, I ain’t fixed.”

“One word to Daddy and he’ll use your balls to play golf.”

Dex merely grinned. His strangely colored, silver-brown eyes found mine. “Kim’s daddy can use my dick as a golf club.”

Considering that I had already viewed the cocky young man’s equipment, I ignored his brag. And although it wasn’t on purpose, I yawned.

His blond crew cut seemed to bristle as he said, “You some damn reporter, lady?”

I was tempted to answer yes. But most reporters were on my hate list, below cops.

Before I could respond, Kim said, “You look familiar, Grid. Oh! Ohmigod! You’re Rose Stewart!”

I must admit that I was flattered.

“You look just like the picture on your album, only much older.”

My ego balloon deflated. I heard the whispered
whoosh
, then realized it was my sigh of resignation. “Where on earth did you find Rose Stewart’s album, Kim? Stores haven’t stocked it for years.”

“Daddy bought you a long time ago. Mom wanted to donate ‘Clowns’ to the thrift shop, but Daddy gave you to me instead.”

“Big deal,” said Dex, still bruised by my yawn. “She ain’t nobody no more.”

The mystery of Kim’s ain’t was solved, even if Wylie’s murder wasn’t. Not yet. However, when I finished with Patty Jamestone, Kim’s daddy could use her balls to play golf.

“Get out of here, Dex,” Kim said, “and don’t forget your smelly socks and shoes.”

He slammed his chauffeur’s cap atop his bristles. “Next time, kid,” he said with a sneer, “you can come to me.”

“Don’t hold your breath, Dexter!”

Scooping up his sock-filled shoes, he left the bedroom.

The chauffeur! What a cliché! My mind immediately began composing background music. Something rags to riches, something Richard Gere, something Rolls-Royce.

“He’ll be back,” Kim said with a smug smile. “Don’t mind Dex, Grid. He’s a has-been.”

“Has he ever been a has?”

“Dex used to sing with a heavy metal group called Hitler’s Youth. But he never made it to Denver, much less the Coast.”

“I can understand that. Hitler’s Youth! Good grief!”

“Oh, it wasn’t the name. Dex got into fights all the time. He’d hit on some girl and her friends would lay into his group. Soon clubs refused to book him and Youth kicked him out. By the way, Dex hit on the merry widow.”

“Patty Jamestone? But she’s only been here…what?…five days?”

“It takes Dex five minutes. It took less than that to hit on you.”

“Me?”

“Who do you think he was talking about when he said let’s hit the bed?”

“You.”

“Us.”

“Kim, how old are you?”

“Fif…sixteen.”

I let it pass. “And how old is Dex?”

“Twenty-five. No, Grid, he’s not old enough to be my father. That was last year. My history teacher.”

I sank onto the quilt, next to a stuffed Pooh. “Kim sweetie, why do you…” I hesitated, trying to think of a tactful way to put it.

“Sleep around? Well, I thought I was in love with my history teacher, I really did.”

“And Dex?”

“I figured he might be worth enough demerits for a one-way ticket out of here. A private school in Switzerland. Or California.”

“Why would you want to get out of here?”

Eyes downcast, Kim worried the lush plum carpeting with the toe of her expensive sneaker. I glanced around her perfect bedroom. Too perfect. The dolls and stuffed animals looked brand new, never touched. Where were the posters? Where were the photos? Where was the noise? No TV, CD player, not even a radio.

Despite my mother’s lack of imagination, she had allowed me to thumbtack celeb posters above my bed’s headboard. Dozens of snapshots had almost obliterated my mirror, and my record player’s needle had grooved the Beatles’ “Love Me Do” ad nauseam.

Kim’s few nose-freckles merged. “Grid, have you ever been locked inside a cage?”

“I’ve been locked inside a jail cell.”

“For what?”

“Protesting. Vietnam,” I added, just in case her history teacher had skipped that chapter.

“Then you know how I feel.”

“Forgive me, honey, but it’s not the same. You have a yard, trees, good food to eat. You have nice clothes and—”

“An older sister who committed suicide. She couldn’t stand cages either, so she killed herself. I found her body in the bathtub. It was…unpleasant.”

That had to be her mother’s word. Now I understood Kim’s reaction to Wylie. If her sister’s suicide had been unpleasant, Wylie’s bloody head must have been untidy. Poor baby.

“Daddy tries to forget by keeping busy,” Kim continued. “Mom tried to hush it up. She tells everybody my sister is at some college back east. I guess sis’ll start graduate school pretty soon.”

I felt as though I’d swallowed rocks. “I’m sorry, Kim.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” She sank onto the carpet, next to Raggedy Ann, who had missed the dresser yet apparently survived her fall. Retrieving the doll, Kim said, “Raggedy gives good head. So does the merry widow.”

“How do you know that?” I asked, trying to keep my tone conversational.

“Once I snuck through Truman Capote’s doggie door and watched.”

“Watched who?”

“Dex. But there were others.”

“Others,” I echoed, gobsmacked.

“Sure. There was this guy in a wheelchair. He looked like Elvis.”

Dwight Cooper!

“He drove a van with a handicap sticker. Then there was this balding nerd who wore an old high school jock jacket.”

Junior Hartsel!

“And there was this really gorgeous guy, Grid. He looked like an Indian.”

Ben!

I swallowed rocks again. “Kim, did the other men…the Indian, for instance…did they sleep with the merry widow?”

“I never saw that happen, Grid, but they all looked as if they wanted to.”

“Did any of the men stop by last Sunday?”

“Yeah. The Indian.”

“Before lunch or after lunch?”

“Before lunch.”

“But that’s okay,” I said, thinking out loud. “He planned to visit Wylie.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Yes, he did.”

“No, he didn’t,” she insisted, “because Mr. Jamestone wasn’t home.”

I felt my mouth gape, dentist-wide, hippopotamic. Kim could probably count my teeth. “What did you say?” I managed.

“He wasn’t home, Grid. Every Sunday morning Daddy plays golf and Mom sleeps late, so I sneak downstairs to watch cable. I’m not allowed to watch cable channels, except for Disney, so I have to keep the sound low, just in case. Last Sunday I heard a car and ran to the front window and watched Mr. Jamestone pull away from his driveway. He saw me and waved. Then I heard another car and saw the Indian park at the curb. He raced up the path and rang the merry widow’s doorbell.”

“What time did the Indian and merry widow leave? Did they leave together?”

“I don’t know. I went upstairs to finish my homework so I could watch the Broncos game with Daddy. I can watch football with Daddy if my homework’s all done.”

I left the bed and walked over to the window. The view encompassed Kim’s back yard, Patty’s back yard, and the distant trees. Tonto gnawed a rawhide bone, roughly the size of a dinosaur’s hind leg.

Kim joined me and dusted the sill with Raggedy Ann’s pinafore. “The maid,” she said, “doesn’t do windows.”

My mother would have a fit. We never had a maid, but sills weren’t windows, not by a long shot. “I don’t suppose you saw the Indian and the merry widow enter the woods.”

“How do you know they went into the woods?”

“A little bird told me,” I said, focusing on the bird feeder. “How do you know?”

“Tonto howled. I ran to the window and yelled, ‘Chill out.’ Then I saw them.”

“What did you see?”

“Not much,” Kim said. “They were hidden by trees. When they walked back to the house, the merry widow’s legs were bare, just shoes, and she wore the Indian’s jacket. It really grossed me out, so I didn’t watch anymore.”

“What grossed you out?”

“Blood. The Indian’s jacket was covered with blood.”

“Tomato juice and Tabasco sauce,” I corrected. “Why did you think it was blood?”

“Well, I kind of figured they had performed some sort of religious ritual, sacrificed a bird or small animal. I had just seen
Carrie
on cable…” She paused, her freckles merging again. “You won’t tattle, Grid, will you? It’s worth ten demerits, but Mom won’t let me watch TV anymore.”

“I won’t tattle, I promise.”

I remembered
Carrie
very well because it had a decent soundtrack. Plus, a talented cast, including one of my favorite actors, John Travolta. Blood had gushed from the gym rafters during Carrie’s senior prom, so Kim’s mother probably believed the scene “unpleasant.”

My
Carrie
was
Psycho
. In 1960, eight years before PG-13, kids were barred from the theater, unless they were accompanied by an adult. However, even at age thirteen, Patty had charmed the ticket seller with her seductive mystique.

I had screamed and screamed, then wouldn’t take anything except bubble baths for a full month. Patty hadn’t screamed. “Grow up, Ing,” she had said. “It’s pretend.” But she never, repeat
never
, watched another horror flick.

Until the Night of the Poisoned Pie.

I brought my attention back to Kim. “Do you know what time Mr. Jamestone returned home? Did you hear the garage door open?”

“Nope.”

“Did you see the thief arrive?”

“What thief?”

“Somebody tried to rob—wait a sec! A friend of mine said there was an accomplice. Did you see a strange car parked at the curb next door?”

Kim shook her head. “I was watching football with Daddy and Tonto. Tonto barks when the Broncos score.”

“So do I. What about your mother, Kim? Maybe she saw something, heard something.”

She shook her head again. “Mom hates football. She and her friends always drive to the Country Club for brunch. Mom says the champagne’s cheap and the food tastes awful, but afterwards
the girls
play bridge.” Kim snorted. Then her dimple flickered. “Just before the fourth quarter, I remembered Sinead, my cat. That’s a clever name, isn’t it Grid? I mean, with my last name and all?”

“Yes, very clever. I call my dog Hitchcock because I was named for Ingrid Bergman.”

Kim’s freckles merged again; she didn’t get it. “Anyway,” she said, “I had forgotten to feed Sinead, so I went next door to look for her.”

“And found Mr. Jamestone.”

“Yeah. I almost tripped over his body because I was staring so hard at the painting on his easel.”

“Doris Day?”

“Not even close.”

“Kim, do you know who Doris Day is?”

“Sure.
Pillow Talk
. Dumb movie.”

“Who was on the painting you saw?” I said, trying to hide my excitement.

“Charles Manson.”

“Manson? Wylie painted Manson? Wait a sec! How do you know what Manson looks like?”

“Everyone knows what Manson looks like, Grid. He has this Nazi thing on his forehead.”

“Swastika. Were there any words on the painting, Kim?”

“Yeah. Two. Death is.”

“Death is psychosomatic?”

“No. Just death is. Manson wore a soldier’s uniform and a green hat. No, not hat. What’s it called?” She shaped a beret with her hands.

“A beret?”

“Yeah, a green beret.”

Green beret! John Wayne! All at once, the most bizarre thoughts occurred, so off the wall that I didn’t want to think about them. But that was like listening to 1973’s “Sing” on the radio. How could one refrain from humming the tune? Singing the simple lyrics? In other words, sing, sing a song. Sing it loud. Sing it strong.

What if Stewie didn’t die over there, over there, send the boys over there? They had never shipped his body home. Just suppose, for argument’s sake, that he had been sent home alive, but he was an amnesiac or something.

Stupid, Grid!
Soldiers wore dog tags, even macho marines.

But what if Stewie was scarred? That would “gross Patty out.” After all, her tattoo was perfection.

I had once surfed TV channels and discovered this wonderful old film. Briefly, the hero and his brother were in love with the same girl. They shipped out for World War One. The night before leaving, Our Hero slept with Girl—in those days they didn’t use the F-word. Brother was jealous. He sent Hero on a difficult mission. Hero died. Brother was consumed with guilt. So was Girl. But Our Hero hadn’t really been blown away. He was blind, you see, and didn’t want to ruin Girl’s life. The war ended happily ever after. So did the film.