Footprints in the Butter Read online

  The band was taking a break, and Junior was drunk. He slid onto the drummer’s stool and looked up at me with bleary, bloodshot, basset-hound eyes. “Wylie said I had a big butt,” he whined. “Do you think I have a big butt, Beaumont?”

  “You have a very nice butt, Junior.” It was a fib but why quibble? “Maybe you should put that nice butt inside a cab and head for home.”

  “Your home?”

  “No. Your home.”

  Junior thumped the snare drum with the flat of his hand. “You have nice boobies,” he said with a wink that failed.

  “Thanks.” I had never seen a wink fail. I mean, you just shut one eye, right? Wrong. Junior’s upper lip crept toward his nose, which twitched like a rabbit’s. But his eye remained at half mast.

  “Let’s find the locker room,” he said. “You can show me your boobies and I can show you my weenie.”

  “No, thanks.” I shuddered, considered retreating, remembered my promise to Alice. “Maybe some other time, Junior.”

  “Wylie said I had a bony chicken chest.”

  “Junior, Wylie didn’t mean—”

  “And a bald forehead.”

  “Junior, I think you should lie down some place until you sober—”

  “Okay.”

  He thumped his bald forehead against the drum, rebounded, thumped again, then lay motionless, eyes closed, arms dangling, his “nice butt” overlapping the stool.

  I found three reunionites who promised to carry Junior away. But when we returned to the stage, he was gone.

  Ben said that Dwight had been sitting in his wheelchair, staring nostalgically at the football field. Ben said that Dwight looked as if he didn’t want to be disturbed.

  We stayed for the door-prize drawing, which I won. Then we left. It was kind of like winning a big poker pot and leaving immediately thereafter, but I didn’t care. I wanted Ben to light up my life, a rather scintillating euphemism for shedding our clothes and hitting the bed.

  Ben drove his rental car. I drove my Jeep. Careening round corners, I decided to call Wylie. Unfortunately, I hadn’t yet purchased one of his playpen toys: a cellular phone.

  By the time I arrived home, my breasts were un-beading my sweater, anticipating Ben’s soothing caress, so I didn’t call Wylie, and he didn’t tell me the answer to his elephant-statue riddle.

  No big deal, I thought.

  But it was. Because those were the last words Wylie ever said to me.

  Chapter Four

  “I saw you on TV,” said Cee-Cee Sinclair.

  Twisting her ponytail free from its rubber band, she pulled her Looney-Tunes-populated sweatshirt out from under her rump. A perpetual jogger, she looked healthy, wealthy, sweaty, and wise. Correction. Cee-Cee didn’t sweat. She perspired.

  “Tee Vee,” I said with a groan. “The whole damn state, if not the whole damn nation, caught my middle finger gesture. I got at least ten phone calls, including one from my mother. She ignored my finger and suggested that the next time I attend a televised football game I might consider combing my hair. That’s why I’m late. Not my hair, my mother. I listened patiently while she rambled on and on.”

  Cee-Cee grinned. “Patience is the ability to remain silent and hungry while everyone else in the restaurant gets served.”

  Although I wasn’t really hungry, I nodded. Then, watching Cee-Cee sip her coffee, I thought about how I didn’t have many close friends. Oh, I had accumulated acquaintances, starting with the small nub of dissidents who attended my high school. We thumbed our noses at the conservative system, grew our hair down to our butts, wore peace symbols, worshipped Jane Fonda, and listened to Joan Baez. After graduation I tried waiting tables and writing songs. Then I traveled to Washington and “Marched Against Death” with thousands of other anti-war acquaintances.

  Moving to California, I formed brief lasting relationships with men I don’t remember. Women confidants were rare.

  Throughout this turbulent era, Patty was my one constant. She was stable, reliable, law-abiding and loyal. Unlike my parents, Patty forgave my transgressions. She applauded my successes and lent a sympathetic ear when lasting relationships didn’t last. Then she changed, became the quintessential Jewish American Princess, even though she’s not Jewish.

  Cee-Cee hefted her coffee mug toward my copy of Wylie’s note. “Okay,” she said. “Tell me about Wylie Jamestone.”

  “First, I want to thank you for being my friend.”

  “That’s not necessary. I’m proud to be your friend.”

  It was difficult for me to accept, much less acknowledge, compliments, so I blurted, “What year were you born?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. Nobody knows my real age, not even Bill.”

  Cee-Cee still has warm feelings for Bill, her first husband. Her second, a bad poet, lives in Paris. Her third developed some kind of computer chip. Upon dying, he’d left her a fortune.

  “I’ll bet you were born in the Year of the Tiger, Ceese. Tiger people are courageous, candid and sensitive. Look to the Horse and Dog for happiness. Beware of the Monkey.”

  “Okay. No monkeys. Why are you procrastinating, Ingrid?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Sure you are. Look, we can have breakfast together and call it a day. But if you want to pick my brain, you’ll have to discuss Wylie Jamestone. No matter how much it hurts,” Cee-Cee added perceptively.

  I took a deep breath. “Wylie once quoted Picasso. ‘There are only two kinds of women—goddesses and doormats.’”

  “How did Wylie treat women? Like doormats?”

  “No, goddesses. You have to understand, Ceese. Wylie was a dead ringer for Woody Allen, at least he was before he bought contacts and shaved his head.”

  “I think Woody’s sexy, charismatic.”

  “So was Wylie. In high school he always wore greenish corduroys, a white T-shirt, and a long great-coat straight out of a World War Two movie. He attracted girls like a magnet. You’d have adored him because he loves…loved a good mystery.”

  Cee-Cee nodded, and I knew her reaction was due to the fact that she loved mysteries more than raw oysters and cheesecake, her favorite foods. While I’m crude and hard-edged, Cee-Cee is as soft as a pillow. She even looks soft, with her dove-gray hair, turquoise eyes, and a figure that no amount of dieting can ever make angular. Years ago we formed a bond, a friendship based on mutual respect. I respected her unique ability to mother mutts while she respected my musical talent. She even remembered my alias, Rose Stewart.

  The waitress finally placed our ham omelets and bagels on the table. “Be careful,” she warned, “the plates are hot.”

  We waited until she walked away. Then Cee-Cee said, “Speaking of hot, Ingrid, was Wylie your boyfriend?”

  “No. A hunk named Ben was my boyfriend, but we broke up after high school. Wylie and I were kindred spirits. He drew pictures, I wrote poetry. One day he heard me, Ben, my best friend Patty, and a guy named Stewie harmonizing. I think it was ‘Baby Love.’ Wylie decided we could out-synchronize The Supremes. Ben strummed a guitar. I played the piano. Stewie was our percussionist. Patty looked pretty.”

  “Patty Jamestone? Wylie’s wife?”

  “Yes. Do you know Patty?”

  “Not really. Wylie’s murder made this morning’s front page. They mentioned his widow. Please go on.”

  “I adapted a few of my poems to music, but mostly we updated songs from the late fifties and early sixties. I can still visualize myself, wagging my first finger like Hitchcock’s tail, shouting ‘Stop, in the name of love!’ Ben and I were in love.”

  “Hitchcock’s tail. What a great image.”

  “Wylie created our publicity posters. I believe they’re collectors’ items now, worth a fortune. I didn’t keep any; who knew? Wylie painted our portraits, blending them into one humongous clover. He wanted to call us The Beaumonts, but decided it sounded too much like The Belmonts, so he named us The Four Leaf Clovers. ‘I’m looking over a four leaf clover that I ov
erlooked be-fore.’”

  “‘One leaf is sunshine, the second is rain.’”

  “Right. Ben was sunshine, Stewie rain. In retrospect, it fit. Ben was optimistic, Stewie patriotic. Stewie spit out government slogans like a sprinkler system. Third is the roses that grow in the lane. I was a rose. ‘No need explaining the one remaining; it’s somebody I adore.’ That was Patty. She was Wylie’s somebody I adore.”

  “Why did Wylie choose that song?”

  “It had something to do with luck. Ben suggested that we call ourselves The Rabbit’s Feet, and our theme could be Gracie Slick’s ‘White Rabbit,’ which was more in tune with the times, pun intended. Rabbit’s feet, said Ben, are lucky. Wylie said there were four of us, four clover leaves. Ben said rabbits had four paws. But Wylie was always so stubborn. Once he got something into his head, he…”

  “He what?”

  “He played puppeteer, manipulated our strings. ‘Let’s be democratic,’ he said, ‘and take a vote.’ So we did. It was a tie. Patty and Stewie opted for Clovers, Ben and I chose Rabbit’s Feet. Wylie broke the tie. Voila! Clovers.”

  “I take it Wylie didn’t sing.”

  “Correct. He was our manager, our spiritual leader. Within a few years, he vowed, we’d have a bullet on the charts. Unfortunately, several bullets found Stewie over in Vietnam. His body had shattered into so many fragments, they couldn’t even ship it home. Wylie’s heart murmur kept him out of the war. Ben got himself a student deferment. Cornell University. Veterinary medicine. I tried the left coast and finally hit it big with one song.”

  “You evolved into Rose Stewart,” Cee-Cee said wistfully, fingering the embroidered Bugs Bunny above her left breast, “and I bought your album. That was my rebellion against the war.”

  “When my song ‘Clowns’ hit number one on the charts, Wylie sent me a letter of congratulations. He doodled all over the margin; roses and doves. One dove had Jane Fonda’s face.”

  “So you and Wylie kept in touch after graduation?”

  “Yes, even though he moved to New York.”

  “Did you see him often?”

  “No. Wylie visited Colorado every once in a while, but we never got together. I was always in Hollywood, firing my latest agent or pitching a score. Last year I flew to Manhattan to doctor a new musical. Nice paycheck, but they ignored my suggestions and the show closed after one week. I met Patty and Wylie for dinner and theater. Phantom of the Opera. Wylie was still charismatic. Patty was still beautiful, except her eyes looked sad.”

  “Why do you think she looked sad?”

  I shrugged. “Patty always wanted an acting career. For some dumb reason, she thought fame would simply fall into her lap, so she never really pursued stardom. My guess is that Patty can’t handle rejection.”

  “Who can?”

  “Me. I’m an armadillo, tough skinned, a rat with armor.”

  Cee-Cee looked as if she might refute that last statement but she merely said, “Tell me about the reunion, Ingrid. Who arranged it?”

  “Alice Cooper.”

  “The Alice Cooper?”

  “No. Sorry. It’s a tad confusing. A woman named Alice Shaw was engaged to Wylie. After Wylie married Patty, Alice married a man named Dwight Cooper. Ergo. Alice Cooper.”

  “Gotcha’.”

  “Old-timers still talk about how Dwight helped lead our high school football team to its only national championship. We all hero-worshipped Dwight. Patty could have snagged him, but her boyfriend, Stewie, looked like John, Paul and George put together; the quintessential Beatle. Alice had a big crush on Dwight, yet she remained loyal to Wylie. I never really forgave him for dumping her.”

  “Did Alice ever forgive him?” This time Cee-Cee fingered a plump. toothy Taz.

  “I can see you digesting my dump Alice comment along with your ham omelet, and you could be right. Maybe Alice does carry a grudge. But, to be perfectly honest, she’s such a mouse. She’s not the least bit impulsive or threatening. I can’t imagine Alice bopping Wylie over the head just because he broke off their engagement twenty-something years ago.”

  I finally took a bite out of my bagel. “Every high school has an Alice in its ranks. She organized pep rallies and homecoming dances, dominated decorating committees. Alice was into themes. For example, she chose our senior prom motif, Red Roses for a Blue Lady.”

  “Was that a tribute to you?”

  “Me?”

  “You said you were a rose.”

  “Oh. No. Alice wanted to use the colors red, white and blue. She originally proposed a patriotic theme. Stars and stripes. Flags. Uncle Sam pointing his finger, demanding human fodder. When my small group of dissenters heard about it, they threatened to demonstrate.”

  “Why would your group care? Why would they even consider attending the senior prom?”

  “Most didn’t. But some of us wanted to dress up, dance, play kids for a night. And my mom almost had a heart attack when I said I might shun what she called the most important event in a young girl’s life. Anyway, Alice recommended the roses-lady theme, which was kind of ballsy, not to mention steadfast. After she and her crew finished decorating, the gym pulsated with red, white and blue banners.

  “Dracula would have loved our senior prom, Ceese. Red crepe streamers billowed from basketball hoops, suggesting the flow of blood. Tissue roses, sprayed with cheap cologne, smelled like funeral wreaths. Most girls had hickeys rather than tooth marks on their necks, but the rented tuxedos could have belonged to vampires.”

  I sipped my orange juice. “It was the merry month of June. U.S. troop strength in Vietnam would be increased by 18,000, bringing total troop strength to 285,000. The whole country was bloodthirsty.”

  “How can you remember the exact numbers?”

  “I wrote them into one of my lesser-known songs. It was called ‘New Math.’”

  “New math,” Cee-Cee repeated. “Wow.”

  “In any case, we quenched our thirst that night with a mixture of nonalcoholic beverages. Alice’s recipe—lime Jell-O ice cubes, unsweetened lemonade and ginger ale—made the punch look like urine. It tasted like piss, too, until Wylie spiked it with vodka. We couldn’t afford Wayne Newton, so Alice bagged a local DJ who had this thing for Clint Eastwood. Have you ever tried dancing to the theme from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly?”

  “Not that I can recall.”

  “Alice hired a local photographer and we lined up to have our pictures taken. Ben and me, the couple most likely to succeed; Stewie and Patty, the couple most likely to conceive; Wylie and Alice, the couple least likely to achieve consummation. Alice had virgin written all over her.”

  The waitress gave me a strange look as she refilled our coffee mugs.

  “Please go on, Ingrid,” Cee-Cee said.

  “Following our photo session, we danced to the theme from Rawhide. Then, outside in the parking lot, Wylie challenged Dwight to a drinking contest. After chugalugging eight Coors, Dwight gave up, so we all piled into his convertible. Ben and me. Stewie and Patty. Wylie and Alice. Dwight and a popular cheerleader, I don’t remember her name. I don’t remember the car crash either, because Ben was ingesting the lace on my strapless bra, while, at the same time, he ingested nipple. When we crashed, I was semiconscious, filled with passionate ecstasy.

  “Nobody was hurt very badly,” I continued, picturing the accordion-crumpled car and the scabbed tree trunk. “Except Dwight. He woke up in the hospital, paralyzed from his waist down. Which killed his football scholarship and his dreams. Dwight always wanted to play for the Denver Broncos.”

  “You poor, poor lamb. Proms should be filled with good memories.”

  Looking down at the gold CU buffalo on my black sweatshirt, I bit my lower lip. “Everything happens for a reason, Ceese. The car crash made me reevaluate my goals. I figured my life should have some meaning. Maybe I thought that by writing songs and protesting, I could keep others from getting hurt.”

  “You’re a mighty strange armadillo, my frie
nd.”

  “What? Oh. Hey, we’re talking the late sixties. Hippies didn’t wear chain mail. We didn’t even send chain letters.” I nodded toward my coffee mug. “Please excuse me, rest room. Coffee stimulates my bladder. Like nicotine. I finally stopped smoking when I learned that nicotine was used as an insecticide.”

  Standing, I hitched up my jeans and walked toward a door that displayed the silhouette of a full-skirted woman. Who, I thought with a tight grin, had been painted with my mother in mind.

  Shortly thereafter, I rubbed my hands beneath the hand dryer, and despite my vow not to accumulate any more face wrinkles, I felt my forehead knit. Because recent events had brought back memories I’d tried so hard to suppress. With the reunion in mind, I had joined a diet club and lost twelve pounds. Revamped, I could wear my old high school clothes, but I couldn’t fit into my old high school skin. Cee-Cee was right about that. The armadillo’s armor came much later.

  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?”