Read Online Footprints in the Butter by Denise Dietz - Free Book Online Page B

Princess Grace. But I said Monaco was a tad far away, not to mention expens—”
    “Wait a sec! Did Wylie know he was going to die? Did he have some fatal disease, Patty?”
    “Yes. It’s called screwing around. Although he carried condoms like other men might carry handkerchiefs, Wylie was scared of catching a fatal sex disease.”
    Well, that explained Patty’s sad eyes, and opened Pandora’s box. How many rejected women waited patiently for the chance to bash Wylie’s head in? Was Alice one of them? Did Dwight know about Alice’s secret desire? And let’s not forget the masochistic cheerleader, the one who spurned Dwight and was spurred on by rowdy Clint. Could Wylie have rejected her?
    “I’d really love to sit here and chat,” said Patty, “but I have a million things to do. Wylie’s parents are deceased, but his sister lives in Houston. Remember Diane?”
    “Of course. We called her Woody.”
    Patty opened a floral box, pulled out a single rose, and extended it toward me. “I’ve received flowers and telegrams from a bunch of celebs who collect Wylie Jamestone portraits,” she bragged. “Susan Sarandon and Tim Robbins, Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell…”
    While she name-dropped, I stroked velvety rose petals. When she finally paused for breath, I said, “Are you planning to hold a memorial service, Patty-Cake?”
    “Yes.”
    “Would you like me to sing?”
    “Dylan’s already volunteered.”
    “Bob Dylan?”
    “No, Dylan Thomas. Of course, Bob Dylan. Remember the portrait Wylie did of him?”
    “How could I forget? It was one of my favorites.”
    The bubble above Dylan’s head had stated: NO ONE’S FREE, EVEN THE BIRDS ARE CHAINED TO THE SKY.
    “Speaking of portraits,” said Patty.
    “Okay. Yes.” Suddenly I was anxious. Let the treasure hunt begin.
    Patty led me through an archway into a studio roughly the size of a large utility room. Sunlight slashed the glass of several small square windows, set just below the ceiling. The furnishings were sparse—a stool, an easel, a nondescript table, an army cot. Sinead was trespassing again. Asleep on the cot, she looked like a calico wreath. I smelled lingering traces of linseed oil and turpentine. Stacked against one wall were a few canvasses, covered by a white sheet.
    Patty sneezed, glared at the cat, and gestured toward the window wall.
    I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t Doris Day.
    Wylie’s painting was approximately four feet by three. Doris Day’s freckled face grinned impishly. Her head reclined against colorful pillows and her bubble stated: THE REALLY FRIGHTENING THING ABOUT MIDDLE AGE IS THE KNOWLEDGE THAT YOU’LL OUTGROW IT.
    My eyebrow instinctively assumed a curvature. “What does that mean? Could Wylie,” I said, thinking out loud, “have decided he didn’t want to grow old and killed himself?”
    “Hardly. He was hit on the back of the head. How could he kill himself? It would be like trying to clean the wax from your ears with your toes.”
    My eyebrow continued rising until it merged with my bangs. “Jeeze, Patty, how can you make jokes?”
    “If I died, Wylie would crack wise.”
    “That’s different. Goofy shticks were Wylie’s defense mechanisms. Remember Dwight? And Stewie?” I took a deep breath. “Did you love Wylie, Patty?”
    “Define love.”
    I looked down at my rose. “Duke Ellington said that love is supreme and unconditional.”
    “Yeah, but Jimi Hendrix said that the story of love is hello and goodbye.”
    “Were you planning to say goodbye?”
    “If you mean divorce, no.”
    “Was Wylie planning to say goodbye to you?”
    Her lips curled. “That’s a stupid question.”
    “Here’s another stupid question. Don’t you wonder who really killed your husband?”
    “They caught his killer.”
    “Right.” My gaze touched upon the painting and I wondered why Lieutenant Miller hadn’t asked my opinion. Hell, if I knew cops, and I did, Miller was scouring Colorado Springs,