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

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