Footprints in the Butter (9 page)

“Ingrid, you’re not kidding!” He grabbed my wrist. “Your pulse is racing.”

“Why would I kid about poison? Ingrid Bergman did, but that’s because she thought Cary Grant didn’t love her.”

“Hush, baby. No, don’t hush. Keep talking.”

“Tired. Sorry.”

“You’ve got to stay awake. Patty!” he shouted. “Patty, get in here!”

“Don’t bother.” My voice sounded as if it ricocheted off walls. “Patty would sleep through Mick Jagger’s ‘Street Fighting Man.’ God, Ben, I’m sorry.”

I couldn’t understand why I kept apologizing. I guess it’s because food poisoning is so damn inconsiderate.

“Sit up.” Ben cradled my head against his chest. “If you feel like whoopsing, don’t try to hold it in. Okay?”

“You’re not wearing jammies, Ben.”

Thrusting all four pillows behind my back, he stepped into his jeans. “The bathroom’s down the hall, not very far. We’re going to walk.
You’re
going to walk.”

“Can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“I don’t have slippers.”

“Slippers?”

“
Notorious
. Ingrid Bergman wore slippers.”

“What else? Tell me exactly what she wore, exactly what she said and did, every detail.”

“She…she…that was the end of the movie.”

“Start from the beginning.”

“She was a spy for Cary Grant.”

As Ben supported me down the hall, he suddenly interrupted my synopsis by calling for Hitchcock. “What will make him bark, Ingrid?”

“Why do you want him to bark?”

“Patty. She might sleep through Jagger, but she can’t ignore Hitchcock.”

“Try shouting biscuit. When you don’t give him one, he might get pissed.”

“Biscuit, Hitchcock,” said Ben.

My dumb mutt immediately sat. At the same time, he wagged his tail. Dust motes danced like fleas, intensified by the night-light’s glow.

“Biscuit, you sonofabitch!” Ben yelled.

Hitchcock looked puzzled, but his tail still swept the floor. Ben was friend, and friends didn’t tease.

“Catch the
biscuit
.” With his free hand, Ben pitched an imaginary baseball.

Hitchcock looked around for his treat. Then he glanced at me. “Bad Ben,” I said.

That did the trick. Hitchcock let loose with an indignant series of barks that probably woke up Tonto, Sinead, the entire O’Connor family, and everybody inside the Broadmoor Hotel, eight blocks away.

It also woke up Patty. Rubbing her eyes, she emerged from her bedroom. “What the hell’s going on?”

“Ingrid has food poisoning,” Ben said. “Call an ambulance, Patty. Then mix milk with egg whites and bring it to the bathroom. Hurry!”

Patty sprinted toward the stairs while Ben said, “Where were we? Ingrid Bergman marries a Nazi big shot and they hold this celebration party. Okay, what happens next?”

“When Cary Grant arrives, she shows him the wine cellar.”

“Go on.”

“I can’t. Please, Ben, my stomach’s burning.”

“Milk will help douse the flames. Hang on, baby, we’ve reached the bathroom.” He lowered me to the icy tiles. “Stick your finger down your throat.”

My arm felt heavy, my hand titanic, but I managed to lift then insert my middle finger. The result was a weak gag.

“Try again,” said Ben.

His voice had assumed its calm-the-Yorkie quality, and yet I detected a hint of panic.

“First time worked. Oh, God.” Hugging the toilet’s rim, I finally began to retch.

“Good girl,” said Ben, but it sounded like baddog. Because retching wasn’t vomiting, not by a long shot. Retching was making the effort to vomit.

By now I was so weak I couldn’t raise my head, much less my hand, so I could only hear Patty’s footsteps as she entered the bathroom, and I decided she didn’t walk on invisible clouds after all.

“There’s no milk,” she said. “The damn cat from next door drank it.”

“Where the hell are the egg whites?”

Ben’s voice sounded angry, impatient, and I took a brief moment to savor the fact that Patty had provoked Ben’s irascibility. Or, for that matter, any male’s irascibility.

“Do you want eggs without milk?”

“Just the whites, Patty. Raw. Hurry, damn it!”

Ben was on his knees now, holding my waist with one hand, my forehead with his other, because my limbs had lost all resiliency and I had begun to plunge forward. Wouldn’t it be funny if I lived through the poison but drowned in the toilet bowl? I could see newspaper headlines: POTTY KILLS INGRID BEAUMONT, A.K.A. ROSE STEWART.

I laughed, retched, heard sirens. So did Hitchcock. And Tonto. And every other dog in the neighborhood. It was a musical score from hell; a collaboration between Antonin Dvorack, Walt Disney and Frank Zappa.

“Hang in there, baby,” said Ben, as Patty led paramedics toward the bathroom. “You’re not going to die.”

“Then why do I see Stewie? He’s raining.”

* * *

Rain pelted ambulance windows. I couldn’t see any droplets, of course, but I could hear windshield wipers. The driver had goofed earlier by sounding his sirens, cueing the dogs. However, once we’d left posh neighborhoods behind, the loud wail began again and the swish-sound of windshield wipers decreased.

I am the viper
, I thought,
the vindshield viper
. And heard the echo of Wylie’s laughter.

I wanted to laugh at my dumb joke too, but I couldn’t, because the viper was probably Death, cruising the streets of Colorado Springs, looking for a tasty morsel to appease his appetite.

Glancing up toward the ambulance roof, I saw an extraordinary pyrotechnic display of blue objects—circular, with irregular edges. Pain shot through my temples.

“Ingrid,” said Ben, squeezing my hand, “are you allergic to any kind of medication?”

Meditation? I was confused. Why would I be meditation to allergic? Wait a sec! Medication. Medicine.

Since an oxygen mask covered my mouth, I shook my head, and the blue spots changed to dancing sparks of fire.

Ben checked my IV and said something that sounded like “lactated ringers.”

He was acting very doctor-ish.

I felt my body quiver, just a little at first, but soon I was shaking my booties, attempting the Charleston, Can-Can and Twist, all from a prone position.

“She’s having convulsions,” said Ben.

Convulsions, hell! I was dying, jitterbugging my way up to heaven.

* * *

They call it gastric lavage, which is a polite way of saying “she had her stomach pumped.” People say “enema” rather than “she took an imperative dump.” Same principle.

The doctor solemnly stated that I’d had a near miss with death. Wrong! I’d had a near
hit
.

I pity the poor chemist who had to sift through the contents of my stomach. Fortunately, I hadn’t eaten much. Egg rolls, crème de menthe, Häagen Dazs, and blueberry pie.

It was the pie. Or, to be more exact,
baneberry
pie.

Baneberry, it seems, is also called necklaceweed, doll’s eyes and snakeberry. The shiny berries can be found in wooded areas, especially during summer and autumn.

It was autumn.

“Baneberries,” said Ben, towering above me, “are often confused with blueberries.”

I sat up in bed and adjusted my hospital gown’s Velcro. “Are you saying I wasn’t poisoned on purpose, Ben?”

“Let’s be logical, Ingrid. Who’d want to poison you?”

“The FBI, my ex, and whoever killed Wylie.”

“What?”

“The FBI, my ex—”

“I heard what you said, Ingrid, but I don’t understand why Wylie’s killer would want you dead.”

“Is baneberry poisoning contagious, Ben? I know for a fact that the mind becomes confused and there’s a total disability to remember anything distinctly, or even arrange ideas with any coherency.” I heaved a deep sigh. “I’m on a treasure hunt, and the prize isn’t hidden inside some Crackerjacks box. When I decipher Wylie’s clues—”

“When the police decipher Wylie’s clues!”

“The police arrested some klutz who didn’t have the smarts to keep his gloves on. Ohmigod!”

“What’s the matter? Do you feel whoopsy again?”

“I feel fine.”

“Then you’re the first person in history to go through gastric lavage and feel fine.”

“Okay, so I’m not exactly up to snuff. But my mind is clear. Clearer. Patty said there was no milk because the cat drank it. Cee-Cee said the thief left his fingerprints on the milk carton when he put the carton back in the refrigerator.”

“So?”

“Wait a sec, let me finish. The thief took off his gloves because it was a brand new carton and that stupid vee part stuck together. How much milk can a cat drink in one day, Ben? A whole carton’s worth?”

“Are you suggesting that Patty lied?”

“I’m not suggesting. It fits.” I gave Ben a tight-lipped smile. “Just like a pair of OJ Simpson gloves.”

“OJ’s gloves
didn’t
fit. Neither does your theory. If you’re saying Patty poisoned you, that’s insane. How could she possibly know you’d eat the pie?”

“Blueberry pie is my all-time favorite dessert. And the evidence went down the garbage disposal.”

“That was your idea.”

“She made up some bogus story about a prowler so we’d drive over and spend the night. She refused to call the police or one neighbor. She bribed me with Hitchcock movies, even though she prefers romantic comedies.”

“Hold your horses, babe. How could Patty know I wouldn’t eat the pie?”

“You hate desserts. You’ve always hated desserts.”

“Okay. She serves poisoned pie. Then you get sick, puke, and the whole thing’s for naught.”

“Wrong! She gulps down my crème, or gives it to Hitchcock, or even pours it into the potted palm.”

“Why?”

“So that when I start to feel the effects from the poison you’ll think I’m drunk.”

“Forgive me, Ingrid, but you
were
drunk.”

“I was woozy. My mind had already started to rot.”

“You sang baaah, baaah, baaah.”

“The poison.”

“You couldn’t even walk.”

“The poison.”

“You passed out.”

“Right. What’s the first thing I do when I get drunk, Ben?”

“Ingrid, it’s been thirty years.”

“I get horny. I lose all inhibitions. And what happens when I continue drinking?”

“You get maudlin,” Ben said, almost reluctantly.

“Correct.”

“The Whiffenpoof song is mawkish.”

“Only when you sing about lost lambs, not lost crème. And what would happen if I drank practically one whole bottle of booze? C’mon, Ben, you know the answer. It’s not some damn riddle.”

“You puke,” he said.

“Remember holding my head while Marianne Faithful sang ‘Sister Morphine’?”

“Yes.”

“And the prom?”

“You were uninhibited.”

“And?” I prompted.

“You drank Alice’s spiked punch, glass after glass. I could have tried to stop you, but I wanted you uninhibited. You’re very uninhibited when you’re uninhibited, very un-Doris Day. Remember tonight, during your crème consumption?”

“I didn’t consume any crème, damn it!”

“Ingrid, you tasted like mint.”

“My tongue tasted like mint!” I lay back on the pillow, emotionally and physically drained. “Okay, Ben, what happened at the prom, immediately following my glass after glass?”

“We found an abandoned classroom and…did it…on the teacher’s desk. Then you drank some more. We danced to Clint Eastwood. You stopped, pressed your hands across your mouth and pleaded with your eyes, so I hustled you down the hall until we reached the coach’s office. It was locked, but there was a very big mail slot. You spewed through the slot, cried, and swore you wouldn’t drink any more that night. But you did.”

“I had reached the uninhibited stage again when we all piled into Dwight’s convertible. Ben, I never, ever pass out.”

“Sorry. I don’t buy it.” His craggy jaw jutted. “You’ve been acting squirrelly ever since Wylie’s death, imagining all kinds of things. You even made a big deal out of those stupid fortune cookies.”

“Squirrelly? As in nuts? Don’t be such a gentleman, Cassidy. We didn’t ‘do it’ on the teacher’s desk. We screwed our brains out. And if I’m acting like a basket case, say it!”

“Okay. You’ve been acting like a basket case. I’ll accept the premise that you didn’t pass out from drinking, but you were burned out.”

“My stomach was burning, not me!” I recalled the pyrotechnic display inside the ambulance and let loose with a volley of shudders.

“Ingrid, you’re shaking like a leaf. And you’re so pale. Let’s talk about this some other time.”

“Go home,” I said, and heard the exhaustion in my voice.

“To Tulsa?”

“No, dopey, my house. Rats! You have to pick up Hitchcock. Ben, please don’t tell Patty. I mean, don’t mention my suspicions or say anything about—”

“Calm down. May I ask her who brought the pie?”

“She said she didn’t remember.”

“That was before. She might now, when it’s important. If you want my opinion, it was simply a case of mistaking baneberries for blueberries.” Ben took a deep breath. “Try and get some sleep, babe. I’ll pick you up tomorrow.”

He stroked my brow, kissed me, and waved good-bye.

I felt awful, sick to my stomach, even though there was nothing inside my stomach except frustration. So I rang for the nurse. Maybe she possessed some medicine that would dissolve my angry frustration.

In other words, I wanted to sleep my suspicions away.

My sleep was restless. I dreamed that Hitchcock licked me with a tongue the size of a skateboard. I dreamed that a downy goose pecked away at Wylie’s eyes. I dreamed that Tonto and Truman Capote stood beneath a pulsating shower head. Not the dogs. The human Tonto and Truman. I joined them. We were naked. I swigged from a jelly jar filled with crème de menthe.

The jar refilled itself after each swig.

I felt sexy, uninhibited, but Ben wasn’t there, so I started to cry. The others didn’t notice my tears, probably because shower water pebbled my face.

We all sang baby, baby, where did our love go?

I sang Benji, Benji, where did our love go?

Tonto—the Lone Ranger’s Tonto—nuzzled my neck. His braids brushed my breasts and his wet feather tickled my nose. I sneezed. “Tonto sit!” I shouted. “Tonto stay! Tonto kemosabe!”