Free Footprints in the Butter by Denise Dietz

searching for a silver-blonde, statue-hefting Doris Day. I looked back at Patty. “Did Wylie have an affair with a woman named Doris?”
    “I don’t know. Probably. I’m surprised at you, Ing. Wylie never made his treasure hunts that easy.”
    “True. I remember when we all invaded the Chief Theatre. Wylie’s clue was buried inside a box of popcorn.”
    “No. Crackerjacks. The Chief’s feature film was Breakfast at Tiffany’s . Damn! I think I’m going to cry.”
    “Good. Tears hurt, but they also heal. It’s like pouring peroxide over an open wound. At first it stings something awful, but—”
    “Such a beautiful moo-moovie,” she said in between sobs. “Remember how it was raining and Audrey Hepburn hugged her wet pussy?”
    I had a fleeting image of Wylie cleaning wax from his ears with his toes before it dissolved into the image of Audrey Hepburn trying to hug her wet pussy.
    “Then George Peppard kissed Audrey,” Patty continued, “while the puss played peek-a-boo from the lapels of her trench coat. It was so romantic. That scene always makes me cry.”
    “Gosh, I remember your supreme, unconditional feelings for ‘Moon River,’ ” I said sarcastically.
    “Moon, oh God, River. After Dylan does his thing, would you sing ‘Moon River’ at Wylie’s memorial service? Please, Ingrid, please?”
    “I’d rather sing Janis Joplin’s ‘Piece of my Heart.’”
    Unexpectedly, I felt the nape of my neck prickle. Because I heard a distant echo. The words could have come from Doris Day’s painted lips.
    Are you dying, Wylie?
    And the reply might have come from Joplin, chained to the sky.
    We all die by bits and pieces .
    But the third refrain sounded just like Wylie. Maybe he was chained to Janis.
    How do you make a statue of an elephant?

Chapter Six
    “She was hugging her wet pussy?”
    Ben’s voice sounded amused, and even though I had conjured up the same mental image, I said, “Wet cat, honey.”
    Hitchcock growled. His knowledge of human speak wasn’t very extensive, maybe eight words—sit, stay, friend, dogbiscuit, baddog, gooddog, getdownoffthecouchyousonofabitch, and cat. When I wanted him to leave the family room, I’d verbally bribe him with: “Look, Hitchcock, there’s a cat, chase the cat.” It worked every time.
    “In retrospect,” I said, “this afternoon’s Breakfast-at-T’s crying jag was Patty’s way of expressing genuine sorrow. When JFK was assassinated, everybody else wept buckets. But Patty was dry-eyed until we watched The Miracle Worker shortly thereafter. Patty Duke said wah-wah for water and our Patty burst into tears. ‘Oh God,’ she wailed, ‘why can’t miracles happen in Dallas, too? Why couldn’t he be crippled or blinded? Why did he have to die?’ She said virtually the same thing when Stewie died, but only after Warren Beatty, as Clyde Barrow, was riddled by bullets.”
    “Enough, Ingrid.” Ben knelt on the family room’s carpet and tousled Hitchcock’s shaggy, maple-leaf ears. “We don’t have to obsess over Wylie’s demise or Patty’s grief.”
    “You sound so unemotional. I thought you and Wylie made up during Sunday morning’s phone call. Before I left for the game, you even said something about kidnapping Wylie and buying him dinner. Did you do it?”
    “Did I do what? Kill Wylie?”
    “No, dopey, buy him dinner.”
    “Ingrid, he died.”
    “Dinner doesn’t necessarily mean night fare, especially on a Sunday. Dinner means the principal meal of the day.”
    “Are you asking if I saw Wylie before he was killed?”
    “Yes.”
    I recalled Cee-Cee’s wheedle with sex remark—roast beef, booze, and a lack of panties. But I hadn’t worn undies, even provocative undies, in years. Also, I couldn’t cook worth a damn and it was supper time, so I sat on the edge of my lime couch, scrutinizing several Chinese take-out containers. The food was real Chinese, seasoned to perfection, ordered from a hole-in-the-wall restaurant that Wylie had