For Butter or Worse Read online

  “I don’t know. I just feel dirty sometimes helping her out. I mean aren’t I helping her get criminals off the hook? How can I reconcile that with my own work of trying to help people get justice? It’s antithetical.”

  Michael raises one eyebrow in my direction. “Your vocabulary is so sexy.”

  Travis grabs the plastic bat out of the bag and bops him on the head. “She’s my lesbian. Leave her alone.”

  Michael rubs his head and makes a pouty face. I grab the bat again and put it back in the bag. “I’m not anyone’s lesbian. I am my own lesbian.”

  Travis asks, “Tell us about the job and we’ll decide if you’re helping or harming the criminal justice system.”

  Michael puts his right hand on his left shoulder and twists at the waist. Like I said before, the man stretches constantly.

  I slurp down the rest of my Yoo-hoo, crunch the box, and exhale heavily. “I’m supposed to find dirt on this woman, so Veronica won’t have any surprises when they go to court. She seems to think that her client is not being totally forthcoming. The last time she had a not-forthcoming client, the prosecuting attorney came up with the dirt and she lost the case. You know how Veronica feels about losing.”

  “It’s a cataclysmic event,” Travis says. He looks at Michael.

  “Good word,” Michael says in a sexy voice. He gives Travis a tap on the butt. I turn away and pet Ivan who is still eyeing the unicorn horn sticking out of the bag. I don’t know why I’m keeping it from him. It’ll probably end up being his anyway.

  “So why do you feel dirty finding the dirt on one of her clients?” Travis asks. He realizes what he just said. “Let me rephrase, what crime did her client allegedly commit?”

  “I didn’t ask because I didn’t want to know. According to the file Veronica gave me…”

  Travis interjects, “Along with a much-needed retainer?”

  I ignore him. “She didn’t tell me anything about the woman. She wants me to go in with fresh eyes. She thinks I shouldn’t have any preconceived notions of what I’m looking for, which is all right with me because I don’t want to know anyway.”

  Although, as I think about it, that’s a strange request and it was the first line in her list of instructions. She always gives me instructions like I’m not a licensed P.I. and don’t know what I’m doing. Veronica is a control freak. I usually dismiss her instructions and go rogue, but for some reason I don’t care on this one. Maybe I need to start taking multivitamins. I’m too lethargic to give two hoots about Veronica’s needs and wants.

  “It could be interesting. I could go with you,” Travis says.

  “In all your spare time,” I say, reminding him that he already has both a day and a night job. Besides, spending hours in the car with Travis would be hell.

  Travis scowls. “Oh well, I guess you’re on your own.”

  “I still find your job so exciting,” Michael gushes in my direction. He’s been trying to horn in on some of my assignments, too. I’ve tried to explain to both of them that I’m a lone wolf, but that doesn’t stop them from trying. I have used Travis a few times and he’s done a good job. I can’t completely cross off his skills, but Michael with his proclivity for stretching and spontaneous dance moves makes him way too noticeable for undercover work.

  Michael moves on to a new subject. “Have you heard about the butter sculpting contest? It’s the highlight of the fair, which is really saying something.” His eyes glitter with excitement.

  I admit I love butter as much as the next person, and I really think butter has gotten a bad rap because of the never-ending fitness and nutritional trends, but the sculpting of butter doesn’t excite me as much as spreading it on my toast. “What do they do with all those sticks of butter after the competition?”

  Both Travis and Michael laugh. Michael throws out a limp wrist and rolls his eyes. “Honey, we’re not talking sticks of butter; we’re talking 800-pound blocks of butter.”

  “I can’t even fathom what that much butter looks like,” I say.

  “Here, look at this,” Travis says, pulling out a glossy pamphlet from under the bar. There’s a big sculpture of a yellowish cow on the front. Made out of butter, no doubt. “These are the rules and regulations and tips for viewing the competition. It’s everything you ever wanted to know about butter sculpting.” He slides it across the counter toward me.

  I scan the pamphlet. They’re right. This butter thing is a huge deal. I read the back of the pamphlet where they explain what they do with the butter after the competition. “You can’t even eat the butter after they’re done carving it,” I say indignantly. “Talk about a waste of good butter.”

  “Would you really want to?” Travis says. “I mean ewww, all that carving and smoothing, finger patting… germs, germs, and more germs.” He wraps his arms around his own waist and shivers dramatically.

  He’s got a point.

  A man wearing an apron, the kind craftsmen wear, comes up to the bar. He’s evidently overheard us. “We compost the butter.” He asks Michael for a draft beer.

  I know a little about composting. My Pop tried his hand at it once when he decided he’d take up gardening. You’re not supposed to put things like dairy in it, just organic stuff like potato peels and apple cores. “I didn’t know you could put butter in compost.” My stomach growls loudly. I guess it’s all the talk about butter.

  “First of all,” apron man begins, “the butter has to go to a special recycling center because they have the right carbon balance, pile construction, and moisture content so it can break down the proteins. You have to melt the hell out of it. Overall, it’s good for the environment but not the dinner table.” He takes a slug of beer. “Damn, that’s good. And cold.”

  By the time he’s done with the description of what they do to the butter, the alligator-on-a-stick is starting to look good. Or better yet, a candy bar on a stick.

  Apron man puffs out his chest and says, “You all should stop by the butter barn and check it out. We’ve finished with the quarter-finals. I made the cut this year with my garden gnomes sculpture. I call it ‘Gnome Sweet Gnome.’ I sculpted an entire family, including the dog. Believe me, that was a challenge.”

  I can’t even begin to imagine what a garden gnome dog looks like. Travis grabs Michael’s arm and says in a breathy voice, “We have to go look when we get a break. I must see this.”

  The man in the apron introduces himself. “Good to meet you all. The name’s Arthur Lamb.” He shakes hands all around. Arthur is in his mid to late sixties. He has a gray buzz cut, large blue eyes, and a pretty good-sized schnozzola. He continues, “I’ve been sculpting ever since I retired about four years back. I just couldn’t figure out what to do with myself. I was a chemical engineer and I worked a lot. I was driving my wife crazy with all my free time. Until I found butter.” He says this with the same fervor that people say when they find Jesus. “I saw the contest here at the fair and BAM! I caught butter-fever. You could say butter was my salvation.”

  The fair sure creates a lot of fevers. There are all kinds of weird desires: food on a stick, spin art, toys, yardsticks, weird kitchen gadgets that seem like you can’t live without them until you get them home and realize you can live without them very well. All this stuff ends up in a garage sale or in the trash.

  Arthur continues with the tale of his butter career. “I was mesmerized with the skill and intricacies of the sculptures. The thought to subject matter was amazing. You don’t just carve any old thing. It has to have a theme, have some meaning behind it, and must evoke strong emotions in the viewer.”

  “Wow,” Travis says, his eyes glittering with excitement.

  I pray that he doesn’t catch butter fever. I can just see him carving butter in our kitchen and me having to give an in depth and insightful critique of his work of art. And there’s our dog and cat to worry about. I don’t think they know the difference between art and dairy.

  Arthur finishes his beer. “I best get back. Butter wa
its for no man.”

  Travis looks over at Michael with big puppy eyes and pleads, “Can I go with him? Please, please, please? Then you can go after me. I simply must see this.”

  Michael appears to pout then breaks into a wide smile. He likes to make Travis happy and for that reason alone I overlook his spontaneous stretching. A happy Travis is so much better than a disgruntled Travis.

  “Go ahead. Take Jamie with you. Everyone needs to see this,” Michael says.

  “Oh no, that’s all right. I should get going,” I quickly say. Then I see Arthur’s crestfallen face and change my tune. “But I’ve got a little time. I could take a quick peek at these gnomes of yours.”

  If Travis could have jumped over the bar he would have. Instead, he jumps up and down, claps his hands, hugs Michael, and races around the counter. Ivan realizes he’s about to get left behind and whimpers. Travis wraps his arms around him, planting kisses on his wrinkled head. “I’m so sorry, baby. I don’t think they allow doggies into the butter barn.”

  I can just see Ivan licking the art. He whimpers again and stares pleadingly up at Travis. Michael reaches into his pocket and pulls out an over-sized doggy biscuit with a gravy coating. Ivan takes one look at that biscuit and forgets all about Travis and his imminent departure.

  Travis purses his lips and tries to look offended. He quickly forgets about Ivan and nudges me with his hip. “Come on, I can’t be gone forever.”

  I grudgingly assent. Arthur’s face is a picture of glee. I only look like that when I fall in love. I guess Arthur feels the same way about his butter.

  We follow him to the butter barn. The actual name carved in the limestone façade of the old brick building is the name Benedict Butter Building, circa 1947. Arthur sees me looking up at it. He says in a hushed tone, “Benedict Butter was the founder of the original contest. He gave his life to butter, had one of the biggest dairy farms this side of the Mississippi, and it is his philanthropy that funded the building and the contest. He also gave money to start butter carving camps all over the country for special needs children. Unfortunately, when the health food craze started, it killed the program. People didn’t want their children learning anything about butter because of the alleged health hazards. His great-granddaughter, Betty Butter, is the chairwoman and one of the judges on the panel.”

  “Wait a minute, Butter is really her last name?” I ask as we pass under the portal and into the building itself. Inside is a sizeable crowd of looky-loos. Everybody speaks in hushed tones like they’re in a cathedral.

  Arthur leads us through the throng, saying, “Well, she was married for a short time to an ice cream magnate, but they never did agree on whether butter or ice cream was the heart and soul of America. She went back to her maiden name and never eats ice cream. Do not even mention ice cream in her presence. It sets her off on a tirade no one ought to see.”

  I doubt I’ll have the opportunity to meet butter Betty. I correct myself: Betty Butter. I add as a reminder: who hates ice cream. At the mention of ice cream my stomach growls. Travis notices. “You’ve got to taste the alligator-on-a-stick. It’s to die for. It tastes like chicken only angrier.”

  “You actually ate something on a stick?”

  “It’s a part of the savoir faire of the fair,” Travis says. “Savoir faire, get it?”

  I have got to get away from all this and fast. I don’t want to find myself applying for a job as a carny, trying to get people to do the dime toss for useless glassware.

  Arthur walks up to a booth. “These are our state-of-the-art butter booths. Nice, huh?”

  The booth has walls on three sides and the fourth side is solid glass. The booth isn’t very large. Just big enough to hold an 800-pound block of butter and a human sculptor. There are six identical booths all in a row.

  “Are these booths refrigerated?” I put my hand on the glass to feel the temperature. Arthur looks disapprovingly at me. I wipe off my hand print on the glass with the edge of my T-shirt.

  “Oh, yes. The butter needs to be kept at a firm 40 degrees. Some sculptors prefer 37 degrees, but I find that a bit hard for my liking,” Arthur says. He shrugs and smiles. “To each his own.”

  I look over at Travis. He’s frozen in place with his mouth hanging open. I follow his gaze to inside Arthur’s butter booth.

  Behind the glass is the entire gnome family, complete with gnome dog. And when I say gnomes, I don’t mean the cute little ones you find in flower beds. These are gnome monstrosities. Papa gnome is six feet tall, with each family member diminishing in height. The dog is the creepiest of all. He has a gnome face on a dog body. I’m hoping I don’t have nightmares from these enormous butter gnomes. I thought the boogey man was bad. If these gnomes were to ever come alive it would scare the butter right out of me.

  “What d’ya think?” Arthur asks, looking back and forth between us and his creation.

  Travis takes care of the compliments for both of us. “It’s b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l,” he drawls.

  I nod. “Simply amazing.”

  Arthur looks like he might cry. “This is my best year so far.” He puts his hand over his heart. “You don’t know how much your praise means to me.”

  “Oh, I do,” Travis says. “Every artist needs validation.”

  “Yes, yes, we do. But now that I’ve received my accolades, I’ve got to show you the art of my mentor, Lehane Noster. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? The man is a genius, an absolute genius. He usually wins, but in the last couple of years the competition has gotten stiffer. Still, he’s the best there is.”

  A haughty woman walks by, glances at Arthur’s gnomes, and sniffs in disapproval. Her hair is bleached white. She’s wearing red lipstick that matches her long red fingernails. She gives us a precursory glance as she glides by on red stilettos. She is wearing a white fur coat. Who wears a fur coat in August? Then it occurs to me, the butter barn is cool, and the carving booths must be even cooler.

  I look over at Arthur. His eyes follow the woman’s exit. A moment ago, he was full of joy and now he’s deflated. It’s as though the woman popped him like a balloon. I wonder if he thought that woman would stop and tell him how much she liked his gnomes. I can tell already she’s not the kind of woman who hands out compliments. Jesus Christ himself could’ve carved the Last Supper in butter and it wouldn’t be good enough for her.

  “Who was that?” Travis asks in his best catty gay man voice.

  “That was Caroline Swank,” Arthur whispers. “She’s the second-best butter carver after Lehane Noster.” He sighs deeply.

  “Can she carve butter wearing her high heels and mink coat?” I whisper-ask. I watch as she strides across the butter barn toward her own butter booth. I try to catch a glimpse of her sculpture but can’t make it out.

  “No, she wears tailored coveralls when she sculpts,” Arthur says.

  Travis swings his arm across Arthur’s shoulders. “You’ve carved the best gnomes I’ve ever seen. And I think you’re going to stomp her butter into the ground.”

  Arthur smiles gratefully at Travis. “Thank you. I appreciate your kind words. Let’s go look at Caroline’s. She is a true champion.”

  “And someone you can aspire to be,” Travis says then stops, adding, “if you want to be snotty, wear heels, a mink coat, and have awful hair.”

  This makes Arthur snort with suppressed laughter. We head on over to see what Caroline Swank has carved. I’m sure I won’t be impressed.

  We look through the glass and…

  Okay, I was wrong. It’s stunning. The woman knows her butter. She’s carved Neil Armstrong on the Moon. It’s an exact replica, right down to the spacecraft, lunar rover, flag, and Neil all suited up in his puffy suit. You can almost feel the weightlessness of being on the moon. The sculpture is truly amazing.

  Arthur and Travis stare, enraptured. A crowd has gathered in front of her booth. The people are oohing and aahing over her sculpture.

  “Did you say this was the semi-final round?” I ask.
I’m wondering how can a person even begin to top this?

  “Yes. I came in sixth in the semis. They take the top two for the finals, which is always Caroline and Lehane. So, the semis are as far as the rest of us go. It’s like the junior league, but I aspire,” Arthur says, his mood improved. “It’s a real pleasure competing, though. Most of the contestants are very nice and supportive.”

  Unlike Caroline, I think. I watch as the self-anointed Queen of Butter signs autographs with a white Mont Blanc pen. She is coldly courteous and aloof, but the crowd doesn’t seem to notice or care. I guess when you’re great you can be a bitch and people overlook it.

  The crowd presses in and all the closeness makes me nervous. Travis notices. He looks up at a giant clock. It looks like something that belongs in Penn Station. Since butter carving is a timed event a big clock is extremely pertinent.

  “Let’s do a quick spin around the other booths. Arthur, would you do us the honor of showing us around?” Travis asks.

  Arthur smiles widely. “Why, I’d be delighted.”

  Travis puts his arm through Arthur’s and they stride ahead. I take one last look at Caroline. There’s something I don’t like about that woman. She stares out over the crowd and her dark shark eyes meet my eyes. She sniffs in disdain.

  I sniff back at her. But that little sniff gives me a nose-full of somebody’s perfume and I sneeze.

  I quickly turn and follow Arthur and Travis for a tour of the booths and their butter sculptures. We pass by a sculpture of a pioneer family heading west in a covered wagon. Next is a gardener hoeing his garden with a basket of veggies. The intricacies of the plants and vegetables are impressive. So is the gardener. This is not to denigrate the pioneer family. These two sculptures won over Arthur’s gnomes. I’m beginning to understand that theme is equally important as the skill of the carver. Perhaps the world of butter is not ready for gnomes yet.

  We walk past some pretty bad, and in some cases hideous, attempts at sculpting. Actually, calling it sculpting is being very generous. There are mangled puppies in a melting basket and a cow that looks like a big dog with swollen udders. Another sculpture is entitled “Drinking Kool-Aid in Guyana.” It is the stuff of which nightmares are made.