For Butter or Worse Page 4

  And then we see it. A true masterpiece. Lehane Noster’s sculpture is truly magnificent.

  “Wow,” Travis and I whisper simultaneously.

  Travis goes on to say reverently, “It’s perfection, absolute perfection.” I haven’t heard him utter those words since he saw Hugh Jackman’s butt in Wolverine.

  Lehane Noster’s masterpiece is a depiction of Moses parting the Red Sea. The Pharaoh getting squished under his chariot’s wheels is my favorite part. How a person can create such an amazing thing and have it only be for the semi-finals blows my mind. What can the guy do for a follow-up? I ask, “So, he has to make a whole other sculpture for the finals?”

  “Oh, yes,” Arthur says. “And he has to do it in public, in front of a live audience. The semis aren’t public,” he lowers his voice, “because some of the work is not up to par. Everyone who enters gets to compete, so the Better Butter Committee likes to keep that under wraps as much as possible. They save the big sculpting where everyone watches as the grand finale. It’s in the rule book that was written by Benedict Butter—they call it the Butter Manifesto. He was a stickler for perfection but also believed that the common man, I mean person, should be allowed to compete.”

  “How very fair of him,” I say.

  “I wish I’d studied sculpting instead of bartending,” Travis pines.

  “You can’t make a living carving butter, but it is a nice hobby,” Arthur says.

  “So, this Lehane is the main guy to beat?” I ask.

  Arthur nods. He’s won every year for the past twelve years. Caroline hates losing to him every year but, until he retires, she’ll always come in second.”

  “Que sera, sera,” Travis says. He looks up at the giant clock. “Oh, I butter get back.” He says his goodbyes and hurries out the large doors and back to the beer tent.

  A short, plump woman scurries up to Arthur. She has red hair in a bowl cut and green eyes with a deep furrow line between them that looks like it’s always furrowed. She looks to be in her fifties. “I’m so glad I found you,” she says breathlessly. “Have you seen Lehane recently? He’s always around for autographs. I know it’s not in his nature, but he understands how important it is to acknowledge his fans.” She looks around like she is hoping Lehane Noster will miraculously appear. When he doesn’t, she looks back to Arthur with panic etched on her grave face.

  “I haven’t seen Lehane since the end of the semis,” Arthur says. He explains to me, “Lehane is part of the mentor program. He’s helped me a lot with my growth as a butter sculptor. He’s also writing a book called Butter For The Soul.”

  “He’s a wonderful person,” the woman says. She looks at me and nods shyly.

  Arthur has evidently got butter on the brain. “I’m sorry, where are my manners?” He introduces me to Betty Butter, the great-granddaughter of Benedict Butter.

  Betty Butter shakes my hand, firmly, although my hand engulfs hers. “Are you one of the early competitors? I don’t judge the earlier rounds. I feel I’m too hard on the beginners, so I recuse myself.”

  “No, I’m a private detective by trade.” I dig out my card. I always try to hand them out to everyone I meet. A person never knows when they might need a good P.I. The way I figure it, they’ve already met me, which gives me a leg up on the competition that they’d find in the local yellow pages or online.

  Betty looks down at my card and then back up at me. “Does this mean you can find people?”

  “Among other things,” I say.

  It’s true I find Mr. Friedman every time he decides to get himself lost. Mrs. Friedman was my first client and I give her a discount because she gives me a lot of work. Mr. Friedman goes missing a lot. I’m pretty sure he gets lost on purpose. He just needs a break from his wife.

  Betty studies my card. “If Lehane doesn’t show up before the finals then I’ll know something is really wrong. He would never miss the competition. Can I call you? I don’t want to get the police involved. Lehane is a very private person. I wouldn’t want to upset him. He might be preparing for the contest.” She wrings her hands like she doesn’t believe that. “But it’s so unlike him. I’ve called his house several times, but it just goes to voicemail and now his voicemail is full. I don’t know how many messages will fit but I’ve left quite a few.”

  “Have you been by his house?” I ask.

  “Not yet. I suppose I should, but I’ve got all this to attend to,” she says opening her arms wide.

  “I’m sure everything is all right,” Arthur placates. He doesn’t look as certain as he sounds. He gently pats Betty’s shoulder.

  “I tell you what,” I say to Betty. “I’ll drive by his house and see what’s going on. No charge. I’ve got other work that involves driving around. How about that?”

  Betty looks relieved. “Oh, would you? If it looks like anything untoward is going on, I’ll hire you on behalf of the Better Butter Commission.”

  “Deal,” I say. “I’ve got a friend in the police department. I could get her to nose around if we have to.”

  “All right. Should I file a missing person’s report?” She answers her own question, “I can’t do that. I don’t even know if he is missing, or when he went missing. Oh bother, I might be getting all greased-up over nothing.” The furrow between her eyes deepens.

  Greased-up? Is that another butter thing? “I’ll check it out and if he needs finding you can hire me.”

  This unfurrows her furrows.

  “And I’ll keep my eyes and ears open, too,” Arthur adds.

  “Thank you. You’ve both made me feel much better,” Betty says. She looks over Arthur’s shoulder. Her lips turn down into a frown. “Duty calls.”

  We all turn to see Caroline waving a long finger at Betty indicating she needs her attention.

  “I butter get going, too,” I say.

  Arthur chuckles good-naturedly and escorts me to the door. Once outside, I rapidly blink against the bright sun. My tummy rumbles loudly. I make a pit stop at the alligator-on-a-stick booth.

  Travis was right. It does taste like angry chicken.

  Chapter Three

  I weave my way through the mass of fairgoers like a salmon going upstream. Once in the parking lot, it takes me twenty minutes to locate my car. I finally find her hidden between two giant trucks. Every section of the fair parking lot has a picture of an animal up on a pole, so people can find their cars. I parked in the Cougar lot, but it was still a large area to cover.

  I’m hot and crabby by the time I get into Silver. I lean back in the seat and wait for the air conditioning to kick in. I pull Veronica’s file from my bag and look it over.

  Veronica’s client’s name is Del Hargrave and the file says she’s an accountant. I wonder what she was arrested for? I’m betting on embezzlement. I could ask but that would go against the new rule of not wanting to know what criminal I might be abetting with my research. Veronica could be right, going in without any bias might be a good thing.

  There’s a note from Veronica that Del is out on bail. I’ll start with checking out her house and then see about her office; coworkers are a wealth of information. Then I’ll drive by and see about the butter man, Lehane. I want to see what his final butter masterpiece is going to be and that won’t happen unless I can find him first.

  I don’t have a real good feeling about this. Butter is this guy’s life. Why would he go missing right before the major competition? It doesn’t make sense.

  I burp alligator. It tasted better the first time. I rummage around in the glovebox for the pack of Rolaids I keep there. Like all good detectives I have stomach issues, especially when I’m on a case and I’ve eaten something I shouldn’t have. Reptiles fall into that category. I tell myself no more food on a stick. Except popsicles. I’ll make an exception for popsicles ...and corndogs. I do love a good corndog.

  I aim the air conditioner vents directly at my face and get in the lengthy line of cars waiting to pull out of the lot. I sigh. It’s looking like
today is going to be a long one. My cell phone rings and because I’m not actually driving, I pick up. It’s Travis.

  “You didn’t say goodbye,” he whines.

  “I had to get back to work,” I say defensively. “Besides the beer tent looked busy.”

  “It is the afternoon rush,” he concedes. “Still.”

  “Don’t whine,” I say.

  “The other reason I called is that word has gotten out that Lehane Noster has gone missing. Did you know that?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did.” I inch forward as another car pulls out onto State Fair Boulevard. Fourteen more to go and I’ll be free. “Betty Butter asked me to check it out.”

  “Oooh, a new case,” Travis says. I can almost hear him rubbing his hands together.

  “Not yet. I told Betty I’d look into it at no charge until we decide for sure that he’s really missing.”

  “Well, he’s not here so I’d say he’s missing,” Travis says tartly.

  “He might have the flu and can’t get to the phone.”

  “In which case, you should wear a mask and bring him some chicken soup. Get Mrs. Friedman to make it.”

  “Why Mrs. Friedman?”

  “She’s Jewish,” Travis says like I’m stupid for even asking. “Gotta go.” He clicks off before I can lecture him about political correctness and stereotypes. Although, I’m sure Mrs. Friedman does make a killer chicken noodle soup. Except with matzo balls.

  Finally! I pull out on the street. Silver and I take a collective breath of relief. Did I mention that Silver has a manual transmission? My left leg clutch muscle is cramping. I peel off from fair traffic and take a few side streets until I’ve gotten around the main thoroughfare and the congestion the fair exodus is creating.

  This is a neighborhood I’ve never been through, which creates another problem. I’m lost. I pull over in front of a bungalow and google up. I study the directions and start again. I drive across town with Silver’s air conditioning cranked up high. It must be at least a hundred degrees outside. Okay maybe not that hot. But hot as hell when you’re wearing black. I don’t know what to do about the black thing. It’s my whole wardrobe and I can’t see myself wearing shorts. It just wouldn’t look right. Shorts lack gravitas.

  I locate Del Hargrave’s house without any problem. It’s a mid-sized white house with blue shutters and a white picket fence. It looks like a tween girl’s fantasy house. This seems like a contradiction for a criminal. I correct myself, alleged criminal.

  Judging by the car in the drive, it looks like Del is home. She’s probably working from there now, but I won’t find that out until I pay a visit to her office and see if I can chat up one of her coworkers. There’s a gossip in every office, it’s just a matter of finding them.

  The car in her driveway is a Lamborghini. Since when can an accountant afford a swanky car like that? It has a bumper sticker that reads, I support our local police. Above that is one of those Christian fish symbols. You ask me, both things are fishy.

  Right then our girl comes out the front door dressed in running shorts and shoes. Del Hargrave is what you’d call a stunner. She has long brunette hair tied back in a ponytail, a runner’s lean body, and long legs. I bet she can run a mile in under six minutes on those gams. She looks at her Fitbit and sets off, running, not jogging, down the street. I figure she’s going to be gone for a least thirty minutes; probably closer to forty-five.

  Should I take a look around her yard? Peek in a few windows? It’s not breaking and entering. That’s when I notice the For Sale sign. Perfect excuse for poking around. So, not only does she have a Lamborghini, she’s selling her modest home. Probably looking to upgrade. I look around. The street is quiet. It’s the middle of the afternoon and most people are at work. I get out of my car, grab a small camera, and a clipboard with a blank piece of paper on it.

  I have discovered that if you have a clipboard, people will think you’re on official business and let you in almost anywhere.

  If anyone inquires, I can tell them I’m the assessor. Everyone knows that when a house is up for sale it’s assessed and inspected. I take a few photos of the outside of the house to give weight to my claim, then I walk across the street and open the gate. No one comes out of the house, and no one moves a curtain aside. I walk up to the front door and knock. If anyone else is home or lives here, I’ll give them my line, “I’m here to look at the house.” It’ll take a few phone calls to straighten things out. By the time they do get it sorted, I’ll be long gone.

  No one answers the door. That’s a good sign. I walk around to the back of the house and peer into the windows. The furniture looks expensive, but nothing compared to the car out front. It appears very neat. A neat house is the sign of an organized mind. The yard is tidy, and the lawn has recently been mowed. There’s a shed out back and I check it out. There’s no lawn equipment which means she has a service. There’s not much in the shed: a snow shovel, bungee cords, a couple of citronella tiki torches, four lawn chairs, a chaise lounge, and a small barbeque grill. Judging from this, Del’s not much of an entertainer.

  There are stairs leading up to the back door. The door has a window with open curtains. I put my hands up to shield my eyes, press my nose against the glass, and the door pops open.

  Okay, now I have a quandary. If it’s unlocked does that take away one part of the illegality? Technically, I’m not breaking anything, I’m just entering. Veronica has hired me to look into Del’s affairs. Entering her house would be informative, maybe even invaluably revealing.

  I take another look around. The backyard has overgrown vines climbing up the chain-link fence, shielding the yard from prying eyes. I slowly open the back door all the way. There’s no dog. I call out hello. I wait a few seconds, but nobody yells back.

  I take a deep breath to gather my courage. I check my watch. I’ve still got about twenty minutes left if Del takes a short run. She looks like an overachiever, so I’m betting I have closer to thirty. Still, I need to be quick.

  I enter and quietly close the door behind me.

  The kitchen is old and could use some updating. I know things like this because of Travis. You can’t live with a gay man and not pick up decorating tips and know what’s out and what’s in. There are gold Formica countertops, dark wood cabinets, and no stainless steel appliances—that’s the real giveaway. There’s mail on the small kitchen table crammed into one corner. The table only has two chairs.

  You can tell a lot about a person from their mail. Imagine what the letter carrier knows about us all. What magazines (including the dirty ones,) what bills, birthday cards (or the lack of,) city notices, parking tickets, political affiliations, the list goes on. Too many credit cards indicates debt; dirty magazines mean you’re a pervert; no birthday cards could mean you’re estranged from your family and you have no friends. I wonder what my letter carrier thinks about my life. This is not a comforting thought. (For the record, I don’t get dirty magazines.)

  Del’s mail is interesting. She’s got a couple of credit cards. One of the envelopes is open. A closer inspection shows that she pays it off every month. Her previous month’s balance is only five hundred dollars. Is she paying cash for most stuff? Maybe she’s into money laundering. You can’t put chunks of cash into the bank without raising a red flag, but that doesn’t mean you can’t pay for groceries and gas with cash. Even the utility company will take cash if you go to their payment center. I still wonder about the Lamborghini in the drive. That’s not something you can buy with cash and without the dealer becoming suspicious.

  I flip through the rest of the mail. She’s got a gym membership. There’s an L.C. magazine—L.C. stands for the Lesbian Connection— and a renewal notice for Curve magazine. So, she’s a lesbian. Damn.

  I hate when lesbians commit crimes. It makes all of us look bad.

  I pull my notebook out of my back pocket and jot down some of the things I’ve learned so far: lesbian, fancy car, neat house, pays off credit cards
, goes to Fitness World gym.

  I walk to the living room. There’s a leather couch and love seat, a wooden coffee table, two matching end tables and a bookshelf devoted mostly to hardback true crime novels. The room doesn’t seem very homey. There’s no television. No opened books or magazines. No stereo. The living room doesn’t look like it’s been lived in much.

  Maybe she’s got a den where she watches television and hangs out. I walk down the hall. I peek into one of the bedrooms. She’s turned it into an office with a desk, a rolling chair, and two gray filing cabinets. Now those are worth looking into. I go over to see if they’re locked. They are. I check my watch, I’ve got about five minutes left. I go the desk hoping to find the key there. I scan the surface and don’t see anything. I pick up the desk lamp to see if she’s hidden it under the base. Nope. I open the drawers. They’re mostly filled with office supplies, all neatly arranged. No key. Crapola.

  I decide I best get moving if I want to see the rest of the place. File cabinets can wait for another day. I poke my head in the bathroom and check the medicine cabinet. There are no drugs, not even Tylenol PM. If she’s got a guilty conscience, she doesn’t have trouble sleeping. I pull back the shower curtain. Her toiletries are expensive. I note that down. People with money problems don’t buy luxurious toiletries.

  I move on to the master bedroom. That’s where I find the 60-inch flat screen television. It’s mounted on the wall above her dresser across the room from her king-size bed. I open her closet. She’s got nice clothes and shoes. Okay, she’s got money. Fancy car, fancy clothes, fancy toiletries, and no credit card debt.

  I hear the back door open. Crap! I’m in a pickle now. I look around for a way out. There’s a window. There’s the closet. There’s under the bed. The closet is no good. She’ll need fresh clothes after running. I push at the window, but it’s stuck. That leaves the old hiding under the bed routine.