“No, it’s not,” Travis retorts. “Show her, Jamie.”
Trying to imagine the logistics of this, I say, “Maybe later. Tell me about the Lamborghini? How does an accountant afford such a swanky car?”
“It’s called leasing,” Veronica says.
“Hunh,” I say. She’s got me stumped there.
“Why don’t you tell us the real reason you want Jamie to look into this woman?” Travis says.
“Us?” Veronica says derisively. She finishes her coffee and sets the mug on the table. Veronica doesn’t do dishes, so she’s unaware of the uses of a sink. I was constantly picking up after her when we were together. One day I figured out that there were two things Veronica wanted from me, sex and servitude. Sometimes at the same time.
“I look out for Jamie’s interests,” Travis says. He pours himself more coffee and tops off my mug.
“I’d rather her have fresh eyes about this, Travis. Which means she should know as little about Del Hargrave as possible.” Veronica turns to me. “Del is an accountant with issues. She’s also a narcoleptic.”
“A narcoleptic?” I say. I had thought that falling immediately asleep after a run was odd. Now, I know why. “But she drives. Isn’t that dangerous?”
“She takes NoDoz when she drives long distances. Her office is close to home, so it’s not really a problem.”
“Yet,” Travis says disgustedly.
The conversation stops when Michael does a ballet leap into the kitchen almost knocking Veronica the person over. Ivan stops eating and runs to Michael who scoops him up and kisses him. Veronica grimaces. “You don’t know where his mouth has been.”
“Not up your ass, that’s for sure. He can’t stand you,” Michael says.
She does a whatever gesture with her hand. Deciding she’s not done with the exchange of insults, she asks in her most disdainful tone, “Are those lederhosen you’re wearing?”
“You’re so astute. You must be a lawyer,” Michael says. He dismisses her with his own I’m- done-with-you swish of the hand. He looks to Travis and says, “Honey, you’re not dressed. We’ve got to go. I promised Arthur we’d come early so he can explain the basics of butter carving to Jamie.” Michael looks at me, explaining, “Arthur has offered to be your butter mentor. You’ll need to get up to snuff on how to carve if you’re going undercover as a butter carver.”
Travis and I look at him like he’s spoken in tongues. “What?”
“Where did you get that idea?” I ask.
Veronica is intently listening. I can tell because when she’s super-interested in something other than herself she leans her head forward. It stretches her neck, and she looks a bit giraffe-like. It’s not a good look, but I’ve never told her. It’s the only time she doesn’t look perfect. “What butter thing?” she inquires.
Michael opens his mouth to tell all, but Travis gives him the look that means shut-your-pie-hole-this-instant. Michael obeys instantly. He deftly changes subjects, saying, “Both of you go get dressed. Chop, chop.” He claps his hands to get us to hurry.
Veronica, never one to plead, says, “I’ve got to go anyway. Don’t let this butter thing get in the way of my needs.”
“I would never,” I say over my shoulder as I head to my bedroom with a cup of coffee.
I put on my black outfit and consider what Michael has said. Undercover butter sculptor. The only thing I know about butter is that I love it on toast and pancakes. And I failed art class in high school.
No one ever fails art, but I was so bad at it that even the teacher was amazed. I had to go to summer school and Juniper took pity on me and finished my projects. She was good enough to get me a passing grade. She did it for herself because she didn’t want everyone to think I was too stupid to pass the tenth grade and make her look bad. God bless her altruistic self. I also have a sneaking suspicion that my mother paid her.
When I finish dressing, Michael and Travis are waiting on me. Lederhosen must be quick to put on. “Is she gone?”
Travis nods. “Can’t you tell by the absence of Sin?”
“That’s a little harsh,” I say. “Even about Veronica.”
“Sin is a perfume,” Michael says. “A very expensive woman’s perfume.”
“Ah,” I say, sniffing. He’s right. The odor of debauchery has left. “So, Michael, tell me where this undercover idea came from?”
Michael beams and says proudly, “It was my idea. Betty Butter was so distraught that I checked on her when my shift was over. I suggested that you could go undercover. I mean Lehane went missing because he always wins. Maybe someone wanted to even up the odds by removing Lehane from the competition. You need to get in with the butter people. Arthur says he’ll help. He’s as upset as Betty. So, I thought since no one knows anything about you that you could show up as Lehane’s replacement.”
It’s not a half bad idea. I wish I’d thought of it.
I like going after the bad guys. It can be dangerous, but I’ve been in danger before—the dognappings, a murderously jealous woman who tried to frame Veronica, finding the lost Mr. Friedman, looking for a lost hymen, saving a gambler who owed money to the mob, and even debt collection for the mob. (Yes, I’m friendly with mobsters and they’ve helped me out from time to time. As long as they’re on your side, they’re not so bad.) I must be pretty good at this detective stuff because I’m still alive. I haven’t been shot and I’ve still got all my fingers. So, yes, I think I can handle a little undercover butter carving.
Then it occurs to me that this is the finals of the contest. “How is Betty going to explain my presence? I mean, won’t I be leapfrogging over the semi-finalists?”
“Oh, she’s got that all figured out. Under clause fifteen of the butter rules, a butter contestant can name a substitute if he or she is incapacitated and cannot compete. Arthur is going to pat down any ruffled feathers because no one likes Caroline Swank and there’s no chance any of the semi-finalists could beat her. They’d rather see an outsider win if it means giving ol’ Caroline the smack down,” Michael says.
I’m jealous of Michael. Betty should’ve told me all this stuff. After all, I’m the detective. “Why’d she tell you all this stuff?”
Michael looks hurt. “I did it for you.”
Now I feel bad. I can’t stand to see a grown man cry. “I’m sorry. I just feel out of the loop.”
“I know I should’ve let you handle it, but Betty was frantic, and you did such an amazing job going undercover with the dognapping. That’s where I got the idea. I didn’t want Betty choosing just anybody to solve the case.” He looks like he might cry. Travis shoots me a dirty look.
I put my arm around Michael’s shoulder. “I know you have my best interests at heart and I’m grateful.” I give him a squeeze. “Now let’s go catch some criminals.”
“And pour some beer. With Ivan’s help we’re making tons of cash in tips. I’ll be able to buy that armoire I’ve been pining for,” Travis says.
“I still think it has too much scroll work,” Michael says. Travis glares at him. “But it does have nice lines.” We both know that challenging Travis about anything that involves interior design is dangerous.
Ivan yips. He has his lederhosen on and he’s ready to earn some tips.
We pile into my car, which is a tight fit, boys in the back, and Ivan in the front seat in his basket. I know I said I was a lone wolf but sometimes a gal needs her pack.
***
When we enter the butter barn, Betty is frantic. She is wringing her hands and Arthur is trying to comfort her. She scurries up to us with Arthur waddling close behind. “Thank goodness you’re here!” Betty says. “Caroline Swank has called in the panel of judges to challenge the use of a substitute for Lehane. You’re going to have to face the tribunal.”
“Do you have a resume? Anything relating to butter?” Arthur asks.
“Uh, no,” I say. I don’t think slathering it on corn-on-the-cob will count.
Travis puts his fing
er on his chin. That’s his prime thinking position. “How much time do we have before the tribunal?”
Betty looks up at the giant butter-timing clock hanging on the wall of the butter building. “About a half an hour,” she says.
“We’ve got just enough time before Michael and I have to open the biergarten,” Travis says.
“Just enough time to do what?” I ask.
“To make up a resume for you,” Travis says. He looks at Betty. “You have a printer, yes?”
“Yes, it’s in my office,” Betty replies.
“Let’s get this show on the road,” Travis says. “Lead the way to your office.”
Betty grabs Travis by the sleeve. “I’m not sure about this. We’ll be lying to the judges. I have a reputation to protect.”
“You don’t know anything about it,” Travis says, trying to allay her fears. He gives her a big, exaggerated wink.
“When I go undercover, doing things like this is absolutely necessary. Besides, if our president can lie about a porn star, surely fudging a resume for a good cause – perhaps even saving a man’s life! – is not such bad thing,” I say.
Betty lets those words soak in for a moment. “Yes, well, there is that. We did have a contestant who submitted a design… It was a carving of Ms. Stormy Daniels, but we managed to convince him that mixing politics and butter is never a good idea. Butter is meant to be pure, and it’s a family show, you know.”
“Besides, the design was flawed. There were some structural issues because of her…you-know-whats,” Arthur says.
“You mean her augmentation?” I ask. Stormy really does have quite the rack on her.
“Exactly,” Betty says. Her cheeks are glowing pink.
Travis and Michael smirk, but wisely say nothing.
“I can help with the resume. We’ll use some of my lesser known events to pad the experience part of her resume. But there is the essay portion where she’ll need to express her deep commitment to butter and how it changed her life,” Arthur says.
“Commitment to butter?” I say. “Don’t get me wrong, I love butter as much as the next person, but an essay is beyond my skill levels.”
“We’ll wing it,” Travis says, patting my back reassuringly. “Remember in fifth grade I helped you write that essay on the importance of the earthworm in saving our planet?”
“Yes, I got a C+ on it, if I recall.”
Travis shrugs. “I had to make it look like you wrote it, so I threw in a couple of misspelled words.”
“I’m a good speller,” I say defensively. “Now,” I add. My mother, upon seeing the paper, made me sit at the kitchen table and work my way through the dictionary. Me and Merriam Webster became close friends.
“We best get on with it. Time waits for no man…or woman,” Arthur says, tapping the face of his wrist watch.
We all hightail it to Betty’s small office. It gets even smaller with the five of us in it. Wait a minute. We’re missing one.
“Where’s Ivan?” I ask.
I step out of the office and look for him. I find him sniffing around one of the butter booths. I check the name tag hanging on the booth window. It’s Caroline Swank’s booth. Inside the booth is the biggest stick of butter I’ve ever seen. You’ve never seen butter until you’ve seen an 800 pound stick of butter! Caroline’s booth is the only one with a block of butter in it.
I whistle for Ivan. He’s still sniffing and ignores me. Just then Caroline comes around the side of the booth. “Is this your dog?” she says harshly.
Friendly gal, I think. “Yes,” I say coming toward her to get Ivan. He’s sniffing the hem of her long white mink coat.
“Get that thing away from me.”
“He’s not hurting anyone.” I pick him up.
“What happened to him? Why’s he so ugly?”
I scratch behind his ears trying to distract him from Caroline’s mean words. I use my most uppity voice and say, “I’ll have you know he’s pedigreed.” I don’t mention Ivan’s stint at the pound and the fact I don’t know if he really is pedigreed. “He is a pure Chinese crested, a rare breed, and much revered in China.”
She scoffs. “He’s still an ugly dog, but if that’s how he’s supposed to look I suppose I can overlook it.”
“What does that mean?” I say tartly.
“That his kind has its place.”
What do you call racism when it applies to dogs? Dogism? If I weren’t holding Ivan, I might smack the conceited dogist upside her head. Instead I choose to not respond. I turn on my heels and march back to Betty Butter’s office. I can feel Caroline Swank’s eyes burning into my back the whole way.
In the office I find everyone hovering over Michael who is typing on Betty’s computer while the rest of them dictate, mostly all at the same time. Somehow Michael is managing to get something down. He’s an amazing multi-tasker. I once saw him dance every part of The Nutcracker while baking a damn good carrot cake.
Betty shushes everyone and says, “I think that might be just a bit over the top. Maybe we should focus on her involvement in 4-H and not her childhood proclivity for eating entire sticks of butter.”
Arthur bobs his head up and down in agreement. “You’re right. We don’t want her to look like she has an addiction problem.”
I squeeze around Travis and Arthur and look over Michael’s shoulder. He deletes the part about me eating sticks of butter. As a child my mother did catch me licking a frozen stick of butter. I tried to tell her I thought it was a popsicle. My story didn’t hold up.
“Okay, we’ll elaborate on her dedication to teaching younger members of 4-H the importance of butter in their lives,” Arthur says.
“How about citing her butter activism?” Michael says.
“Activism?” I ask.
“Yes, look here,” Michael has the Wikipedia window open. “Butter sculpting almost died out when the margarine people went after big butter.”
“Oh, my goodness, I’d forgotten about that,” Betty says. “Butter’s heyday occurred between 1890 and 1930. With the advent of oleomargarine, they made people think butter was evil. It was quite unfair.”
“Very unjust,” Arthur agrees. He looks down to find Ivan licking his shoes. “He’s a butter lover,” he says and reaches down to pet Ivan. Between the saliva and the butter, Arthur’s shoes look like he just got a shoeshine.
“I know!” Betty says, snapping her fingers. “Let’s tell them that Jamie is working on a non-fiction book about the benefits of butter and the conspiracy of the margarine people who are backed by health fiends to make chemicals and vegetable oil seem like a better choice than butter. Have you ever looked at the label on those butter substitutes? You might as well eat plastic bags. They’re probably better for you,” she says, balling up her fists. Her face is red. She’s definitely in the throes of butter rage.
Arthur gently pats her shoulder, muttering, “So true, so true.” He shakes his head in disgust at the anti-butter people.
Anti-butter, pro-oleo? This is all way over my head. “Is this panel of butter judges going to grill me like I’m defending my master’s thesis?”
“Yes, dear, but you’ll be fine,” Betty says.
“Finished! Take a look,” Michael says. I lean in and read his work. According to my resume, butter is my life.
“It’s perfect,” Travis says. Arthur nods his head in agreement.
Betty checks the time. “I’ve got to go and see about the panel. It’s my turn to bring the butter cookies.”
Of course, they would be having butter cookies.
At the mention of cookies, Ivan’s ears perk up and he tries to follow her out the door. Travis scoops him up. “You print,” he points at Michael. Travis knows that I could just as easily mess up the printing of my resume as get it printed. I’m a disaster at tech stuff. That’s what I have my sister, Juniper, for. She’s my go-to tech girl.
“Can’t she just do it? I’ve got to help you with set-up.” Michael sees me blanche and reme
mbers my tech affliction. “Never mind. I’ll make the copies.”
“See you at the booth,” Travis says. He gives Michael a peck on the cheek. He opens the office door to leave then turns back, asking, “Do you want a walleye on a stick with a pickle on a stick? My granola bar is long gone,” Travis says, rubbing his empty tummy.
“No, thank you,” Michael says. “I’m watching my waistline.”
None of us got breakfast this morning because of our uninvited guest. I don’t think I can handle fish before noon. “Do they still have those little donuts that come in a bag?”
“Yes, they do. Donuts are three blocks down on the right,” Travis says.
I look up at the clock. I’ve got an extra five minutes. I take the copies that Michael has printed and head for the donut booth. I bet they have coffee to go with the donuts. I fast-walk the three blocks.
I must’ve missed the morning donut rush because I’m second in line. I get a bag of bite-sized donuts and a coffee. I set my resume down on the counter while I put sugar and creamer in my coffee. Ah, life is good now that I have the promise of grease and caffeine ahead of me. I stick one of the still-warm donuts in my mouth and let out a low moan of satisfaction. I pick up my coffee and it sloshes on the resumes, leaking through all the copies.
“Oh, crapola,” I say, grabbing napkins and blotting the already-soaked papers. I check my watch. I’ve got to get new ones made. I can’t hand these out. They make me look sloppy and unprepared, which I am, but I don’t want them to know that.
I hurry back to the butter barn, sloshing coffee the entire way. I stop and slug down the coffee and dump the Styrofoam cup in the trash barrel. I shove two donuts in my mouth for comfort.
Betty grabs my arm the second I walk in. “The judges are ready for you.”
“I spilled coffee on the resumes. I need to make new ones.”
“There’s no time,” Betty says. She grabs my half-eaten bag of donuts and nudges me toward a long table where three judges and Caroline Swank are poised expectantly.
I whisper to Betty, “What’s she doing here?”
Betty knows right away who I am referring to. “She’s your competitor, so she gets a vote as to whether she’ll accept you replacing Lehane.”
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