I can’t imagine how big Travis’s head will be if he is encouraged by Betty to be a butter-carver replacement for their lost star, but I’ll deal with that later. “Michael isn’t sure if the fuse box in the backroom is labeled correctly.”
“Of course it is,” Betty says, obviously affronted.
People in line are beginning to stare. Some of them know Betty is a judge. I take her by the elbow and lead her away. “Let’s go outside and talk.”
“All right,” Betty says. “I want to look at the fuse box.”
We quietly slip into the backroom. Betty marches over to the fuse box where Michael is standing looking fretful. “Let me just see this, young man.” She freezes. She looks from Michael to me. She opens her eyes wide and asks, “Why exactly are you interested in the fuse box?”
We confess our plan. Betty isn’t as excited by our plan as we are. “That is in direct violation of the rule number thirty-seven. Sabotage is grounds for disqualification,” she states.
“Betty, everything we’re doing is violating the rules. I’m supposed to be carving, Travis is a plant, and Caroline is a murderer.”
Betty wrings her hands. “The audience is going to be so disappointed. I don’t know if the contest can be saved.”
“We’re talking murder,” I remind her. “Muuuurder,” I say, elongating the vowel.
“I know, I know. I’m sorry. I’m just thinking of myself,” Betty says, “and not poor Lehane.” She sniffles. “Are you sure, absolutely sure, that Lehane is in the butter?”
I nod. “He’s in her butter block and she’s just smearing the butter over his features, so it looks like she’s sculpting him.”
“But how do you know for certain?” Betty asks.
“We saw his eyeball,” Michael blurts. “I poked a hole in the butter block and saw his eyeball.”
“Oh, lord in heaven,” Betty says, clutching her chest. She stops to think. “Why on earth would she murder him then carve an homage to him? That’s morbid.”
“To influence the judges’ sympathy?” I venture.
“To taunt us?” Michael says.
“To throw us off the trail,” Betty says. Her face colors as rage takes hold. “Let’s melt that bitch.”
Betty saying “bitch” is like watching the Pope pick his nose—inconceivable. She strides over to the fuse box with purpose and studies it. She gasps. “I can’t believe this! She has changed the labeling. Why that awful woman! It isn’t bad enough that she murdered Lehane, but now she’s cheating on top of it all. The nerve of her.” Betty shuts off the air in Caroline’s booth. “That’ll show her.” She puts her hands on her hips. “I need to get back.” She starts to walk away then stops. “This is going to be alarming for the spectators, isn’t it?”
“Probably,” I say.
“But think of the publicity. It’ll be front page news,” Michael says brightly.
Betty blanches. I offer her a sympathetic look and say, “Don’t worry. It’ll all come out fine.”
“I feel terrible for our spectators,” Betty says.
“It’s the kids we need to get away from the gory sight, right?”
“They are the most vulnerable, but they usually get bored after a while and drag their parents to the Midway. The first part of the competition is slow, it’s not until the end that the place really fills up,” Betty says.
“How about we offer free popsicles for the kids at the back of the butter barn? That way when Lehane is being revealed, London’s men can get them outside easily and they won’t see all the ick,” I say. I do not want to be the cause of nightmares for small children who will grow up needing therapy or have PTSD every time they see butter.
“That is a wonderful idea and very sensitive, too,” Betty says. “I’ll leave it to you all.” She looks uncertain for a moment, then nods, and straightens her shoulders.
“You know, kids are more desensitized to violence than their parents,” Michael says. “Maybe we should add Jell-O shots for the parents.”
“If only we had a liquor license,” Betty says. She walks toward the door and turns. “I do want to thank you all for helping find Lehane and giving him some peace. I hate to think that he could’ve been lost forever.” She wipes her cheek where a lone tear is falling.
“We’ll get him justice,” Michael says fiercely.
We watch her exit the room. “Let’s go check on Travis,” I say.
“What if Caroline comes back once she figures out what’s going on?” Michael asks.
He’s got a point. “She can only leave her booth for restroom breaks. I’ll tail her if she does,” I say.
“Oh, goody, I was getting really bored back here. I want to see my man stun the crowd with his carving expertise.” Michael swishes out the door.
I take a last look at the fuse box, memorizing the placement of everything. I don’t dare underestimate Caroline’s duplicitous nature. That’s one thing about murder, once you’ve committed the ultimate crime, everything after that is chump change. Another murder, another theft, another act of random violence, it’s all the same.
I open the door and sneak out. I run smack into London.
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” London says. “What’re you doing back here?”
“We just turned off the air conditioning in Caroline’s booth. We need a bunch of popsicles.”
“And why is that?”
“To lure the children as close to the back door as possible so when Lehane makes his appearance they won’t be up front. We’re trying to keep them away from the yucky eyeball. Michael thinks Jell-O shots for the grown-ups.”
“He would,” London says. “How many popsicles?”
“A couple hundred.”
She nods. “I’ll call Franco.”
“Who’s Franco?”
“He’s one of my guys on the street. He drives an ice cream truck,” she says. “You wouldn’t believe the stuff he sees.”
That makes sense, I guess. Starsky and Hutch had Huggy Bear. London has Franco.
London asks, “How much time do you think we have before Lehane makes an appearance?”
“I don’t know. Soon, I hope. The suspense is killing me.” I think of my choice of verbs. “I mean, I’m anxious to see what happens.”
“What’s going to happen is one hell of an arrest,” London says. “I’m going back up front.”
“Can I come with you?”
“Sure. Just keep a low profile,” London says as we make our way to the front of the spectators. She leads me up to the side closest to Caroline.
“She’s really good,” London says. She makes a quick call to Franco, explains what she wants then clicks off. “He’s on it. A couple hundred rocket pops coming right up.”
We swivel our attention to Caroline’s butter booth. We watch her fake sculpt and carve. I have to admit she’s got Lehane’s head down perfectly. I snort through my nose. How hard can it be to sculpt Lehane when his real head is right there? I mean, all she is doing is smearing the butter over his real face like icing on a cake.
I hope his head isn’t the first place that melts. A hand would be bad enough. It could be covered up fairly quickly and the crowd shooed out, but a dead person’s head? That will cause a stir and perhaps a stampede.
“Are we going to able to manage crowd control when this comes down?” I ask London. I look around at the rapt faces of the crowd. We’re coming up on the halfway mark in the competition. Travis looks up and smiles at the audience. His sculpture is really coming along, and his little people are amazing. Spectators edge closer to get a look. Luckily there’s a velvet rope that keeps them from pressing their noses to the glass.
Caroline notices Travis’s newfound popularity. She doesn’t seem to suspect Travis is not me. She carves Lehane’s torso arm that is holding a smaller version of one of Lehane’s beloved sculptures, depicting Moses talking to the burning bush. In other words, she’s sculpting a sculpture of a man sculpting a sculpture.
/> “She’s just playing on people’s sympathy for Lehane,” I say.
“It appears to be working. She’s eliciting sympathy from the judges,” London says. I watch as one of the judges clears his throat several times and dabs at his eyes with a hankie. Betty reaches over and pats his arm sympathetically.
“Exactly,” I say.
Caroline’s butter seems to be softening. She looks over at Travis who is happily carving away. A look of puzzlement crosses her face and I wonder if she’s going to inquire about the temperature. She’s going to have to do something soon because her butter is sweating.
The P.A. system crackles and a man’s voice announces that there are free popsicles for the kids at the back of the butter barn. The crowd opens up and allows the kids to go get to their treats. During the shifting of the crowd, I watch as Caroline begins to panic. A blob of butter splats on the floor. She scoops it up and slaps it back on. Another blob splats on the floor. She holds up her hand toward the judges and signals for a time out.
But it’s too late. Caroline’s fake sculpture is melting faster than a glacier during climate change. A layer of butter slides off the sculpture and reveals the real face of Lehane.
A collective gasp from the crowd sets everything in motion.
Caroline stares at Lehane’s face. She runs for the booth’s door. Betty is faster, and she gets to it first. She plants her feet and leans against the outside of the door. Caroline pounds with her fists, screaming. Behind Caroline, the butter keeps melting and mud-sliding off until the entire upper half of Lehane’s body is revealed. The crowd stands mesmerized.
Franco has called in his reinforcements including the State Fair security guards. The kids in the back of the room, their lips all the colors of the rainbow, stare at the booth where a dead man is slowly being revealed. The guards are trying to herd the children outside. It’s not working. Everyone is staring, including the kids. It’s like the entire butter barn is in suspended animation watching Caroline scream, cry, and tug on the doorknob.
Betty whips out a large ring of keys and locks the door to Caroline’s booth. This is a precaution they use to insure against vandalism. The doors only lock from the outside and you need a key. I’ve got to hand it to Betty—she’s quick on her feet. Karma hit the jackpot on this one—trapped in a booth with the person you murdered being slowly revealed while a crowd watches.
Caroline looks behind her and sees dead Lehane emerge from the butter. She runs toward Lehane like she’s going to cover him back up, but she slips on a pool of butter. She falls, skidding face-first, and rams into the melting Lehane. He topples over and falls on her, pinning her to the floor.
The crowd cheers and boos Caroline. I am half-expecting them to start chanting “Lock her up!” Thankfully, they don’t. Besides, she already is.
Security guards and police enter the butter barn. They begin to herd people out the door and string up crime scene tape.
“Come on, everyone, the show’s over,” I hear a cop saying.
I can hear the questions from people as they’re forced to exit the building, “Is that Lehane Noster?” “Mommy, is that a dead man?” “Who wins the contest now?”
People snap photos with their phones. I bet Instagram is going to get real interesting.
I head over to Travis’s booth. He’s been so intent on his sculpture he didn’t even notice the hullabaloo surrounding him. I knock on his booth door. He looks at me, holds up one finger, and turns back to his sculpture. He finishes the rainbow flag, stands back to admire his work, and then opens the door.
“What do you think?” he asks with a flourish.
“Uh, it’s great. You did see Caroline over there going bat shit, right?”
He looks over at Caroline’s booth where she’s still struggling to get out from under Lehane’s dead body. “Whoa, that’s nastier than I ever could have imagined.”
“Yeah,” I say.
Michael joins us. He looks at Travis’s sculpture and clasps his hand over his mouth. “Baby, you did an awesome job.”
Travis beams under Michael’s unabashed praise. I don’t want to steal his moment but catching a murderer seems just a bit more important than a hunk of butter. Even if it is kind of an amazing rendition of a pivotal moment in gay history.
“Do you think my sculpture will be on the front page? I know I don’t get to win per se, but I’d still like some recognition,” Travis says.
[Spoiler alert: Travis does get his photo in the paper. Unfortunately for him, he looks like me. The headline reads: Jamie Bravo’s Butter Sculpture Wins Blue Ribbon. I don’t know if Travis will ever forgive me for usurping his proud moment. He has already vowed to be competing as himself next year. Betty was delighted to hear that.
Back to the story…]
London holds her gun up and ready as Betty opens the booth door and stands clear. I must say London is really sexy in her police stance.
“Put your hands up. Resistance is futile,” London commands. Caroline, on her knees and smeared in butter, raises her hands above her head. “Caroline Swank, you are under arrest for the murder of Lehane Noster.”
Caroline blubbers, “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to do it. He wouldn’t listen to me. I just wanted to come in first one time. I pleaded with him. He’s won so many. And the money, all the money. He always got the money. He didn’t even care about money. Why couldn’t it be me just once?” She openly sobs as London snaps handcuffs on her.
“Because he was better. He would always be better,” Travis says.
Caroline looks over at Travis. “You’re really good, too.”
Travis looks puzzled. I don’t think he knows how to take a compliment from a murderer. None of us do.
London hefts Caroline to her feet and walks her out of the booth. Caroline pleads, “The only thing I’m guilty of is passion. I love butter. I love sculpting.”
***
We’re standing in the kitchen admiring Travis’s honorary trophy. Betty knew how hard he’d worked to learn and excel at butter carving and she felt he deserved recognition. He’s already ordered a trophy case in which to showcase it.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Travis says, his eyes glowing with pride. I don’t think he’s ever won a trophy. Travis is not a sports guy and he’s not a scholastic guy and he’s not…well not good at a lot of things. But he’s damn good at this and I’m glad. Everyone should be good at something.
“Good detective work,” London says as she gives my tush a squeeze. “You’ll be getting your reward later.”
I guess I’m good at something, too. I’m a damn good detective. I had a lot of help, but it feels good to have another solved case under my belt. I turn and give London a peck on the cheek. “I’m looking forward to it.”
I’ve gotten a few interesting phone calls since the case broke. Mrs. Friedman was mortified she had a murderer as a parrot-sitter, “Imagine what that woman could’ve done to poor Lebowitz!”
The next call was from my mother. She told me my father has a big head because he was “instrumental” in solving the case.
She says, “He wants you to know that he’s willing to be an unpaid advisor on any of your cases.” She laughed. “He can’t even find his own butt using both hands.”
The biggest surprise call was from Veronica. She told me that Caroline Swank wanted her to represent her in her murder trial. Caroline protested her innocence; however, a pre-purchased plane ticket, and a Cayman Island bank account suggest otherwise. Police also found a tiny spot of Lehane’s blood on her butter carving boots. Veronica knew this would be a big, high publicity trial but she turned it down. When I asked her why she said, “I think butter is fattening and I won’t be a part of it.”
I suspect the real reason she didn’t take the case was because she couldn’t win. Or, who knows, maybe she grew a conscience. She recommended one of her colleagues—a guy who couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag. We all know Caroline did it, so I don’t feel like ther
e’ll be a miscarriage of justice. My conscience is clear.
I’m glad Lehane will have a final resting place and that Betty managed to save her beloved butter carving contest. And so, for butter or worse, everything came out okay.
The End.
Wait! Don’t stop! Continue reading the first chapter of our book Hungry Hearts:
Chapter One
Driving the rental car up the sandy road to Hungry Hearts Bed and Breakfast, Claudia Montgomery was beginning to think this vacation might not be such a swell idea. It was true, she was suffering a bout of writer’s block, but it happened to every writer from time to time. It was just her time, that was all. She was successful, having written twenty-five Nosy Parker mysteries over the last twenty years without a break. That was enough to give anybody a severe case of burnout.
At forty-five years old, she had spent almost her entire adult life as a writer. She had gone to college, studied literature, and then gotten an MFA in creative writing. She didn’t know how to be anything but a writer. And now, she couldn’t write. She had ideas, but she didn’t like them. Her muse had taken a sabbatical and Claudia needed to get her mojo back.
This hiatus at Hungry Hearts Bed and Breakfast was her editor, Velma Hardy’s, idea. The owner of the B&B, Maggie Ferguson, was an old friend of Velma’s. When the writer’s block began to look like a permanent condition, Claudia had finally agreed to the retreat. If this didn’t work, Velma had threatened to send her to a life coach.
“All you need is some rest. I know the perfect spot. It’s on the coast and very, very quiet. Just a small town with minimum distractions. You’re overwrought and that’s why you can’t write,” Velma had said.
Ugh, Claudia thought. Endlessly discussing her inability to write was not helping. “It’s not like I’m enjoying this. I don’t know what to do with myself if I don’t write. I’m going crazy,” Claudia had replied.
“Which is why you’re going to Hook’s Cove. You need a change of venue. Believe me, it works. But you need peace and quiet. This is a win-win,” Velma said. “You’ll get your juices flowing again and forget all this nonsense. Get out of Chicago and the rat race and your fingers will be flying over the keyboard. I guarantee it.”
For Butter or Worse Page 19