CHAPTER ONE  

     My name is Ingrid Anastasia Beaumont. My ex used to say that my initials stood for "I'm a bitch." True.
     I was delivered by an usher at the Chief Theatre. My mother had been watching Alfred Hitchcock's Notorious when she went into labor, and she wouldn't budge until the movie ended. I can't really blame her. You see, Ingrid Bergman, beautiful and rich, had been poisoned by her insensitive husband, and Cary Grant was about to come to her rescue. I mean, we're talking Cary Grant--suave, cleft-chinned, urbane, aristocratic.
    Except for my cleft chin, I don't possess Cary's attributes. Nor Ingrid's. My mother always tells everybody that my middle name, Anastasia, was for Ingrid Bergman's Academy Award performance. Baloney! When Bergman won her Oscar I had just turned nine. The Anastasia was for my grandmother, who's half Russian, half Chinese. From Nana Ana, I inherited eyes that tilt slightly North, and I was born in the Year of The Rat. Which, says Nana Ana, means that I'm ambitious, honest, and compatible with Dragons, Monkeys, and other Rats. I should have heeded Nana Ana's words. My ex was a Cock.
    Just for the record, I'm not a detective or even an amateur sleuth. I adore riddles and crossword puzzles, but I despise mysteries. So I guess God was playing one of his/her practical jokes when Wylie bit the dust.

    "Kill the bastards!"
    It was Sunday afternoon, the day after my high school reunion dance. I was at Mile High Stadium, watching the Denver Broncos get massacred by the Dallas Cowboys.
    In Colorado Springs, seventy miles away, Wylie Jamestone took his last breath.
    Wylie's severed pate spurted blood while I screamed bloody murder: "Kill, kill, kill! Blitz, damn it, blitz!"
    The Broncos blitzed. The Cowboys fumbled. The Broncs recovered. I roared my approval, then performed a high-five with the fat man sitting next to me. He fumbled for my breast, I don't know why. I'm not a ravishing beauty, quite the opposite, yet men always try to ravish me. I've been told I look like Bette Midler. When people tell me this, they usually stare at my bust, then, embarrassed, raise their eyes to my slightly crooked front teeth, which are frequently clenched. You see, I've heard that Bette Midler bullshit a thousand times, and honestly, I don't see the resemblance.
    I slapped the fat man's hand away. Undaunted, he asked, "What's your name, darlin'?"
    "Hannibal Lector," I growled. "The Purple People Eater."
    It went way above his head, like a hail-Mary pass.
    "But... but you're a girl," he stammered, his vodka-spiked cocoa sloshing from his thermos, puddling on his khaki pants.
    "I am woman, mister, hear me roar." Although my door-prize ticket sandwiched me somewhere between Heaven and Mile High Stadium's manicured football field, I leaned forward, jiggled the orange and blue pom-pom somebody'd handed me at the gate, screamed, "Bite the dust, you motherfriggin' Cowboys," then thrust my middle finger skyward. Admittedly, it was a childish gesture for someone facing decade five.
    The Broncos' offense, bless their eleven hearts, responded to my badmouthing with a vengeance. Trampling Cowboys beneath their cleats, they scored three times and won the game.
    Talk about an air-tight alibi! My friends later informed me that TV cameras had panned in close. My blondish curls, they said, had spilled over my forehead, hiding my hazel eyes. Beer had geysered, landing in the shape of a giant turkey's wishbone across my lucky orange sweatshirt. My cardboard sign read: HI BEN AND PATTY. WELCOME TO COLORADO. But it was my middle finger gesture that provoked applause from patrons at the Dew Drop Inn.
    Subsequently, I found out that Lieutenant Peter Miller had missed the last two minutes of the televised game, the part where Coloradans have heart attacks and nobody goes to the bathroom. Lieutenant Miller, a homicide detective, was much too busy inspecting the crime scene, searching for clues. Unfortunately, Wylie was much too dead for questioning, even if, as usual, he had all the answers.
     

    The AFC playoffs, not Wylie, was on my mind as I navigated Interstate 25, driving toward Colorado Springs. There's a long stretch between Castle Rock and Monument where my radio broadcasts the cold hiss of static, so I turned it off. Therefore, I missed the first news flash about the murder, the one where they keep the victim's identity a secret, pending notification of his immediate family. In this case, Wylie's immediate family was a sister in Houston, and his wife Patty.
    "We're number one!" I kept shouting through my jeep's open window. My voice, already raspy, was almost guttural by the time I reached my cozy turn-of-the-century house and discovered that my significant lover's rental car was missing. Damn! I wanted to celebrate the Broncos victory with a few ticklish tackles of my own. Vaguely, I remembered Ben saying something about kidnaping Wylie and buying him dinner.
    Hitchcock greeted me with a joyful whimper and a gyrating butt. I returned the salutation, then found my remote where he had buried it. Tonight it was easily discovered beneath a lime green couch cushion. Sometimes it's wedged beneath my ersatz Oriental carpet. Mostly, it's in the back yard, just outside the doggie door. Wiping away dog drool with my thumb, I turned on the TV and clicked to ESPN.
    There had been a brief electrical outage, so my answering machine looked even more inanimate than usual. Every Sunday its red button blinks in a mesmerizing rhythm of continuity since a certain Hollywood producer likes to call during football games, when he knows I'm not home or won't answer. That way he can leave caustic messages without repercussions.
    Hired to compose the score for a pending slasher flick, my deadline loomed closer and closer, and my bad guy's theme still sounded like melting ice cubes. I'm not a procrastinator, quite the opposite, but I had been totally distracted by my high school reunion. Anyway, I was in the process of recording a new "leave your name and number at the sound of the beep" when my doorbell rang.
    Part Irish Setter, part Lab, part Great Dane, and bigger than my couch, Hitchcock issued forth his warning bark, which usually sent solicitors, not to mention potential rapists, scrambling for distance. Not this time. The doorbell rang again. Between barks, a man shouted, "Is Ms. Beaumont home?"
    "That all depends. Who wants to know?"
    "Lieutenant Peter Miller. C.S.P.D."
    "Police?"
    "Yes, ma'am."
    "Just a sec. Sit, Hitchcock! Stay!"
    The man who stood on my front porch was attractive. About my age, he had dark hair and a silver-streaked mustache. He also possessed an identity packet.
    "Are you Ms. Beaumont?" he asked.
    "Yes. Delete the Ms, okay? It sounds like its short for misanthrope.  I distrust mankind, but I don't hate it."
    "Sorry," he said, and even though it was nice of him to apologize, he sounded as if my Aunt Lu had just been steam rolled by a San Francisco trolley. Except my Aunt Lu, who lives in San Francisco, is a rather hefty woman who could probably steamroll a trolley.
    As I stared at Miller, it suddenly occurred to me that I hadn't had a confrontation with uniformed authority in twenty-plus years, not even a speeding ticket. On the other hand, Miller wasn't wearing a uniform, and that bothered me. When I'm bothered, I usually say the first thing that pops into my head, which in this case was: "Am I under arrest?"
    "Why would you think that?"
    "You're not wearing a uniform."
    Puzzled by my reply, Miller's eyes touched upon his charcoal suit jacket, gray slacks, and Hushpuppies. "Right," he agreed. "I'm in Homicide, Ms. Beaumont. Sorry."
    This time, I wasn't sure if his sorry referred to homicide or Ms. Then it struck me. "Oh, shit. Did something happen to Ben?"
    Puzzlement gave way to perplexity. "Who's Ben?"
    "Ben Cassidy, an old friend." I heaved a sigh of relief. If Miller didn't know Ben, Ben was okay. Unless, of course, Ben had lost his wallet and his voice. But I didn't want to ponder that happenstance, so I did what I do when I don't want to ponder nasty happenstances. Looking down at my bare feet, I seriously considered polishing my toenails.
    "It's cold," Miller hinted, huffing on his fingertips.
    "Come in, Lieutenant. Hitchcock, friend!" Despite the recent lack of police opposition, I felt both jittery and defiant. Habit.
    "Do you have a weapons permit, Ms... uh, Miss Beaumont?"
    "I beg your pardon?"
    "The dog," he said, entering.
    "Hitchcock? His bark's worse than his bite. If I don't scream, he'll sniff your crotch, then roll over, begging to have his belly scratched." I snatched up my remote and pressed MUTE. "What brings you to Ingrid Beaumont's neighborhood, Lieutenant?"
    "I'm here because..." Miller glanced toward my TV screen, where Vikings were sacking defenseless Raiders. "Football fan, Ingrid?"
    "Fanatic."
    "You saw the Broncos play today."
    Was that a question? "Yes, Lieutenant. In fact, I was at Mile High Stadium. That's why my voice sounds so hoarse. During the game, I cheered. After the game, I shouted at fellow fans, you know, through the window of..." I swallowed the rest of my babble and looked down at my toes again. For some dumb reason I felt like bursting into frustrated tears, probably because I suspected that Miller's switch from Ms. to Ingrid had something to do with a nasty happenstance.
    "Why are you here, Lieutenant?" I challenged, lifting my cleaved chin and trying to square it. "I've scored enough buddy-cop movies to know that your visit's unofficial. Otherwise, you'd have a cohort standing by your side, for instance Wesley Snipes or Jodie Foster."
    "Were you alone?" asked Miller.
    "Huh?"
    "Alone," he repeated patiently. "At Mile High Stadium."
    "No. There were probably sixty-thousand peop---"
    "I meant---"
    "Look, I usually watch with my friends at the Dew Drop Inn. I'm not a fair weather fan and I love my Broncos, win or lose. I won the ticket during my high school reunion dance. Door prize."
    "Hey, I didn't mean to sugges---"
    "Yes, you did! Alone?" I mimicked. "Christ, you sound like my ex husband."
    "I won't take up much of your time," said Miller, seemingly unperturbed by my hostility or the unflattering comparison. "You probably want to be left in peace so that you can---"
    "Damn it! Get to the point! What's this all about?"
    "Wylie Jamestone, of course."
    The perplexity was back. In fact, Miller looked as if he had memorized a script then forgotten his lines.
    "Wylie hates football," I said irrationally. "He doesn't do sports. He even made fun of jocks in high school."
    "Is that where you met? High school?"
    "Yes. I just told you. The reunion. Oh, God!  Did something happen to Wylie?"
    "Ingrid, I thought you knew." This time Miller looked stricken, as if he had begun to sing The Star Spangled Banner and suddenly realized he couldn't reach the rockets-red-glare high notes. He glanced around for his invisible cohort. Then, with a cop's subtlety, he stated, "Wylie Jamestone's dead."
    I wanted to scream no, no, that can't be true, but it emerged as one long, drawn-out moan. "Noooooooooo."
    Hitchcock rushed forward, fangs bared.
    Miller retreated until his butt pressed against the front door. "Ms. Beaumont, Ingrid," he begged, "please call off your... Hitchcock, friend!"
    My ganglionic mutt immediately flopped to the floor. He was well trained, but had never been able to distinguish voices, just smells. Which didn't bother me, since I seriously doubted that any intruder would have the smarts to shout "Hitchcock friend" during a busy rape or pilferage. Also, a burglar would smell sweaty. Lieutenant Miller smelled like Oreo cookies and Juicy Fruit gum.
    "I'm sorry, Ingrid, I thought you knew," he repeated, and I realized that his original sorry had referred to Wylie, not Ms.
    "If I knew about Wylie, why would I ask about Ben?"
    "Your question caught me off guard," he admitted somewhat sheepishly. "But people say strange things when confronted with the death of a loved one."
    It was a lousy excuse, a typical police-goof-justification. Loved one? Where did Miller get the impression that Wylie was a loved one? If he had said buddy, pal, or even kindred spirit, I might have bought it.
    Stumbling backwards, my jean-clad rump found then dented a couch cushion. "I assume Wylie died today since he was in perfect health last night. How did he die? Oh, God! Homicide! Wylie was murdered, wasn't he?"
    "Yes. Naturally, I assumed somebody called you."
    "I've been home fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, and my answering machine... elec... electrical outage," I stammered, then burst into tears.
    An agitated Hitchcock tried to lick my face while Miller fumbled through his jacket pocket until he retrieved a clean handkerchief.
    My crying jag was volatile but brief. I blew my nose. "Is that why you asked if I was alone at Mile High Stadium?"
    "No. If I thought you had anything to do with Wylie Jamestone's murder I would have brought my partner along."
    "For your protection?" I asked sarcastically.
    "Yes, ma'am," he replied, and I realized that he meant legally, not physically. "In any case," he continued, "you have an alibi."
    "Baloney! I could have won the ticket and decided not to attend. I could have sold the damn thing and watched the game from any watering hole in town."
    "You could have, but didn't."
    "What led you to that conclusion?"
    "The, uh, victim's wife, Patty Jamestone, swears she saw you on TV. You were high up in the stands. You made an obscene gesture. There was even a crudely lettered sign that said---"
    "Why'd you ask Patty about me?"
    Miller reached into his pants pocket and retrieved a pack of Juicy Fruit, then an obese knife, the kind with corkscrew and nail file, then, finally, a piece of paper. Thrusting forth the paper, he said, "This is from Jamestone. It's a hand-printed copy. Forensics has the original."
    I scanned Wylie's brief message. "'Give this to Ingrid,'" I read out loud. "'Let the treasure hunt begin.'"
    "Do you know what it means?" asked Miller.
    I shook my head. "Give what to Ingrid?"
    "A painting."
    "Who's on the painting?"
    "I thought you could tell me."
    "How? I never visited Wylie's studio. Jesus, Lieutenant, are we playing 'Murder, She Wrote'?"
    "A famous blonde."
    "What? Oh. The painting. Is it Bette Midler?"
    "I thought Bette Midler had red hair." Hunkering down, Miller offered Hitchcock a couple of Oreos, retrieved from yet another pocket. Although he had been trained never to accept food from strangers, Hitchcock eagerly slobbered, chewed, swallowed.
    "Bad dog," I chastised. Despite the white cream on his fuzzy black chin, Hitchcock looked both guilty and smug, and I recalled that Wylie had worn that very same expression last night at the dance.
    "Ingrid," said Miller, "I'm curious. Why did your sign read 'Hi Ben and Patty, welcome to Colorado'?"
    "That's a stupid question." I dabbed at my eyes with Wylie's note, caught myself in time, and switched to the snotty handkerchief. "Ben and Patty are both from out of state. They came for the reunion. If TV cameras happened to scan the stands, I thought maybe they'd get a kick out of my sign."
    "Okay. But why wasn't your sign lettered Ben, Patty and Wylie?"
    "I... I told you. Wylie hates... hated football. He... he'd never watch the game."
    Which, even to my own ears, sounded like a lame excuse.
    Hitchcock rolled over on his back and waved his paws like shaggy black pom-poms while Miller continued asking questions.
    Unofficially, of course.

    Before he left, I questioned Miller. How did Wylie die? Where? Were there witnesses? Fingerprints? Clues?
    Miller wouldn't give me any detailed information, but the ten o'clock news did. Wylie Jamestone, world-renowned artist, had been murdered inside a friend's studio. The weapon was a small bronzed statue of Rodin's The Thinker, rendered to Wylie's bald pate. And the only witness was a calico cat.
    Wylie's draped cadaver had already been conveyed to the morgue, so the TV cameras honed in on the bewildered puss. She had a name---Sinead O'Connor. And an owner---Kimberly O'Connor. Teenage Kim lived next door and had discovered Wylie's body while searching for her cat. The cat was finally located in Wylie's studio, standing next to a bowl of spilled milk. No, Kim didn't faint or scream or puke or anything; jeeze, her parents had cable and she watched gory movies. No, she didn't see anybody "freaky-looking" enter or leave the house.
    I knew something the TV reporters didn't. Wylie's note had been thumb tacked to the wooden stretcher of his latest canvas. But I didn't know who dominated the canvas. An evasive Miller had successfully avoided my queries.
    A sickly child, prone to earaches and high fevers, Wylie Jamestone had begun school late, so he was older than the rest of us, born in the Year of the Dog. Which meant that he was generous, stubborn, often selfish. He wasn't a lazy dog and he hadn't gone to the dogs, but he did possess this perpetual I'd-like-to-lick-my-balls expression. If there's an afterlife, Wylie was probably licking his balls right now.
    Because he'd had the last laugh. Give this painting to Ingrid. Let the treasure hunt begin. Why me? It had been thirty years since my high school graduation, thirty years since my senior prom, thirty years since I had sung with the Clovers.
    Searching through coffee table paraphernalia, I found Patty's phone number. She was staying at a borrowed house, located in the exclusive Broadmoor area.
    "The owners migrate to Arizona for the winter," Patty had explained, after I met her at the Colorado Springs Airport.
    I recalled our post-hug conversation.
    "I'm just a hop, skip, and jump away from the Broadmoor Hotel," Patty had said. "Does it still have that lovely lounge where you sing along with the piano player?"
    "The Golden Bee? Yes. But I don't sing any more, Patty."
    "I suppose," she said, "you prefer to write the songs that make the whole world sing."
    "No. I prefer to write the songs that make the whole world cringe. At least I did."
    Patty had insisted on taking a cab. "You're busy, Ing," she had said, "a workaholic, just like Wylie. That's why he arrived a few days early, so he could set up his studio."
    "Okay, Patty-Cakes, thanks. See you later, alligator."
    "After a while, crocodile."
    "Never smile at a crocodile."
    Bringing my attention back to the present, I found myself heaving a deep sigh. Our standard high school good-bye, I thought somewhat nostalgically. Without further hesitation, I reached for the phone, glanced at the torn-out deposit slip from my checkbook, memorized Patty's address and telephone number, then touch-toned seven digits. Busy. I had a feeling her receiver was off the hook. An exclusive Broadmoor residence would have call-waiting, right?
    So I touched-toned Alice Shaw Cooper.
    "Patty's sedated," Alice said, her voice sounding like an emery board against a fingernail. "Dwight and Ben are both with her. I saw you on TV, Ingrid. Everybody did. We were at the Dew Drop Inn. Oh, Lord! Gotta' go. Sick."
    As I hung up, I pictured Alice's neatly coiffured head bent forward over the commode, not a pretty picture. But I understood her reaction. Once upon a time, before she married Dwight Eisenhower Cooper, Alice had been engaged to Wylie.
    Next, I called my friend Cee-Cee Sinclair.
    Elderly but ageless, Cee-Cee looks like Barbara Stanwyck during her Big Valley days. Having inherited a rather large sum from her deceased husband, she works with a local agency called Canine Companions, where she helps train dogs to service the handicapped. Her own dog, an Australian Shepherd named Sydney, could never qualify as a Canine Companion. She---Sydney, not Cee-Cee---is a real bitch; independent, possessive, and growly.
    Cee-Cee had found Hitchcock for me, at the Animal Shelter. A tiny, six-week old Heinz 57, he gazed up at me adoringly and wagged his windshield-wiper tail.
    Who could resist that tail?
    Cee-Cee loved mutts, me included, and she devoured mystery novels, so I told her about Wylie's message. "I need your help, Ceese. I don't have a clue. You're good with clues."
    We agreed to meet for breakfast.
    I thought about calling Patty again. Phone's off the hook, I reminded myself. I thought about driving to her house. She's sedated, I reminded myself. Indecisive, I tossed my lucky orange sweatshirt into the wicker hamper and donned a Grateful Dead T-shirt. Wylie had been a Dead fan.
    I shuddered at the irony of my last thought, then tried to watch the football game. Eventually I fell asleep, delinquent tears pasting my lashes to the very tops of my non-prominent cheekbones.
    When I awoke the next morning, I was sprawled across my mattress. I don't suffer from somnambulism, so Ben had carried me to bed. Hitchcock adores Ben, so my diligent watchdog had swallowed his warning bark.
    My significant lover's sandalwood scent permeated the pillow next to mine, but he was gone. Rats! I wanted to ask Ben about Patty, for instance why he had paid her a visit last night. He had obviously arrived after Miller left, since Miller hadn't recognized the name. But why? Stupid, Beaumont! Ben had heard about Wylie's murder and driven over to comfort Patty.
    Following Lieutenant Miller's unofficial investigation, I should have done the same thing, except I can't handle death.
    No, not death. Grief. I sweep anguish under the carpet, along with other deep emotions. Ever since Stewie's macabre wake, I've developed that... shall we say character glitch?
    Where was Ben now? Had he eighty-sixed Wylie and skipped town? Nope. Ben's suitcase still decorated the floor boards, and his thick wallet lay on top of my antique bureau. A murderer might flee without luggage but he definitely wouldn't leave his wallet behind.
    I raced toward the window and peered through its pane. Ben's rental car squatted alongside my curb. Then I remembered. Ben jogged every morning, rain or shine. Today's autumn sun shimmered brilliantly, which didn't surprise me, because Ben was sunshine.
    Just for grins, I checked his wallet. Credit cards. Cash. Oklahoma drivers' license. A condom. Three snapshots of his ex wife and daughter. One senior prom picture of Our Gang---Wylie, me, Ben, Patty, Dwight, Stewie, Alice---all looking as if we'd just shouted "Cheeeese." Nestled between the photos was a plastic-laminated four leaf clover.
    I remembered how Wylie had originated our singing group, The Four Leaf Clovers. Now Wylie was dead, murdered, and practically everybody had a motive, including me.
    Especially me.
    Staring out the window again, I thought about the reunion dance. What a friggin' fiasco!

CHAPTER TWO

    Dracula would have loved my reunion dance.
    Spreading his modified forearms, he'd have swooped down from the gym's rafters, then metamorphosed into one of the waiters who balanced trays filled with glasses of Sauvignon Blanc, White Zinfandel, Beaujolais, and Spumante Ballatore.
    Furthermore, except for the occasional face lift, fleshy necks presented perfect dart boards.
    "What happens when an elephant steps on a grape?" asked a familiar voice. The voice belonged to a man who had altered my life. Maybe alter was a tad resolute, but he had certainly compassed it. Right now, the magnetic needle wavered on north. No, south. No, east. No, west. Obviously, I wavered too.
    "What happens when an elephant steps on a grape?" he repeated.
    "The grape gives a little whine," I replied, making an about-face. Ordinarily, I hide my trepidation with sarcasm. But I had been caught off guard, visualizing vampires, so I hadn't heard Wylie Jamestone sneak up behind me.
    Fortunately, I had already encountered him last night during Alice Shaw Cooper's cocktail shindig. That lavish event had been held at the Colorado Springs Cheyenne Mountain Resort, which has a truly spectacular view, comfortable party rooms, and a lovely ladies' lounge. I had spent a great deal of time in that lovely lounge, chanting a mantra to the lovely toilet bowl and lovely sink-mirror: "You can handle this, Beaumont. No big deal."
    So now, tonight, I didn't stiffen my fingers into talons or retreat toward the nearest girls' bathroom, which, if I recalled correctly, always smelled of lipstick, cigarette smoke, pot, and something akin to kitty litter.
    Wylie's gaze took in my ankle-length ivory skirt, a pure silk charmeuse column of pleats, then my ivory sweater, bedecked with multicolored beads. "An ensemble," he said, "to celebrate glorious Colorado nights. You look like a gay football player."
    "Gay as in gay?" Self-consciously, I adjusted my sweater's uplifted shoulder pads while noting that even a Woody Allen clone could resemble Arnold Schwarzenegger when he wore a superbly tailored tux. "Or do you mean my gay, garish beads?"
    "The beads. Hail Ingrid, full of grace." Wylie looked around, as if searching for the wad of bubble gum he had once stuck beneath the bleacher seats. "Where's Ben?"
    "Playing veterinarian. A neighbor's prize Collie went into labor and she panicked."
    "The Collie panicked?"
    "No. My neighbor. Ben should be here soon."
    "Can I fetch you some wine, Beaumont?"
    "No." I wanted to draw back, perhaps even soar toward Drac's rafters. "Your wife looks beautiful," I said, thinking: If we discuss trivialities, I'll maintain my composure. What composure? Most of the time I assume an assertive attitude, cocky even, but tonight I felt as fragile as dry Shredded Wheat.
    "Patty always looks beautiful," Wylie said wryly. "It's her trademark."
    "What the hell does that mean?"
    He finished his champagne and, for a moment, seemed to contemplate tossing the crystal goblet toward some imaginary fireplace. "Only Alice Shaw Cooper would serve cheap bubbly in expensive goblets," he said. "I'd rather sip Dom Perignon from a plastic cup."
    "What exactly did you mean by trademark?"
    "Cher's famous for her tattoos, right?"
    "Among other things."
    "Well, Patty's tattoo is perfection."
    "Jesus, Wylie, you're such a smartass. Or maybe you'd prefer 'metaphysical philosopher.'"
    "There's nothing abstract about perfection, Beaumont."
    "I beg to differ. Perfection is conceptual."
    He laughed but it sounded slightly off-key, almost nasty. "If perfection equals conception, Alice has certainly fecundated the quintessential reunion dance."
    "Fecundated?"
    "You're the crossword puzzle addict. Fecund means---"
    "Intellectually productive or inventive."
    "Right." He summoned a waiter with an arrogant finger snap. "Study the decor, my darling," he said, exchanging his empty goblet for a full one, a sneer curling his lips. "Contemplate the cracks, then tell me what rhymes with fecund."
    I raised one eyebrow and glanced around our old high school gymnasium. It hadn't changed much in thirty years, except for the people who stood clustered together, exchanging handshakes, kissing the air, or simply tsking their tongues against the roofs of their mouths.
    Everyone was dressed to kill. Everyone had dabbed perfume behind their multi-studded earlobes, above their breasts and/or pectoral mounds, under their armpits, between their thighs. Yet the hint of athletic sweat lingered, and that impregnable odor, Eau de Lockers, wafted like a chlorinated shadow.
    Alice had opted for live music rather than a Disc Jockey, but some dipshit must have remembered our senior prom deejay's thing for Clint Eastwood and cued the band, because they were actually playing that motivational tune from Rawhide.
    An over-the-hill cheerleader yelled, "Whip me, Rowdy, spur me on, Clint, oh yeah."
    An over-the-hill jock yelled, "Hey, girl, pull down your britches an' show us your heinie. Raw hide, get it?"
    My eyes continued roving. Alice had decked the halls with boughs of tissue roses. Red, white, and blue crepe paper hung from basketball hoops, the scoreboard and bleacher seats, looking very patriotic, very Republican convention-ish. Why Republican? Because there were elephant cut-outs dangling from the crepe paper like charms dangling from the end of a bracelet. Funny. I hadn't noticed the elephants until now. I hadn't noticed the banner over the gym's double doors, either. Probably because, after entering, I hadn't looked back. The banner's large red block letters proclaimed Alice's damnfool theme: AN ELEPHANT NEVER FORGETS!
    "Well," said Wylie, "What rhymes with fecund?"
    "Nothing. Wait." Mentally, I traveled through the alphabet. "Second?"
    "Good guess."
    "It's not a guess. There's nothing else, except beckoned or reckoned, which are both a tad farfetched."
    "It's fun to watch your creative juices flow, Beaumont. However, we are straying from the subject."
    "Which is what? Second? As in guess? Sight?"
    "Nope. Chance."
    "What do you mean? Oh, I see. Except for the elephants, Alice has duplicated our senior prom's motif."
    "I think she wants her youth back."
    "Who doesn't?"
    "If you had a second chance," he said, toeing the gym's floor with one spiffy cowboy boot, "what would you change?"
    "Dwight's accident and Stewie's death. I'd marry Ben, have a kid, and last but not least, I'd change New York."
    He winced. "Please forget New York."
    My first finger gestured toward Alice's banner. "I'll never forget, Wylie."
    "Okay. But can you forgive me?"
    "No!"
    "What did the elephant say to the rose?"
    "Go to hell, Wylie!"
    "Not even close. The elephant said, 'Forgiveness is the perfume the trampled rose casts upon the foot that crushed it."
    "You just made that up."
    "Of course. Do you forgive me?"
    "I'm not exactly a trampled rose."
    "Please?"
    "Maybe."
    "A definite maybe?"
    "Yes, Wylie, a definite maybe.""
    "Ingrid," he said, an enigmatic smile creasing the corners of his lips. "When you talked about second chances, you didn't mention the Clovers."
    "Are you kidding? I was the white equivalent of Diana Ross, minus her talent. Do you honestly believe the Clovers could have sung 'baby baby where did our love go' and topped the charts?"
    "Yes!"
    "No way! We were a conglomeration. We wanted to be The Supremes and The Marvelettes and The Pips, even, to a certain extent, Tom and Jerry."
    "Who the fuck were Tom and Jerry?"
    "Simon and Garfunkle. First they were Tom and Jerry. Then they were Art and Paul, folk singers. Tom and Jerry sang like the Everly Brothers," I added, scratching my memory.
    Wylie gave me a lop-sided grin. "Patty used to call the Everly Brothers the Everlasting Brothers."
    "Why?"
    "Because she thought little Susie would be everlasting, that she'd wake up through eternity. I'd like to wake up through eternity, no shit."
    "But you'd be a vampire, or a Stephen King corpse."
    "Right."
    I stared into his eyes, trying to gage his sincerity. Damn! He looked totally sincere. Nonplused, I stammered, "Tom and Jerry fizz-fizzled but Simon and Garfunkle developed their wistful melancholy and distinctive style. What would you change, Wylie? I mean, if you had a second chance?"
    "I'd give your voice a wistful melancholy and a distinctive style."
    "Dammit, you're fixated on the Clovers. Could it be that you want your youth back, too?"
    "I'm hungry. I wonder what time Alice plans to serve her elephant sandwiches."
    "Elephant sandwiches?"
    "Yup. She said she food-colored ten loaves of white bread gray, filled them with cream cheese and tuna salad, used black olives for the eyes, then cut the bread with a Dumbo-shaped cookie cutter. How can you tell if an elephant's been inside your refrigerator, Beaumont?"
    "By the footprints in the butter."
    "Jello."
    "Butter."
    "Jello."
    "Butter."
    Wylie usually won our riddle wars by sheer perseverance, but before he could Jello me again, we both heard Ben's footsteps whap-whapping across the gym's wooden floor boards. Clothed in a conservative navy-blue suit, Ben had negated the effect with his usual sockless Nikes. Smiling, waving at fellow reunionites, he headed straight toward us, then straightened the HELLO, MY NAME IS INGRID tag pinned directly above my left breast.
    My breast responded while my gaze took in Ben's craggy features. Until recently, I had always mistrusted the adjective craggy because it brought to mind abandoned coal shafts and Jack Palance, the quintessential villain. Now craggy conjured up Ben's masculine features, dominated by a rather prominent, some might even say stubborn, jaw. Ben's father was Irish, his mother Cherokee, so he had genetically inherited red-brown hair and brown eyes so dark they looked like the coal hidden beneath Colorado's rough, rugged, craggy landscape.
    "How's the new mom?" I asked.
    "Fine." Ben chuckled. "But your neighbor's pissed. Apparently she paid high stud fees, then neglected to bolt her backyard gate shortly thereafter, so Lassie strayed and---"
    "Hitchcock!"
    "Yup. One Collie and three miniature Hitchcocks."
    Ben shifted his gaze and I could feel his good humor freeze. Damn! Why had I mentioned New York?"
    "How's it going, Jamestone?" Ben's inflection made my bank teller's have-a-nice-day sound sincere.
    Wylie's eyes immediately sought mine. I nodded, shrugged, and looked down at the floor.
    "Listen, Ben," he said earnestly, "I've apologized to Ingrid and she forgave me, so why don't we shake hands and bury the hatchet?"
    "I'd like to bury it in your balls, you son of a bitch."
    Wylie burst out laughing.
    I raised my eyes and stared, totally aghast, then shouted, "Ben, no!" because my significant lover looked like he was about to release an uppercut that would send our famous artist flying toward the band. "Dammit, Wylie, what's so funny?"
    "You guys were talking about the Collie's pups. Son of a bitch struck me as funny, a veterinarian's epithet, sorry." Turning abruptly, he walked away.
    Ben's craggy brow creased. "Did you really forgive him, Ingrid?"
    "Yes. I don't want to hold grudges, and New York will never happen again."
    "That's for sure!"
    Patty Jamestone strolled toward us. Her dress was a stunning winter white matte jersey; sensuous and elegant from its plunging neckline to its rushed bodice and hanky hem. Around her slender wrist was a finely etched bangle bracelet. Lustrous pearls adorned her ears while a sparkling diamond-emerald ring almost obscured her knuckle. Though her small feet were encased in gold satin, high-heeled evening pumps, she neither wobbled nor click-clicked, and I wondered, not for the first time, if pretty Patty walked on invisible clouds.
    "They're playing my song," she stated, nodding toward the band. "The theme from Patty Duke's old show."
    I listened, then said, "'But Patty's only seen the sights a girl can see from Brooklyn Heights.' Have you ever been to Brooklyn Heights, Patty?"
    "No, hon. We live on Long Island, a spit away. Hi, Ben."
    "Hi, beautiful."
    I watched Ben's icy demeanor melt. Patty had that effect on men. They stood when she entered a room, offered her their seats on an overpopulated bus, and scurried to open doors for her. And she never did a damn thing. I mean, she just was.
    "Where on earth did Alice find this band?" I tried to keep my voice conversational, hide the bitchiness I felt. Patty's seductive mystique was overwhelming. If I was a rose, she was an orchid. Furthermore, one never trampled orchids; they were too expensive.
    "The musicians," said Ben, "have played every old TV tune from A-Team to Zorro."
    "What a lovely outfit," said Patty, staring at my skirt and sweater. "Anne Klein?"
    "Nope. Isaac Singer."
    "I don't think---"
    "My sewing machine, Patty."
    Her ring glittered as she patted her ebony hair, drawn back from her forehead and plaited in one long, thick, French braid. "I suppose you knitted that angora lambswool sweater, pet."
    "Sure. I whipped it up while watching Monday Night Football. The Broncs versus the Chiefs."
    "You're kidding!"
    "I'm kidding. It was on sale at the mall. Unadorned. But I succumbed to that stupid TV ad and ordered a beading gizmo. After I finished beading the sweater, which wasn't as easy as it looks on TV I might add, Hitchcock ate my thread, spangles, sequins and beads. Shiny wampum showed up in Hitchcock's poop for a full week."
    Patty wrinkled her perfect nose at the thought of poop.
    Ben grabbed us around our waists and waltzed us to the middle of the floor while the band played the theme from Peter Gunn.
    I stumbled, Patty floated gracefully, the music died.
    "Pre-senting the Four Leaf Clovers!" Wylie shouted.
    Positioned atop a raised platform, he held a mike to his mouth. The band stood at attention, like musicians awaiting the arrival of some visiting dignitary. Soon they'd play for he's a jolly good fellow which nobody can...
    "Oh, shit," I swore, trying to deny the sight and sound. I knew what would follow, and of course it did.
    "This is your lucky day!" shouted Wylie, completing the introduction which had haunted me for twenty-plus years.
    Ben hefted me up onto the platform, whereupon I gazed out over the expectant crowd.
    "We can't sing." Despite my backward lurch, the microphone echoed my squawk of dismay. "Stewie's dead. We're not Clovers any more."
    Wylie winked at me, then turned toward the audience. "Pre-senting the newest member of our talented group," he said. "Dwight Eisenhower Cooper."
    The reunion gang applauded wildly.
    I studied Dwight's face as three men lifted his wheelchair up onto the stage. His lips twitched in what could have been a grin or grimace. His dark hair was short, thick and wavy, while an Elvis curl formed an upside-down question mark above his right eyebrow. But his faded blue eyes... well, let's just say that he could have auditioned for a part in Night of the Living Dead.
    My gaze shifted to Alice Shaw Cooper, who blotted her lips on invisible tissue. Her eyes shot microscopic daggers toward Wylie. Why? Did Alice still want to sing with the Clovers? Hey, she could take my place. There was a frog in my throat, an ugly, warty toad, and I knew my voice would be rusty, like furniture left out in the rain.
    Rain! I remembered Stewie's words, just before he left for Nam: "I'm gonna' carry a lucky clover, Ing, and when you sing about familiar faces you'll think of me."
    "Hey, what a fab idea! We'll all carry lucky clovers, Stewpot. You, me, Benji, Wylie Coyote, and Patty-Cakes. But I won't sing again until you come home, and that's a promise."
    God, I was so young! We were all so young!
    I turned my back to the mike. "Ben, please listen. I promised Stewie I wouldn't sing until he came marching home again."
    "But he'd want you to sing, honey, to honor his memory, especially tonight."
    "Maybe you're right. Maybe he would. Okay, I'll try."
    I saw Wylie consulting with the band. He reminded me of my beloved mutt; a waggish Hitchcock planning to trash the trash and retrieve some forbidden chicken bones. In other words, Wylie looked both guilty and smug.
    "This is for you, Stewpot," I murmured under my breath, just before we began to croon our standards. I Believe, followed by Creedence Clearwater's rolling rocker, Proud Mary, then Debbie Reynold's simple-minded ballad, Tammy.
    Dwight wasn't bad, actually, He crewel-stitched his voice through Ben and Patty's harmony like eggs sizzling in butter, yet he didn't disturb the syncopated rhythm.
    My performance was robotistic, a knee-jerk reaction, until the audience called for our theme song. Tears blurred my vision as I sang the introduction. "Farewell every old familiar face. It's time to stray... it's time to stray. Only wait till I com-mu-ni-cate... here's what I'll say..."
    "I'm look-ing o-ver a four leaf clover," we all trilled.
    When we finished, reunionites clapped and whistled. Were they nuts? This was a generation who had attended concerts by the Dead, and Dylan, and Manfred Mann; a generation who had insisted that Puff the magic dragon was drug-related. How could they applaud I Believe Proud Tammy?
    The band segued into movie themes. You Light Up My Life was their first selection. Ben's sneakers whap-whapped again as we began to dance.
    "Before you arrived," I said, inhaling bleach from his collar, "Wylie reminisced over the Clovers. Do you think that's why he instigated our pathetic performance?"
    "It wasn't pathetic."
    "Yes it was, Ben, and Wylie did it on purpose. He's acting so weird, as if he wants to tell each person here to go stick an elephant tusk up their ass. The Clover bit was my tusk."
    "Patty said it was Alice's idea. Maybe she wanted to get Dwight away from his dark corner, light up his life."
    "Baloney! When they lifted Dwight onto the stage, I saw Alice. Her mouth got so tight, her lips disappeared. Making Dwight the fourth Clover was Alice's tusk."
    "And Dwight's tusk?"
    "Dwight didn't want his life lit. The limelight hurt his eyes. They looked zombie-ish."
    "How could Wylie possibly know---?"
    "Wylie's intuitive."
    "Assuming you're right, and just for the record I don't agree, why hasn't Wylie done anything to me?"
    "Because you're not the singer who reneged and spoiled his grand plan. And you've never been a jock like Dwight."
    "Dwight hasn't been a jock for thirty years, and why the hell would Wylie want to piss off Alice?"
    "I don't know, Ben. It's just a hunch."
    "I thought Wylie was the intuitive one."
    The object of our conversation waltzed by, then halted. "Let's switch partners," he said.
    Before I could object, Patty melted into Ben's arms. "Why did you resurrect the Clovers?" I hissed into Wylie's ear.
    "It was Alice's idea," he replied quickly.
    Too quickly. Wylie was lying through his teeth. All of a sudden I had a revelation. It was like watching a movie and admiring the handsome hero until he smiled, revealing fangs. Wylie was lying through his fangs.
    Because this whole event---the decor, the elephant cut-outs, the banner theme, the Clovers---every detail, except possibly the choice of champagne and the gray Dumbo sandwiches, had been Wylie's scheme. An attempt to regain his lost youth?
    "Wylie, why are you playing Peter Pan?"
    He didn't even pretend to misunderstand. "I like Pan," he said. "Pete could boff Wendy, tinker with Tinkerbell, and he never had to assume responsibility. Adolescent hormones and all that shit."
    "Except for Disney's animated, penis-less version, Peter Pan is always played by a woman," I shot back.
    "Are you saying that I'm gay?" His eyes narrowed. "Are you suggesting that my marriage to Patty is a sham? That my thing with you was merely an attempt to prove my manhood?"
    "No! I'm suggesting that you grow up."
    "Look around."
    "We've already played this game."
    "Study the people. What do you see?"
    "Friends. Familiar faces."
    "Strip away the beautiful clothes. What do you see?"
    "Naked bods," I replied sarcastically.
    "No, my darling. Naked souls."
    Releasing my waist, Wylie stomped toward the platform, leaped up, grabbed the mike, then whistled. The sound hurt my ears, and everyone else's, but he had our attention.
    "Hey!" he shouted. "We were supposed to be the generation that saved the world through love. Instead we opted to become Peter Pan's lost boys. Our homes are status playpens, our favorite toy a cellular phone."
    "Shut up, Jamestone," growled Junior Hartsel, the ex football jock.
    Wylie ignored Junior's menacing bellow. "Ponder this, my friends. What would happen if you stripped the Lone Ranger's mask from his face? I think you'd find a wrinkled, toothless, senile man."
    "Are you crazy?" The ex cheerleader stepped forward. "The Lone Ranger wears an itty-bitty mask. It just covers his eyes. You can see his nose, mouth and chin." She ran her fingertips across her own nose, mouth and chin, as if trying to ascertain their ageless reality. "And his hair," she added desperately, "when he's not wearing a cowboy hat."
    "His hair's a rug, his false teeth bleached, polished, shiny with petroleum jelly." Wylie grinned. "I think the Lone Ranger dons a rubber mask. Pull away the rubber and you'll discover a monster."
    "Ick!"
    "Boo!"
    "Shut up!"
    "Get off the stage, Jamestone!"
    "Did you honestly believe you could hide those saggy chins and boobs?" he continued. "Alice plans to crown a Reunion Dance Queen. Any volunteers? C'mon, who wants to be queen? How about you, Junior? You've aged well, except for that bald forehead, humongous butt, and bony chicken chest. We could choose Dwight. He's handicapped... sorry, physically challenged... and if we chose Dwight, we'd all feel so friggin' good inside."
    Wylie gestured toward the cheerleader. "Gimme an S, gimme an H, gimme an I, gimme a T. What d'ya got? Look at her, folks, trying to put the letters together. It spells hits, you airhead! Speaking of hits, what male vocalist won the Grammy in 1966?"
    Most of us just stood there, speechless, but one Jeopardy addict shouted, "Who is Glen Campbell?"
    "No, you asshole. That was '68. Anybody else? C'mon, Ingrid, you're the expert."
    I knew the answer. Sinatra. But I simply shrugged my padded shoulders.
    "Frank Sinatra," said Wylie. "It was a very good year. Wasn't it, Beaumont?"
    Okay. I hadn't fooled him. I never could fool him.
    "Seriously, folks," Wylie said seriously, "we tsk-tsk over the homeless, then spend billions on plastic surgeons and products that promise eternal youth."
    Wylie continued his harangue, only we couldn't hear him, because Alice had yanked the microphone's cord from its socket. Angry tears streamed down her face, and you could practically see the steam vaporizing from her ears.
    Reunionites buzzed like a swarm of angry hornets while the ex cheerleader screamed, "Who the hell do you think you are anyway? Why don't you eat shit and die!"
    Fondling his crotch a la Michael Jackson, Wylie jumped down from the platform. I grabbed his arm and led him toward an empty bleacher section. "Dammit," I said, "what brought that on?"
    "Your Peter Pan remark."
    "I only meant---"
    "They say a dying person's life unfolds before his eyes. Once we had ideals, Beaumont! Once we stopped a war!"
    Surprisingly, despite everything, I wanted to hug him, nurture him, and I wondered why he and Patty didn't have any kids. An heir would have helped Wylie regain his lost youth.
    I was bothered, to put it mildly, so I responded with the first thing that popped into my head. "Are you dying, Wylie?"
    "We all die by bits and pieces. How do you make a statue of an elephant?"
    "By bits and pieces?"
    "Wrong. Try again. How do you make a statue of an elephant?"
    "I don't know. I give up. How?"
    But Wylie was running toward Patty. Draped across her arms were two coats---one a fur-lined tweed, the other a full-length mink. Patty's chin appraised the basketball hoop's backboard, and I felt like cheering her regal stoicism. Gimme an F. Gimme a U. Gimme a C. What d'ya got?
    Following Patty and Wylie's abrupt exit, I searched for Alice. She was standing near a white Styrofoam cooler, empty except for melting ice cubes.
    Alice's hair had once been dishwater blonde. Then she watched celebs talk about how they were worth it. Alice decided she was worth it, too. After all, she was worth plenty. So every month she hopped a plane to New York and paid a visit to some exclusive beauty salon. From a distance, Alice looked like a platinum Q-tip.
    Up close, she looked mournful. "The wine's all gone," she muttered, nodding toward the cooler. "And everybody hates the champagne."
    "Everybody doesn't hate it, Alice."
    "Wylie hates it. I hate Wylie."
    "No, you don't."
    "He looked nice tonight."
    "Who? Wylie?"
    "Yes. He looked nice, but sounded nasty." She sucked in her lower lip. "What a bummer. Wylie was always a beatnik."
    "Hippie, Alice."
    "Remember his pad?"
    "Apartment, Alice."
    "Would you do me a big favor, Ingrid? Pretty please with sugar on top? Cheer up Dwight and Junior? Dwight's sulking and Junior's fuming. Gosh-darn. I wanted everybody to feel groovy tonight."
    It suddenly occurred to me that Alice's marriage to Dwight Eisenhower Cooper was appropriate. Alice sounded as if she had just stepped out of a 1950's movie. She never swore, and she probably thought that sex was an abbreviation for sexton, the church employee who, among other things, digs the graves.
    "What about the cheerleader?" I asked sarcastically. "The one who told Wylie to eat shit and die. Should I cheer her up?"
    "She's already bright-eyed and bushy-tailed." Alice pointed toward the end of the basketball court, where the cheerleader, skirt held high, was dancing to what sounded like the theme from Clint Eastwood's The Unforgiven. "Dwight and Junior have always admired your spunk, Ingrid."
    "I don't give a rat's spit if..." Pausing, I studied Alice's red-blotched cheeks and brimming eyes. "Okay, what the hell... heck. Where's Dwight?"
    "Outside."
    "And Junior?"
    "Over there, standing by the bandstand."
    He's not standing, I thought, he's slumping. Junior Hartsel had once been a pretty decent football player. Unfortunately, he was short, barely five-nine. He had never grown into his bulk, nor his dreams, but he had used his athlete's status to boff a goodly number of our graduation class.
    On my way to the stage, I stopped to adjust one shoulder pad, and felt Ben's voice tickle my ear. "You light up my life, babe," he whispered, hugging me from behind. "Let's go home."
    "I wish. But I promised Alice I would cheer up Dwight and Junior. Dwight's outside, sulking. Or maybe he's planning some murderous revenge scheme against our dear departed Wylie. Would you soothe the savage beast, Ben?"
    "Sure. Afterwards, I'll soothe your savage breast."
    I gazed longingly at Ben's broad shoulders, then hastened toward Junior, who was now on top of the stage.
    The band was taking a break, and Junior was drunk. He slid onto the drummer's stool, then looked up at me with bleary, bloodshot, basset-hound eyes. "Wylie said I had a big butt," he whined. "Do you think I have a big butt, Beaumont?"
    "You have a very nice butt, Junior." It was a fib, but why quibble? "Maybe you should put that nice butt inside a cab and head for home."
    "Your home?"
    "No. Your home."
    Junior thumped the snare drum with the flat of his hand. "You have nice boobies," he said with a wink that failed.
    "Thanks." I had never seen a wink fail. I mean, you just shut one eye, right? Wrong. Junior's upper lip crept toward his nose, which twitched like a rabbit. But the damn eye remained at half mast.
    "Let's find the locker room," he said slyly. "You can show me your boobies and I can show you my heinie."
    "No, thanks." I shuddered, considered retreating, then remembered my promise to Alice. "Maybe some other time, Junior."
    "Wylie said I had a bony chicken chest."
    "Junior, Wylie didn't mean---"
    "And a bald forehead."
    "Junior, I think you should lie down some place until you sober---"
    "Okay."
    He thumped his bald forehead against the drum, rebounded slightly, thumped again, then lay motionless, eyes closed, arms dangling, his "nice butt" overlapping the stool.
    I found three reunionites, who promised to carry Junior away. But when we returned to the stage, he was gone.
    Ben said that Dwight had been sitting in his wheelchair, staring nostalgically at the football field. Ben said that Dwight looked as if he didn't want to be disturbed.
    We stayed for the door-prize drawing, which I won. Then we left. It was kind of like winning a big poker pot and leaving immediately thereafter, but I didn't care. I wanted Ben to light up my life, a rather scintillating euphemism for screwing one's brains out.
    Ben drove his rental car. I drove my jeep. Careening round corners, I decided to call Wylie. Unfortunately, I didn't have one of his playpen toys, a cellular phone.
    By the time I arrived home, my breasts were unbeading my sweater, anticipating Ben's soothing caress, so I didn't call Wylie, and he didn't tell me the answer to his elephant-statue riddle.
    No big deal, I thought.
    But it was. Because those were the last words Wylie ever said to me.