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Plaut’s manuscript wet, and pulled the mattress to the floor.
    I already had an idea of who might be threatening to kidnap Bette Davis and I knew where to start to check on the possibility. The potential kidnapper was Davis’s first husband, and the person who could help me find out was the world’s sleaziest private detective, Andrea G. Pinketts.
    But first I needed a nap.
    The nap was short, interrupted by Mrs. Plaut stalking into my room to announce, “The gumbatz is ready.”
    I don’t wake up well from naps. I shouldn’t nap. Unless I overdose on Pepsi and coffee, I don’t come out of the fog till I’ve had a full night’s sleep. “What?” I said, sitting up in my boxer shorts and scratching my hairy chest.
    “Gumbatz,” she repeated.
    “I’ll be right down,” I said.
    “Five minutes,” she said, and disappeared.
    I looked at my old-man’s watch. Habit. It told me it was nine. The sun and the Beech-Nut clock on the wall confirmed my suspicion that my father’s watch was reliably incorrect. It was four-fourteen. I got up, almost fell on my face, groped my way to my pants, and managed to dress. I staggered to the communal powder room across from my room, washed, and made it downstairs to Mrs. Plaut’s door. I knocked hard and loud.
    “Enter,” she chirped.
    Dexter wasn’t where I had last seen him. Neither was his cage. I found them both in the kitchen on the table.
    “Sit,” ordered Mrs. Plaut.
    I sat, trying to keep my eyes open. In front of me was a bowl of something brown with darker brown splotches of something in it. A spoon lay next to the bowl. I looked at Mrs. Plaut. She looked back at me and smiled, nodding her head and pointing to the bowl. I got the idea.
    I took a spoonful of gumbatz, brought it to my mouth, and downed it. It tasted like nothing I had ever had before or since. Not that it was bad. It was just unfamiliar. Mrs. Plaut had no bowl in front of her.
    “Very good,” I said. “Aren’t you having any?”
    “Hate it,” she said, making a face. “Men like it.”
    “Would you like to share a knowledge of the ingredients with me?” I asked, taking another very small spoonful of gumbatz.
    “Family secret,” she said.
    “Do you plan to include it in your memoirs?”
    “Yes, but they are to be published posthumously. That means when I’m dead.”
    “I know. But I’m editing your memoirs.”
    “You’ve read about Granny Teller …”
    “… and Lute McLain,” I finished. “Fascinating. The recipe?”
    “Major ingredients only,” she whispered, looking at Dexter, who was chirping away and eating the same canary food Virginia Bruce gave her bird.
    I prayed that Mrs. Plaut wouldn’t spell the ingredients. She didn’t, but she did decide to continue whispering. “Molasses, brown sugar, flour, cumin, and possum.”
    “I’ve never eaten possum before,” I said.
    “I find the taste vile, but men …” She shrugged at the bad taste of the males who inhabit the earth.
    “Where did you get a poss—?” I tried, but,
    “My father invented gumbatz,” she interrupted proudly.
    “Buff Plaut, the one who was uncharitably labeled an idiot by Lute McLain,” I said, wondering how to get rid of the remaining three-fifths of a bowl of gumbatz.
    “I plan to take a jar to Mr. Arthur Godfrey,” she said. “I’ll ask Mr. Wherthman to drive me.”
    “May I finish this in my room?” I asked.
    “Why?”
    “Inspiration while I finish the chapter about your father.”
    I rose and took the bowl in hand while Mrs. Plaut considered my request.
    “Yes,” she said. “You may. But don’t take too long to eat it, or get it into the refrigerator. It tends to get gamey somewhat fast.”’
    “It will be gone in minutes,” I assured her.
    “Wait,” she called, as I headed groggily back to the hallway.
    “Yes, Mrs. Plaut,” I said.
    “Here.”
    She handed me something that looked like a fishing box with a thin metal handle. My left hand was full of gumbatz. I took the