“Terrific. I’ve been trying to think of a quirky new garment line that Sophie and I can have some fun with. Maybe the store has a Web site featuring their designs. I’ll get Sophie to log on and copy some of their patterns. God knows, I’m itching to get out of the doggy yarmulke business.”
“What are you trying to do? Get yourself embroiled in another lawsuit?” I questioned.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Rach. Companies do it all the time. What do you think goes on with those gowns the celebs wear to the Academy Awards? Some designer lends Gwyneth a six-thousand-dollar dress, and two days later Aunt Sadie can buy the same exact schmatte for a hundred twenty-five bucks at the local discount store. Besides, how else am I going to make the big bucks for my face-lift?”
Terri paused long enough to lick his finger and rub a smudge of dirt off my cheek.
“Don’t worry, Rach. There’s a face-lift in it for you too, once we hit the big time. Always remember: beauty may be only skin deep, but that’s what everyone sees.”
Lily Holt’s image wafted into my mind, and a flurry of shivers flew up my spine.
I actually made dinner for Santou that evening. Okay, at least I boiled spaghetti and threw a jar of sauce in a pot. Even better, Jake didn’t seem to mind.
“Just the two of us eating alone tonight? What’s up?” he asked, sitting down to my one-course meal.
“Terri’s starting his new job and wants to fit into his gown. As for Mei Rose, she’s still stewing about the other night when I didn’t make it home in time to cook dinner.”
“Those wild, wacky kids of ours,” Santou joked. “So did you pay a visit to Edgers today?”
“Absolutely.”
“How’d it go?”
“It took some coaxing, but he finally admitted that Lily never went to Santa Cruz. According to Randy, she’s still here in San Francisco. She’s supposedly living with a tattoo artist in the Haight who takes in runaways.”
Jake arched his eyebrows. “That sounds pretty strange to me.”
“No kidding.”
“What’s the guy’s name?”
“Carl Simmons. He owns a place called Big Daddy’s Body Shop.”
“I guess we should be happy he doesn’t call it Big Daddy’s Body Farm,” Jake morbidly joked.
“That’s kind of what I was thinking,” I admitted. “I keep getting these images of Charles Manson and his Family. Crazy, huh?”
Santou shrugged. “Not necessarily. Who knows in this town?”
“Anyway, I went by the shop and spoke with him. Simmons denies ever knowing anyone by the name of Lily Holt. I figure he’s either lying, Lily is using a pseudonym, or Edgers is doing everything he can to steer us away from her.”
Jake pulled a piece of garlic bread from its heat-and-eat foil sack. “I’ll check Simmons out tomorrow and see if this guy has any kind of record. Then we’ll take it from there.”
If this was teamwork, I was all for it.
I went to bed that night with thoughts of runaways and lunatics dancing in my head. But when I finally fell asleep, it was butterflies of which I dreamt.
My mother was alive, looking young and beautiful in a way I’d never seen before. Rebecca was there too, sitting by my side. Wildflowers grew in multitudes so thick that we couldn’t feel the ground beneath us. Then their petals sprouted wings and flew up toward the sun.
I threw back my head and searched the sky, entranced to find the petals had turned into colorful butterflies. The beating of their wings kept rhythm with my heart, as they multiplied, filling the heavens like miniature pieces of art.
When I finally looked down again, I found that my mother and sister were gone, and two butterflies were perched in their place. I remained perfectly still, not daring to move, fervently hoping they’d stay. But no sooner had I wished it than they unfurled their wings and took flight.
I ran after them as long as I could, until they disappeared from sight. A sob rose in my throat and I started to cry. Only my tears turned to silken threads that wrapped themselves around me from my feet up to my head.
I lay inside my chrysalis not knowing what to expect. Then a whisper tickled my ear, and my mother repeated a rhyme that she’d always said when kissing me good night.
Don’t be afraid when I die,
For my soul will become a butterfly.
More than anything, I prayed that she was right.
Fourteen
Santou was already gone by the time I woke in the morning. Either he was getting better at quietly rolling out of bed, or I was sleeping the sleep of the dead.
I showered, dressed and ate a Pop Tart, after which I searched for my cell phone. It was only because I wanted to check messages that the damn thing was nowhere to be found. Most likely, it was playing hide-and-seek in my Ford.
My plan of attack was to drive over to Mitch Aikens’s and catch him off guard. I figured he’d probably still be asleep and so wouldn’t expect me. With that in mind, I grabbed my bag and headed downstairs.
Tony Baloney was clearly feeling much better today. He nearly bit off a chunk of my leg as I walked out the door.
“Better luck next time, sweetie!” I called back to the pooch, feeling pretty frisky myself.
Then I climbed into my Explorer. What do you know? There was my cell phone sitting on the passenger seat, as if it had been waiting for me all along. I promptly dialed in my code. Sure enough, Aikens had left one message yesterday afternoon at four o’clock.
“You can stop pinning my balls to the wall. I finally found Horus. Only we need to straighten out a few things between us before I hand over any information. This is good stuff and it ain’t gonna come cheap.”
Funny what one little phone call can do. I was suddenly riding a high that I hadn’t felt since moving to this town. It was as if my luck had abruptly turned around. Maybe this butterfly gig would prove to be a pretty decent case after all. As for Aikens’s demands, I’d handle him in my own way.
I felt so good that I stopped at Mario’s, grabbed a latte, and was traveling along Highway 101 in no time. Well, maybe that was overstating it a bit. True, I was on 101. However, I was stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic. My pulse raced faster than the cars in front of me until I thought I’d nearly lose my mind.
The only way I managed to keep my cool was by playing Spencer’s game. I tried to imagine who Horus might be. Not that it really mattered. Butcher, baker, or candlestick maker, this butterfly poacher would be hanging up his net for good.
I finally reached the exit and sped down the off ramp, not wanting to lose one more second. Pressing pedal to metal, I zoomed through Daly City and made it to Mitch Aikens’s place in five minutes flat.
I jumped out of my Ford and rushed up the walkway, nearly knocking over the ornamental gnomes in my haste. Then my finger locked onto the bell where it steadfastly remained until somebody finally decided to open the door.
What I hadn’t expected was for Ma Aikens to be standing there with a pair of eyes that looked like two pieces of raw sushi. But then, she didn’t seem to think I looked too hot either. One glimpse of me and she began to sob hysterically.
“Oh, you poor girl. I’m so sorry. The two of you made such a lovely couple.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked suspiciously. “Is something wrong?”
“Mitch is gone,” Ma Aikens lamented.
Damn! I should have known he’d make a run for it. He was probably halfway to the Mexican border by now.
“Where’d he go?” I questioned, grabbing hold of her bony shoulders.
“Up there.” She pointed skyward while blowing her nose into a wad of wet tissue.
“You mean, he took a plane somewhere?”
Ma Aikens began to sob even harder than before, her hand grasping at the air as if trying to catch a ghost.
“No, you don’t understand. Mitch would never have left me. For chrissakes, I couldn’t even get him to move out of the house. I guess there’s no way to break the news, othe
r than to just come out and say it. Poor Mitch is dead,” she revealed between quivering lips.
For a moment, I wondered if this was a setup that Mitch had concocted. Then I took another look at the woman. Her eyes were nearly swollen shut, and she swayed unsteadily on her feet. Either Ma Aikens was telling the truth, or giving one hell of an Academy Award–winning performance.
“I can’t believe it,” I muttered half to myself, finding it hard to accept.
She waved me in, and we walked past the suit of armor. I was tempted to lift the face guard and check to see if Aikens was hiding inside.
“What happened?” I asked, imagining he’d probably had a heart attack.
“It was a terrible accident. Terrible, just terrible,” she moaned, taking a seat at the kitchen table and burying her head in her hands.
I brushed some cat hair off the kettle, filled it with water, and turned on a burner.
“Now tell me everything from the beginning,” I instructed, after placing a cup of instant coffee before her.
Ma Aikens took a sip. “Is this my Maxwell House? It tastes pretty damn good.”
“The accident?” I reminded her, as she stirred in two spoonfuls of sugar.
“Yeah, just give me a minute,” Ma Aikens said, and lit up a cigarette. “All I know is Mitch got a phone call late yesterday afternoon, and took off right afterwards. But he distinctly told me that he’d be home for dinner. Otherwise, I’d never have cooked four pork chops. I can’t eat that many by myself. In fact, two are still sitting in the fridge. It looks like I’ll be eating leftovers tonight.”
“What happened then?” I asked, trying to keep her on track.
“What happened? What happened is that he never came back. I figured he either hooked up with you, or some other girl. Nothing personal,” she quickly added. “You were his favorite, of course. But you know how men are. You gotta keep ’em on a short leash, or they tend to stray. Anyway, I didn’t think much of it until the crack of dawn when the police called. Some hiker stumbled upon poor Mitch’s body early this morning.”
“Where was he?”
“On San Bruno Mountain. He must have been chasing a butterfly and lost his footing, because he was found at the bottom of a cliff.”
“Did the police say if it was an accident?” I inquired, trying to frame my question in the most delicate possible way.
Evidently, it wasn’t delicate enough, because Ma Aikens looked at me with a stricken expression. “Why? Are you suggesting that it might have been suicide?”
“No, of course not,” I quickly backpedaled.
“Because my Mitch would never do any such thing. Not with everything he had going for him. Maybe you don’t realize it, but my son made lots of money. He probably didn’t tell you because he was afraid you were a gold digger.”
Now she was sounding more like a prospective mother-in-law. What I didn’t tell her was that the whole scenario sounded rather implausible. Butterflies rarely flit around late on cloudy afternoons, which is exactly what yesterday’s weather was—cold, damp, and foggy. Mitch would have known that better than most anyone.
“On top of everything else, what am I supposed to do with all his damn butterflies now?” Ma Aikens moaned, as if having just remembered them. “Mitch loved those things, but I’m certainly not going to spend my life taking care of the little buggers.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll see to it they get a good home,” I assured her. “In fact, why don’t I go check on them right now?”
“That’s very sweet of you, dear,” she said, having played me perfectly. “Just pour me another cup of coffee first, will ya?”
I did, and then made my way toward Mitch’s room.
It looked exactly as it had the other day, only Snowball was now curled up in Aikens’s decrepit chair. The feline had ripped open the seat and pulled out some stuffing to make himself a cozy nest. He purred in satisfaction as I ran my hand over his knotted fur. In fact, the cat was so content that he didn’t even attempt to follow me into the next room.
My pulse raced as I entered and closed the door behind me. This was what I loved best—snooping around in a place where I wasn’t supposed to be. There was no question but that Mitch wouldn’t have approved of my being in here alone. Just knowing it was taboo made me feel all tingly. Hmm. I wondered what that said about my psyche?
I didn’t waste a minute, but immediately began to poke through things. Jeez. What a god-awful mess. And this was the cleanest room in the house. Mitch had been sloppy enough to make even me look orderly. Boxes, containers, and vials were strewn about everywhere.
I now noticed a few items that I had overlooked on my first visit. Primarily that Aikens liked to raise caterpillars in a variety of ice-cream containers. Whadda ya know? We’d had something in common, after all. When it came to name brands, Mitch had also been an equal-opportunity ice cream eater.
A pile of empty cartons formed a large mound in one corner of the floor. There was Baskin-Robbins No Fat Strawberry, Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey, and Breyer’s Grand Light Cookie Dough, along with quarts of pistachio, piña colada, chocolate chip mint, and Double Rainbow’s Cable Car Cashew. I began to rummage through the hoard with my foot, curious what other flavors he’d purchased.
Whoa, hold on there a second. My shoe knocked against something that didn’t sound like a hollow container. I waded deeper into the heap and began to toss ice-cream cartons aside, only to realize they’d been used as a clever subterfuge. Hidden beneath were large plastic boxes exactly like those in which my mother used to store our seasonal clothes. I pulled them out and deftly popped their lids open one by one.
Lo and behold, each held a wide variety of butterflies from around the world. Best of all, every glassine envelope had been neatly labeled.
There were owl butterflies from South America. Their spots were camouflaged as startled eyes that looked surprised to find themselves in such a predicament. Scarlet swallowtails from the Philippines appeared regal as elegant widows. Each of their jet-black wings was streaked with long daubs of scarlet, as if they’d bloodied themselves in mourning. Numerous gray-brown markings transformed white peacocks into a cornucopia of windowpanes. I had to look twice to make sure they weren’t actually ornaments composed of Tiffany glass. Meanwhile, brown-and-white paper kites seemed so perfect as not to be real, but rather the result of beautiful origami creations.
I flipped past malachites, painted ladies, zebra longwings, and Gulf fritillaries. There were even question marks, a butterfly that loves to feast on rotting fruit, carrion, and dung.
As interesting as all this was, these butterflies were also perfectly legal. In other words, they weren’t what I was looking for. Damn it! Could Mitch have been telling the truth all along? Had he really been on the up and up, and only occasionally strayed into illegal territory?
Chomp, chomp, chomp.
The endless chewing of larvae in the background told me that my suspicions hadn’t been wrong.
What a pushover. Don’t be such a chump, they seemed to say.
“Are you all right in there?” Ma Aikens called from the other side of the door.
I was so absorbed in my thoughts that she nearly scared the life out of me.
“Everything’s fine. It just takes time to feed them,” I responded, noticing there was still food enough left to last the caterpillars the rest of the day.
“I’d come in and help. But to tell you the truth, those damn things give me the willies. I’m beginning to think that maybe we should just chuck ’em all.”
“Absolutely not!” I responded, a bit too emphatically.
That was enough to make Ma Aikens crack open the door and peek inside.
“Why? Are they worth a lot of money?” she asked suspiciously. “Because I hope you don’t plan to sell them behind my back and cut me out of my fair share.”
Why, the wily old witch. Her son wasn’t even buried yet, and she was already counting the cash.
“I don’t believe th
ey should be sold at all,” I coolly retorted. “Instead, they should be raised and kept in Mitch’s memory.”
That seemed to temporarily appease her.
I guess you really did care for him,” she relented. “What the hell. I wouldn’t know what to do with them, anyway. Mitch never included me in on his business. How about you? Did he tell you anything?”
“Nothing at all,” I answered honestly.
“Well the faster this mess gets cleaned up, the quicker I can rent out these rooms. I’m on a fixed income, you know. You wouldn’t happen to be looking for a place to live, would you?” she asked wistfully.
I shook my head.
“All right then,” she sighed. “I’ll let you get back to your work. Do you think you can get them all out by today?”
“I’ll certainly try,” I replied.
I waited until the door was firmly shut and then began to look around some more. However, so much crap filled the room that it was difficult to focus. I decided to tackle the problem by starting at one end and working my way to the other.
I tore through boxes filled with computer paper, large garbage bags, light bulbs, and electrical cords. Dozens of cheap plastic wine glasses were packed alongside defunct computer games. There were buckets of dried-out paint, cartons filled with ancient vacuum-cleaner parts, and a sack containing nothing but suntan lotion. Mitch must have found all this stuff in abandoned storage units and planned to auction it off one day on eBay.
I was about ready to call it quits, when I spotted a grimy tarp haphazardly flung under one of the counters. Grabbing hold of a corner, I dragged it toward me. My adrenaline shot into orbit at the sight of a fireproof box just begging to be opened. I tried to lift the lid. Naturally, it was locked.
Okay. Now where would Mitch have stashed the key? Hopefully not on his keychain, or I was out of luck. My only other option was to take the damn thing home with me.
I reached in and dragged the box out, relieved to find it was light enough to be portable. That’s when my fingers brushed up against something that was metal with notched edges.
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