When the Butterflies Came

by Kimberley Griffiths Little

  The new clue practically sizzles my fingers, and yet I have to destroy it this very moment — without matches. It’s too dangerous to take it with me. What if I accidentally drop it? What if someone is waiting on the stairs ready to steal it from me?

  Who is Grammy Claire afraid of? Why is she so secretive? What is so dangerous? Butterflies are beautiful and gentle, not deadly. Harmless, not a matter of life and death.

  Across the room, Riley yawns and sticks a folder back into one of the filing cabinets. “Boring scientific mumbo jumbo!” I hear her say. “Hey, Tara, where you got to? Let’s go.”

  Without thinking, I tear the note into four pieces and stuff them into my mouth. I start chewing, pretending it’s bubble gum. I read about this tactic in a book. There was a Southern lady who became a Confederate spy during the Civil War. She was carrying a piece of crucial information, and when she got home, Union soldiers were swarming her house. So she ate the note! How daring! I always wondered if it made her sick later. Guess I’m gonna find out.

  Acting real casual, I keep chewing, tasting the bland mush of paper, the tang of the ink, and try not to make a face. Tiny spit-soaked bits stick between my teeth.

  “What are you doing?” Riley asks.

  “Nothing,” I mumble. I try to swallow, but can’t bring myself to. Chewing paper is really yucky. I think I’ll throw up if it goes down my throat. Turning away, I try not to gag.

  Riley stares at me. “You’re trying to swallow a piece of gum, aren’t you? How juvenile. You’re not two years old.”

  I shake my head, not facing her so she can’t see that I don’t have gum at all.

  “Don’t swallow! Your stomach can’t digest it. You’ll have a pile of old, tasteless gum sitting there for the rest of your life. That’s disgusting.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “I saw it on a television show.” She pauses. “I’m off to steal Butler Dude’s wheels and go for a drive. What are you going to do?”

  I notice that she doesn’t invite me. Bet she’s gonna go meet her boyfriend.

  I shrug, knowing exactly what I’m going to do. “Make cookies?” I manage to say around the wad of soggy paper. I wonder if Madame See will let me into her kitchen. I wonder if there are any chocolate chips in the house.

  I need to go lie down. Try to decipher Grammy Claire’s latest clue that’s sliding, sliding down my throat. Right then I do gag and start spitting the bits of paper into my hand.

  “What if Jett Dupuis could see you now?” Riley says with an especially defined eye roll.

  The thought of Jett seeing me right now makes me suck in my breath so fast, I actually swallow some of the note. I hold my stomach and try not to cry. “Hey!” I call out, but Riley is already clomping down the narrow stairs. “How do you know about Jett Dupuis?”

  The Secret Butterfly Garden is quiet after she leaves. Breathless, almost. I wander the room, trying not to look at the dead butterfly corpses, the beauty that’s been snuffed out like a candle. The last thing I see as I close the door is the Giant Pink soaring through the couple inches of open window. I’m glad it’s safe, that it’s still alive.

  I wonder if the Giant Pink is sad that all the other butterflies are dead. Then I laugh at myself for thinking that the butterflies have actual brains, with actual thoughts.

  * * *

  That night I lie in bed, my mind flitting about. I left my door cracked so I could hear Riley come home. She’s been gone for hours and hours. I rack my brain trying to figure out what Key Number Six is supposed to open. Just use your head, Grammy Claire wrote. I’d torn apart her bedroom again, but the only thing ever hidden in there was the padded envelope taped under the bed.

  Before dinner, Butler Reginald had paced the floor and finally called the police. Not to report his car stolen, but to try to find my sister. I told him she was with her boyfriend, praying Riley hadn’t gone back to the airport to try to fly to California. If Daddy privately called her cell with a new airline ticket, leaving me alone, I’m not going to speak to him for a month.

  My eyes sting when I realize that my daddy probably wouldn’t even notice. I’d have to ignore him for at least three months. I miss Grammy Claire more than ever so I spend a while crying in my room, and then eat dinner alone.

  Madame See served me quietly in a flowered Oriental dress that isn’t really a muumuu, but kinda sort of. Bowing, bowing, bowing with the rice, then the seasoned battered fish, and then with a bowl of ice cream. I asked her if she knew the recipe for chocolate chip cookies and she shook her head. “No understand. More fish?”

  Next, I’d wandered each floor, cruising through the empty guest rooms.

  Then I sat in Grammy Claire’s library and pulled out every single book. Flipped the pages. Checked for secret compartments. Hollow panels in the walls. I tipped over the armchairs, rolled up the rug, and patted down the drapes. Nothing.

  Nothing!

  Rolling over in my bed, I picture the words on the note again — and try not to think about half the note sitting in my gut. Paper can’t hurt you, right? I’d flushed the other half, the soggy bits, down the toilet. Didn’t need to burn it because the ink had washed away in my mouth. Can ink poison you? I wish there was a computer in this house so I could look it up. I wonder what the phone number for poison control is.

  … you’ll be undertaking a secret journey, which this key will reveal. Just use your head.

  Not three seconds later I hear the soft shushing of feet on the staircase. Throwing off the sheet, I run to the crack in my door and peek out. It’s Riley sneaking home. A few of the clocks downstairs chime out a single bong. One. One o’clock in the morning that is.

  My sister hurries to her room so fast I don’t even have time to intercept her. Dern!

  Secret journey.

  Use your head.

  The words come together in my head with a clunk.

  A secret journey means I’m going somewhere. Meaning I’m not staying here all summer with Riley sneaking in and out and nothing to do but eat notes and try not to get poisoned.

  If I’m going on a journey, I need to pack. Which I’d done two days ago in order to come here. But this was Grammy Claire’s house and Grammy Claire’s clues and puzzles. She trusted me to use my head and figure it out. Because she wants me to find the clues.

  I snatch Key Number Six and step into the dim hallway. The second floor is lit by a night-light shaped like a purple water hyacinth. In my bare feet, I race downstairs to the closet built under the staircase. Gently, I press the small half door open. It lets out a loud creak and I stop, breathing hard. Hoping nobody heard it.

  Under the stairs it’s pitch-black like a cave. Inside all that darkness lies a stash of Grammy Claire’s suitcases and trunks, old and new, with wheels and without. And one of those suitcases has a lock that fits my key! I just know it.

  First, I need a flashlight. Or matches.

  The musty smell of the house creeps into my nose as I crawl back out of the space and head to the kitchen. Moonlight drifts through the window so I don’t need to turn on a light.

  The appliances look like they’re sleeping. Shadows in the corners watching me, waiting to see what I’m gonna do. The clock on the stove looks like a face with buttons for eyes. Cracks in the porcelain are crooked smiles, eerie and creepy.

  Slowly, slowly, slowly, I open the cupboards and drawers, smelling soy sauce and cumin mixed with the tang of mandarin oranges sitting in a bowl by the flour canister.

  At last I find a small flashlight. Perfect. I switch it on and off to make sure it works. Not too bright, just enough.

  Ten seconds later, I’m back at the small half door under the staircase and shining the flashlight into the recesses. It’s a good thing I’m not too scared of the dark. Except there might be lots of dead bugs. But that’s Riley’s undoing, not mine.

  There! I hurry over to the stash of suitcases and trunks and old-fashioned hatboxes. I can barely stand up and the top of my head skims the
low ceiling as the roof slopes down and the space gets smaller with each step.

  I brush off a dusty spot on the hardwood floor and kneel down, reaching for the first suitcase. There are four of them and two trunks. Key Number Six is too small for the trunks and too big for the suitcases. I’m skunked. My chin wobbles as I squeeze my eyes shut. I thought for sure I’d figured out what Grammy Claire meant about a journey and using my head.

  When Riley and I were younger we used to play hide-and-seek, and under the stairs was one of my favorite places to hide. I’d peek out the crack of the little door to see where she was. For a long time, I could fit without scraping the top of my head. One year, I grew a couple of inches and didn’t know it until I smashed my head into the low ceiling during one of our midnight games. I remember the cut and Grammy Claire washing the blood out of my hair, putting ointment on it, then rocking me to sleep in the chair in her library.

  Riley was unsympathetic. “Try a new hiding place,” she’d told me in her superior tone. “I always find you in here.”

  After that I hid under the desk in the library. One time I was so quiet listening to Riley calling my name up and down all the staircases that I fell asleep. The cubbyhole of the desk was small and perfectly sized. So cozy I curled up and dreamed about being a real princess in a real castle, not the old Doucet Mansion, until I heard Grammy Claire calling me for dinner. I can still remember the sizzling smell of fried catfish and hot balls of fried cornmeal, my favorite summertime dinner. The same meal she’d told Madame See to fix me last night when we arrived.

  I remember Grammy Claire teaching me to fish on the bayou. Pulling up my first catfish from the muddy river bottom.

  I’ll never make any more memories with her. I have to live off the ones I already have, which means I gotta hang on to them tight. I wish I could stuff them into a memory jar. Too bad nobody has invented one yet. I’ll bet they’d make a million dollars!

  Crawling around the stack of suitcases, I shine my light into the far corners. I have nowhere left to look. A small, boxlike shape appears under a stack of two-by-fours tucked into the deepest part of the storage space.

  Holding the flashlight in my lap, I pull the box toward me, bumping my head again. My hair falls over my face and I brush it back, the heat making me sweat. The air is thick and stifling back here.

  The last piece of luggage is an outdated makeup case. Not a soft, zippered bag, but oblong-shaped with hard, molded edges — very old-fashioned. And boasting its very own lock!

  My fingers shake as I insert Key Number Six and twist. The lock snaps and a silver metal tab flips up, pinching my skin. Sucking on my finger, I shine the flashlight inside. Flowered material, puckered with age and wrinkling along the edges where it’s lost its glue, lines the inside of the case. The faded cardboard pieces are also curling. The case contains the most adorable little trays. Compartments for eye shadow and pencils and brushes and lipstick.

  The top tray folds out by a set of metal levers. Below it is an envelope with my name on it!

  I can’t stop myself from letting out a cry. “Oh, Grammy Claire, I found it, I found it!” I laugh, wiping at my eyes and rubbing my nose across my arm. Something I’ve never done in my life.

  The clocks across the hall chime the half hour, but I have no idea how much time has passed. My eyes burn I’m so tired, but I rip open the envelope and tear into the letter. It’s the shortest one so far.

  Dearest Tara,

  You used your head, my darling girl — although I hope that pretty head isn’t damaged this time. Congratulations! Even so, you will probably not feel that this is a victory at all as you move deeper and deeper into this dangerous journey. Be brave! All will be well. I promise. Just remember the nipwisipwis and how much they need you.

  All my love forever,

  Your Grammy Claire

  P.S. Keep digging

  What does that mean? My legs cramp and needles shoot up my feet. I want to crawl back to my pillow, but I have four more keys! And this letter says nothing about Key Number Seven.

  Feeling depressed, I fold the compartments and tray back into the makeup case. All of a sudden, I stop. A second tray is hidden underneath the bottom cloth-covered cardboard. My breath catches. Grammy Claire had said to keep digging!

  Sticking my fingernails into the tight edges, I finally manage to loosen the cardboard, which is papered in blue primroses. After I lift it out, I stare at a silver clasp purse in the glow of my flashlight. The purse is beautiful, shiny, and very chic. A fancy purse for wearing with an evening gown. Breathing harder, I twist the metal pieces of the curved clasp apart.

  A stack of green money stares back at me. I can hardly believe my eyes. Hurriedly, I start putting the bills inside the lap of my nightgown. When I reach the last one, my whole body is humming in shock. There are twenty one-hundred-dollar bills! Two thousand dollars!

  I count them over and over again, double-checking. What is this money for? Why has Grammy Claire given it to me? This is getting more and more mysterious.

  Then, between two of the Benjamin Franklin bills, a note slips out. Holding up my flashlight, I read:

  Hide this money! Now repeat that seven times. You will need good old Ben on your journey. Key Number Seven will show you where you’re going and have further instructions.

  “And don’t forget to destroy this note,” I say out loud as I repeat the identical line of warning that has appeared at the bottom of all of Grammy Claire’s clues.

  Tucking the cash back into the silver purse, I snap it shut, stick it back into the makeup case — and decide to leave it right there inside the storage room. In the darkest recesses of the under-the-stairs closet. Where else in this house will this much money be safe? If I put it in my room, Riley might find it. What if Madame See decides to dust? What if Butler Reginald decides to take down the drapes and send them out for dry cleaning? I worry the money will not remain safe even here, but it’s probably been hiding inside the makeup case since last summer, when Grammy Claire was last here.

  As I crawl back over the junk, I snap off the flashlight and stand up, gripping Grammy Claire’s note in my fist until I can burn it. I really don’t want to eat it again.

  Peering into the face of one of the hall clocks, I see that it’s going on two a.m. Rubbing my tired eyes, I head to the kitchen to burn the note.

  That’s when I hear a stirring above me. A door closing. Soft, stealthy footsteps. My heart thuds and my ears tingle. Who is it? Where are they going? And do they know I’m standing smack-dab in the middle of the entry hall?

  My pulse pounds as I wait and listen. And wait and listen.

  I stand like a statue for so long, my legs start to ache.

  The sounds fade into the night. Did I imagine it? Was it just Riley going to the bathroom? My sister usually makes a lot more noise than that.

  Suddenly, the stairs creak. Creak, creak, creak. Right above me! Someone is coming down, not five feet away.

  The creaking stops and I can’t hardly breathe.

  Goose bumps rise on my arms. Maybe someone is watching me right now from the blackness through the banister. The thought spooks me so badly I force my legs to return to the little closet under the stairs and hide behind the door.

  Keeping the door cracked the tiniest sliver of an inch, I wait and listen. The creaking on the staircase starts up again and a moment later a figure glides past me. I think I’m going to have a heart attack. What if it’s an intruder?

  My mouth is dry as I strain to see who it is. After I count to three, I open the door another inch. Someone small with short dark hair reaches the end of the hallway and turns the corner into the dining room.

  Leaving the safety of the closet, I flatten myself against the wall and tiptoe closer, hiding behind the grandfather clock.

  Silently, Madame See creeps through the dining room, heading back toward her own bedroom on the other side of the kitchen. A second later, her door closes with a click.

  Madame See?
What’s she doing up in the middle of the night? And upstairs! Where she has no business snooping around.

  Finally, I let out a ragged breath. The new note is turning damp in my sweaty hand. Which reminds me — Grammy Claire forgot to give me the clue for finding the lock for Key Number Seven. What if I can’t figure it out? What if I let my grandmother down? And what about all that money I just found?

  Prickles of worry nag at me. My head hurts thinking about it.

  When I start to tiptoe back upstairs, I let out a gasp.

  The purple butterfly that flew through my bedroom window the day after Grammy Claire’s funeral comes tearing down the hall straight at me like it’s gone crazy. Its wings are going a hundred miles an hour, zooming right for my face.

  We are like butterflies who flutter for a day and think it is forever.

  ~CARL SAGAN~

  I clap my hands over my mouth and try not to scream. My voice is hoarse as I whisper, “How did you get all the way down here from the Butterfly Garden?”

  I’d closed and locked that laboratory door. I know it. Or had I? My stomach sinks. Now I can’t remember. I’m afraid for the butterflies because of all those other butterfly corpses. I’m supposed to protect the nipwisipwis. But how can I protect a garden full of dead butterflies?

  I don’t know if Grammy Claire wanted me to find the garden full of alive, flying butterflies — or dead ones, because my job is to figure out how they died. I’m so confused!

  The purple butterfly darts around my head. Back and forth and around and around until I feel dizzy. I hold up my hand but it won’t even alight on my finger. “What do you want me to do?”

  The butterfly races down the hallway, then comes back and zips around my head three more times. Finally, I get it. “Okay, okay, I’ll follow you.”

  The purple wings get even more frantic when I make a detour to my bedroom and grab Key Number Five to the laboratory, shoving Key Number Six that opened the little makeup case with the others in the locked box.