Dark Storm

by Karen Harper

  “My mind’s going crazy over the worst scenarios. I only looked in more windows, then ran. But her car could be hidden in his two-car garage, and maybe she’s in the house somewhere behind closed curtains or blinds. If this doesn’t work out, I’ll find a way to follow him everywhere he goes. And I was so sure he was on our side.”

  Though she’d meant to be strong and steady, she burst into tears. Nick pulled her to him and held her hard.

  “All right,” he said, whispering in her ear. “Wash your face in the kitchen before the girls see you like this, and I’ll go change clothes. It’s still a long shot, but that’s all we have right now. Jensen will probably kill me, but we have to try. The minute Bronco and Nita get here, we’ll fill them in and, armed with questions, head for Will’s house and that painting.”

  As they quickly left the laundry room, they nearly stumbled over Lexi and the doll standing in the doorway. Nick’s briefcase knocked into the doll and shoved Lexi back.

  “Hey, honey,” he said, “I didn’t know you were there. Sorry. You okay?”

  “I guess. And Cindy is, too.”

  “Yes, I’m fine. We missed you, Dad,” the doll said.

  “I already told her I missed you,” Lexi explained. “We want to know if you are home to stay or going somewhere else.”

  Tears blurred Claire’s vision as Nick knelt to hug Lexi. “We didn’t mean to shut you out,” he told her. “Guess what? Nita and Bronco are going to move in for a while like they did once before. Just for a while.”

  As Claire knelt to hug her, too, Lexi wiped tears from under her eyes. “Yes, I like them,” she said. “But last time they came it was ’cause that lady died. It’s not ’cause... I mean, because Aunt Darcy is... I mean, you were whispering, and we couldn’t hear everything you said so you should talk louder.”

  “No, sweetheart!” Claire said and hugged her harder. “We are still looking for Aunt Darcy, and Bronco and Nita are going to help. Everyone here is working hard on that, and we’re a team—you and Jilly, too.”

  Lexi sniffed and nodded. “Just tell me if you find out who took her. Just don’t whisper and keep secrets, okay?”

  Claire’s gaze locked with Nick’s over the head of the doll, which Lexi was holding between them.

  “We’ll all do our best,” Claire said. “We’ll all stick tight and do our best.”

  It wasn’t a real answer, but as scared as she was, too, it was all she could think to say right now. And they were not telling this child where they were going nor about that strange painting at Will’s and what it could mean.

  17

  “I hate that we’re saying goodbye again, but I’m proud of your work,” Brit told Jace. They had an hour before Mitch picked him up for a flight back to the NOAA base at Biloxi, and they’d decided to spend it in bed. “Risky, but worth it,” she added, reaching for his hand. “Still, I’m hoping this tropical storm does not turn into another hurricane you have to fly through.”

  He pulled her close. She was a great wife, understanding, supportive. And how unusual, he supposed, that she and Claire had grown to be friends. But he hated heading back to work for more reasons than just leaving Brit. Enough time had passed that he knew they were unlikely to find Darcy alive. Yeah, it could happen but odds were against it, and pilots often flew with the odds in mind—and nerve and guts.

  “Hey, flyboy, a penny—no, a hundred dollars for your thoughts,” Brit said, reeling him back to the here and now. “I know you’re worried about Lexi. I’ll try to help with her while you’re gone,” she said with tears gilding her eyes. “You just keep yourself and Mitch and your crew safe. Remember your high-flying creed—one of them, anyway—‘aviate, navigate, communicate.’ That means with your wife, too, not just your copilot and the ground control. Earth to Jace—don’t drift off—navigate and communicate with me.”

  He had to chuckle. “Ma’am, yes, ma’am! Speaking of flying, time’s a’wasting for you and me,” he said as he reached for the hem of her nightgown and tugged it up—and up. “Let’s fly.”

  Her arms wrapped around his neck, and she snuggled naked against him. This would make it harder for him to leave her, but he needed to do his job. It might be one way to help his daughter, his friends and family here, to measure another storm, because this one might hit close to home.

  Trying to be deliberate not desperate, he kissed her hard. What if he didn’t come back? What if Darcy didn’t come back? What if Claire never recovered, and Lexi regressed and all was lost?

  But for a little while, he lost himself in loving Brit.

  * * *

  “Look,” Claire said as she and Nick drove past Will’s house, both craning their necks. “He’s parked his car in the driveway when he has a two-car garage. Now, why would he do that?”

  “Maybe he’s going out later and just didn’t drive in. A lot of people have so much stuff in their garages they can’t use them.”

  “True. I’m probably just paranoid.”

  “I’m going to turn around and go back. At least it looks like we caught him at home.”

  They had eaten an early dinner with Steve and the girls. He had promised to stay in tonight and watch a movie with them. Bronco and Nita had arrived, and Nita, God bless her, however pregnant she was, took right over. They had told only Bronco where they were going. Heck had texted to say he was still having trouble tracing Clinton Ralston even under his shortened first name.

  They parked in front of Will’s property and went up to the front door. The windows were all closed, not unusual where people had the air-conditioning on in this humid late-summer weather. They rang the bell.

  It took a moment for a response. Claire saw Will glance out his front picture window to see who they were—not unusual, either. He opened the door.

  “Good news, I hope,” he said. He extended his hand to Nick. Will was dressed in denim shorts and a T-shirt, which had one large word on it: Read.

  Yes, she thought. They had to read this just right.

  Nick shook his hand, then Will offered it to Claire, who said, “No news is perhaps good news now. We hope you don’t mind our just dropping by.”

  “Absolutely not and do come in,” he said, gesturing. “And how is Jilly holding up?”

  “She has her father and Lexi with her,” Claire explained. “She and Steve are staying with us now, so she’s not alone, although I know she’s suffering—afraid for her mother, of course, even when we try to keep her spirits up. I’ve explained to her more than once that none of this was her fault—that Darcy would never have just left her.”

  The moment they were in with the door closed behind them, Claire panicked. She had to look at that painting close up. She and Nick had even rehearsed what they would say when they saw it. But in this front room, nicely furnished, she saw a huge painting of two butterflies alighted on an orange blossom branch next to a huge photographic blowup of his book cover, Butterfly Love and Lore.

  “You have a lovely home here,” she said, trying not to sound too nervous or too eager. “Out from the city a ways, but not far. What an interesting painting! Of course you would have butterflies in your decor. Those are painted ladies, aren’t they?” she asked, moving a bit closer to the oil painting and the door to the Florida room. Will walked with her and Nick stepped closer, too.

  She saw the painting was done in the same hazy, almost impressionistic style as the one of the woman in the next room. One butterfly had its dotted orange, black and white wings spread, the other had its wings closed. Her own words, painted lady, snagged in her brain. She had to get Nick into that back room to see the other painted lady.

  “Good for you for recognizing that,” Will said. “It’s one of my favorite butterflies because they are so prolific, like a universal representative of the butterfly world. It’s the type I asked for on the front of my book, as you can see,” he added, gesturing at the blown-up photo of it. “Painted ladies, genus Vanessa cardui, are hardy, resilient global fliers. They’ve been kn
own to migrate clear across the Saharan desert, populate Europe and Asia, even Australia, yet we have them here in our backyards. When I was young, growing up near here, I actually buried a few out back, and put little crosses over them, but they were no longer beautiful when I dug them up to see how they were doing.”

  That mental picture shook Claire. The idea of burying something beautiful out back... But she had to say more, to go on, before Nick stepped in as he said he might if she needed help here.

  “Those black spots outside the closed wings look like two staring eyes,” she observed, edging slightly more toward the door that must lead to the back room.

  “They do indeed. Those are hindwing eyespots that scare predators like birds away—make them think it’s a much larger insect than it is. They even resemble the eyes of an all-seeing owl.”

  “If you have any actual butterfly displays,” she went on, “I’d love to see them.”

  “Some people find them boring, overly ornate, even fussy—mostly men,” he said with a nod at Nick. Will didn’t budge toward the back room, even though Claire had taken yet another step that way.

  “No, I’d love to see them,” Nick said. “And the signature on this painting—did you do this? I see it’s signed WW.”

  “Good eyes, Nick,” Claire said, leaning lower. “Will, are you an artist? Anything else around here you’ve done?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady. Had he actually painted that picture of Darcy in the back room? If so, maybe he was obsessed with her and that could mean—

  “About men being bored,” Nick said when Will didn’t answer, “I think butterflies are fascinating. And I’ve read somewhere that Japanese men dote on them—spend fortunes on them.”

  Will seemed to snap to attention. “I believe I can deduce from this visit that you two have looked into my past beyond my book’s bio. Yes, I made a small fortune selling rare butterflies in Japan—not illegal, unless one gets caught.”

  “We’re not here to pursue that,” Nick said. “Frankly, we are taking a close look at anyone and everyone who had a tie to Darcy because we are so damned desperate. We’re looking for clues she might have given you about disappearing, about someone new in her life. Will, I hope you understand.”

  “Oh, I do. I do.”

  Claire stifled a groan that Nick was going off script, but he did have good instincts for working with devious minds, criminals hiding the truth. For one moment, the three of them stared at each other. Claire held her breath and bit her lower lip hard to keep from begging this man to just tell them the truth.

  “I understand and sympathize with your desperation,” Will told them. “Here I am, merely her friend, and I would die or kill to get her back. So I don’t know what you’ve discovered about how I made my meager fortune, which allowed me to do the things I really love,” he said, looking intently first at Nick, then at her, “but let me explain some things. First of all, know and believe that I am on your side in finding Darcy. I have been racking my brain and some of my financial resources to get answers.”

  “We know that,” Claire put in. “We are so grateful for the boost you’ve given our pleas for any information that leads to her whereabouts.”

  Will nodded as he bent to open the top drawer of a cabinet. Nick stiffened and stepped in front of Claire. Was he expecting Will to draw a gun? But he pulled out a well-worn, leather-bound scrapbook that looked like a photo album.

  “Come with me,” he said, “for I have someone for you to meet.”

  * * *

  At the Southwest Florida International Airport, just before Jace and Mitch were ready to board their Delta plane to get them back to their hurricane hunting base in Biloxi, Mississippi, Jace’s phone sounded with a text message.

  “Probably Brit again,” Jace said. “Hated to leave her.”

  “With a woman you love, parting is such sweet sorrow, or something like that,” Mitch muttered as they hefted their carry-on backpacks and got in line. “I hated to leave Kris, too.”

  Jace stared at the small screen. “Oh, not from her but Hector, Nick’s tech guru. Maybe they found Darcy.”

  But what he read was that Heck had to drive to Miami to meet with a possible investor—Nick was his only partner so far—for the facial recognition technology supplies company Heck was setting up. And he wanted Jace to finesse something with Nick, to do Heck a favor.

  “A favor like what?” Mitch asked when Jace explained.

  “Still reading,” Jace said. When he’d read through it, he told Jace as they edged forward in the line, “Heck clearly doesn’t know I’m leaving, thinks I’m still going to see Nick and Lexi before I leave—don’t I wish.”

  “And what does Heck want you to explain to Nick?”

  “Well, I guess Heck is blaming himself for telling Steve a couple days ago that Nick was going to question Larry Ralston, a possible client who was in that eco-group that has the Fly Safe name we want for our company. Heck told Steve to just stay out of it, then realized he should not have told him the Ralston connection.”

  “Like why?” Mitch asked. “You mean that Steve could have traced Ralston, flipped out while questioning him, then harmed—killed—him?”

  “Remember Steve came back looking like he’d been in a fight. So Heck’s asking me to let Nick know he might have blown it by telling Steve. Heck thinks it would be better if someone told Nick in person in case he loses his cool.”

  “Boarding rows twenty-two to thirty-eight,” the woman at the gate announced, and Jace changed Heck’s message on the screen to his boarding pass.

  Man, he thought, what if Steve did locate, argue with and fight Larry Ralston? He had to think this through, then tell Nick, as if he needed more of a mess than he and Claire already had on their hands.

  * * *

  Claire held her breath as Will led them into his Florida room. For one moment she considered that he could have seen them drive by or come up his walk and so he’d moved the painting. But no, there it was, nearly life-size, Darcy in an old-fashioned dress. And yes, this painting, too, had the signature WW in the lower right-hand corner.

  “It was what first drew me to Darcy when I returned from Japan and met her at the library with little Jilly, though I had sort of known her—you, too, Claire—as a child,” he said as Claire and Nick both stared, speechless. “It’s not what you think, so let me explain.”

  18

  “Despite the old-fashioned clothes, it has to be a painting of Darcy,” Claire insisted. “When did you do it?”

  Nick took her hand as if to steady her, or maybe to warn her to be careful of what she said.

  His voice quiet but not calm, Will told them, “You have heard that all of us have strangers who are doubles somewhere in the world, haven’t you? It’s just that we seldom see them.” He hugged the album to his chest, resting his chin on it. “That is not Darcy, but my dear grandmother, Vanessa White Warren. I have her to thank for my obsession with butterflies.”

  There it was, Claire thought. But she didn’t believe him. He must have had an obsession with Darcy, and if it was because she looked like his beloved grandmother, that didn’t change her suspicions of him.

  “But you never showed her this, or she would have told me,” Claire accused, trying to control her voice and expression.

  “No, I—I just kept it all to myself. I actually think it might have unsettled her, made her think I didn’t like her for herself. But I must admit it made me want to keep her as a friend.”

  To keep her... Those words echoed in Claire’s head. The crazy collector in that novel had wanted to keep his prisoner trapped, like a caught butterfly. So, Claire agonized, Darcy had never been here, or at least didn’t see this portrait. But could she believe this man?

  “Let me explain,” Will said as she tore her gaze away from the painting. It seemed—how she wished—that the real Darcy could just step from the canvas, to be here, alive and well.

  “Sit, both of you, please,” Will said, indicating a rose-hue
d velvet settee under the window Claire had peered through. All the furniture in this room off the kitchen was tastefully old-fashioned, like a little shrine to the era of the painting.

  They complied. Nick kept ahold of her hand, and Will cleared magazines away to perch on the coffee table in front of them, though the picture still loomed large behind him.

  “Let me explain,” he said yet again, and Claire forced herself to look at him. She told herself she had to use her forensic skills to see if he was telling the truth, to read his expression, words and tone of voice, his body language. He seemed uptight, emotional, but then, so was she.

  He opened the old photograph album and turned it toward them on his knees. Mostly small black-and-white photographs, some evidently glued on the black paper pages, some set in little corner gummed holders so they could be removed. He flipped several pages, and she noticed his hands shook. Eagerness? Nerves? Guilt?

  “Here’s the photograph I painted from, though there are many others you might want to look at,” he said, pointing. “Ironic that her name was Vanessa, and that’s the genus for the painted lady butterfly. Ironies and coincidences do happen in life,” he added as Claire recalled that Detective Jensen had always insisted there was no such thing as a coincidence in a criminal investigation.

  Looking closely at the picture, Nick cleared his throat, and Claire gasped. They both leaned closer. Yes, an old photo of that woman in the painting, holding a butterfly net, though the dress was not quite the same as the one Will had painted. Claire looked up at the painting, then squinted back at the photo again.

  “Paternal or maternal grandmother?” she asked.

  “Paternal. She was born in 1902, died in her early eighties. I figure that photo was taken when she was about eighteen, 1920 or so, though I admit the picture looks almost Victorian. But then American styles in the wilderness of south Georgia where she lived probably did not keep up with shorter skirts and bobbed hair.”