by Karen Harper
Claire said, “No, we shouldn’t rush out right now. Maybe that’s what someone wants us to do.”
“And,” Nick said, “even throwing water on the roots or stomping around in that mess might destroy any evidence to show who did this. I’m not calling Jensen over this, either, not tonight. In the morning, we’ll go out and look for anything dropped—anything else. And, Steve, what about getting you a lawyer, one not from the firm but one that would be impartial?”
“You defended one of your own lawyers over that double murder you call the Silent Scream Case. He was innocent, and I am, too!”
“I’ll advise and consult, but I don’t want any screwups with enemies like the powerfully connected Ralstons—the father, Aaron, at least—and I think Clint’s got to be some kind of high roller around here, too. Captain Larry seemed like the exception, the rebel in the family.”
“Then you believe me?” Steve demanded, getting right in Nick’s face. “I didn’t find and didn’t hurt Larry Ralston.”
“The thing is, Jensen and a prosecutor—hopefully it won’t get as far as a jury—are the ones who need to believe you.”
Steve nodded. “Man, I feel as torn up as those plants.”
Nick suggested Bronco and Steve go to bed, but he and Claire sat in the Florida room in the dark, staring out.
“Nick, that black butterfly release tonight, then this. We have to talk to Tara Gerald again. I wish you didn’t have to be in court tomorrow. Surely I can go talk to her—or have her meet me somewhere public, maybe for lunch—if you’d be worried about my going out there alone. Or I could see if Will can go along if he’s not at the library until early afternoon. I think we’ve learned we can trust what he says, that he’s on our side. Maybe there’s a clue in what sort of butterfly those black ones with the red stripe were in that release tonight. I got a good look at the one I caught.”
“Yeah, a public place with Tara and Will could work.”
“It will only take me a minute to check that butterfly on my phone so I can tell Tara and Will what it was. Just a sec. You know,” she threw over her shoulder as she got up, “I could probably ask that all-knowing genius doll what kind it was and get an answer. As soon as we locate Darcy—settle all this—I’ve got to find a way to wean Lexi away from that thing.”
She went into their bedroom, grabbed her purse and fished out her cell phone. She sat on the couch with Nick, and her description brought up several butterfly breeds, but she was sure it was the one called red rim. She read aloud, “It is usually found in Central America and Mexico, but has been imported and bred in the United States. Because of its dark color—oh, get this—it is sometimes used for releases at funerals. Nick, we know Will used to do those.”
“So he’ll either know about them—or he did it, rented a boat. I think we can trust him to help us find Darcy, especially since we’re running out of options, regardless of what Ken Jensen pledges about the official search.”
She showed Nick the picture of the red rim but noticed the photograph of it on the small screen looked as if it were fluttering its wings. She felt faint again, so exhausted she was falling apart, but she wanted to go on, to stay up, to make more plans, even to go outside to check for clues, to call Tara right now, to assure herself she could trust Will at least to have lunch with—
“Sweetheart, you’re falling asleep sitting up,” Nick said, rising, then bending to scoop her up in his arms. “Your head just jerked, and you nodded off. I’m putting you to bed, and don’t argue.”
She held her phone, held to him, so grateful. Since Nick had turned off the outdoor lights, she caught a glimpse of herself in his arms in the black mirror of the window. At least he’d agreed she could meet with Tara and Will in public tomorrow, make some progress to find Darcy, find her sanity. And then that other storm, the real one that could become a hurricane—for the girls’ sakes, she had to watch the weather predictions, get ready if fierce winds came their way.
Nick sat her down on the side of their bed, took her phone and kissed her, then walked away and brought back her nightly narcolepsy med and a glass of water. So much water if a hurricane came, she told herself as he took off her shoes and laid her down, covering her with the sheet—driving rain and storm surge, drowning everything, just everything, like that man caught in the net, but hopefully not Darcy, out there somewhere, somewhere...
21
Claire woke, still in her clothes. Daylight flooded their bedroom. Nick was not in bed; she heard him in the shower. Everything came crashing back, the memorial service at the shore, Ken Jensen’s frustration, then the ruined butterfly bushes and flowers. Were the girls up yet?
Feeling dirty and wishing she were in the shower, she checked the clock. Six-fifteen. She went barefoot to the girls’ room and peeked in. Both were asleep, so that might give them time to put some of those plants back in. She tiptoed out again. Down the hall, neither Steve’s bedroom door nor Nita and Bronco’s were open. She went into the guest bathroom those rooms shared, used the toilet and washed her face and hands.
She hurried into the Florida room and looked out the window again. Not only did she see dead plants but dead butterflies—black ones. She jumped when Nick spoke behind her.
“I saw you were out of bed.”
She spun to look at him. He had his good slacks on but no shirt, and dampness clung to his chest hair. She saw he still held a towel.
“I used the guest bathroom,” she said. “No one else is up.”
“Bronco is. He’s out front looking around the cars, checking under Steve’s. He’s upset I’ll think he’s not doing his job, but he can’t be everywhere at once. Still, I wish he would have seen or caught whoever made that mess and left us some sort of message.”
“Checking under Steve’s car for what? A bomb? Have we come to that? But what we have come to are dead butterflies that might be red rims like the ones released last night at the memorial service.”
He came over and put his hands on her shoulders. “Last night when we looked out there, they must have blended in with the roots and scattered soil. Let’s go out and take a look.”
He unlocked the back door, and they went out and over to the bizarre blur of stems, roots, strewn soil—and torn, fragile butterfly bodies. Awful—but then, maybe the red rims were dead from their flight last night and someone had gathered them up. Then that would mean whoever did this was there among the mourners—and then came quickly here.
Watching where they stepped, they moved around, leaning down to study the plants and the places from which they had been pulled up.
“But what’s the point—the message?” Claire asked.
“Nothing else to make it clear,” Nick said, heaving a huge sigh.
“The message is what we’re looking at. Murder, but on a plant and insect scale. I think it’s time we have those security cameras you talked about installed.”
“I just hated to admit we’d be vulnerable again. A dead gator in the pool—we solved that. I can’t stand the idea of living in an armed camp, so to speak. I thought having Bronco here for a while was enough.”
“I know,” she said, and put her arm around his waist. “I guess it comes with the criminal lawyer territory.”
“I swear, nothing threatening is going on right now with my work. But how could something like this tie to finding Darcy? You don’t think Steve’s so frustrated that he was drinking again and—”
“No. No, I don’t.”
“Once we get through this storm, if it’s coming here, we’ll get cameras, front and back,” he promised. “After all, Bronco will have to return to his real life soon, too.”
Shaking their heads—and deeply shaken—they went back inside. Could they ever return to what was “real life” if they didn’t get Darcy back?
Claire started to fix coffee and turned on the television at the end of the counter. “The tropical disturbance has become a named storm, with hurricane force winds,” the weatherman said, standing in front of a moving weather radar
map, flaring with bright colors. “We are still hoping that Hurricane Jenny, now a Cat 3, will stay in the gulf when it leaves the Caribbean and not approach the shores of southwest Florida. However, Governor Scott is ready to declare an emergency for the entire state if Jenny becomes a Cat 4. The governor said in a press release, ‘This storm could be very bad.’ Tips for how to prepare if you stay at home and advice on needed supplies at eight, so stayed tuned for—”
Claire muted the sound and turned around to embrace Nick and hold hard to him. “That’s all we need,” she murmured with her lips against his bare shoulder.
“I won’t say when it rains it pours. Here, I’ll finish fixing the coffee so you can get ready—for anything and everything.”
“I’ll grab a fast shower and help Nita with breakfast, then pick up some storm supplies before they disappear from all the store shelves. At least this new home is up to hurricane code,” she said as she moved away, but she kept talking, energized again. “Nita, Bronco and I can water those uprooted plants and try to get them back in the ground. But I’m also going to call Tara and then Will. Nick, if he was the one on that boat with the butterfly release, do you think he’ll admit it? And should I tell him about the dead ones here, or could he be behind that, like—like maybe warning us to be careful in a different way to really get our attention?”
“Maybe,” he admitted as she stopped and turned toward him again. “But where would he get that many? We saw he has no butterfly house in his backyard. From Tara? Just be careful with both of them—public place for sure. Sweetheart, with that storm coming, there’s a chance the local judicial system will be delayed or closed, so that would be one helpful thing that could come from a possible weather disaster.”
“We’ve already had a human disaster,” she said, turning away again. “I’m still praying we’ll get a lead about Darcy. Let’s face it. There’s nowhere to go from here but up.”
* * *
By the time she’d filled the trunk of her car with bottled water and groceries—mostly things that didn’t need refrigeration in case the power went—Claire was exhausted again. Everyone had the same idea, and the checkout lines were long.
When she got home, she didn’t let Nita help her unload because she was so far along; her belly looked, well, bulbous. Bronco had gone for a little while to somewhat “hurricane proof” their own house and would be back soon. They’d asked to stay here during the storm since the newer Markwood home met hurricane standards and their house was far from that. Even before Nick left, Claire had picked up the dead butterflies, but had them in a plastic bag in the freezer in the garage to show Ken—if they were still speaking to him then, Claire thought.
The girls helped carry in water bottles. They were chattering about bad wind at night, which they thought had uprooted the plants, so the adults had let it go for now. Neither Lexi nor Jilly were old enough to recall a big, damaging storm. And as the TV weatherman had said, “This could be a bad one.”
She had made Lexi and Jilly—the doll, too—promise to help Nita until Bronco returned. Steve had gone to check on his house, as well, bring some keepsakes here in case there was serious damage, and he needed more clothes for him and Jilly. He also planned to pick up batteries and get all the flashlights working—one per person and three extras.
Despite the terrible timing for a lunch out, both Tara and Will had promised to meet Claire at the Carrabbas Italian restaurant on the East Trail. A ways for Will, but close for Tara, who, with her best friend and two volunteers, were moving every butterfly they could net into the living room of her house. The structure had been damaged by Hurricane Andrew in 1992, but then that was a Cat 5. Surely Hurricane Jenny would not be worse than that or than Wilma in 2005, which had been terribly destructive. Weren’t they due for some kind of a break? But Claire understood Tara’s concerns and promised to make their meeting brief. Even if this storm was as bad as predicted, the butterfly houses could become flying objects themselves.
“I can’t thank both of you enough for meeting me here in the current chaos,” Claire told them when they were seated. Tara sat by Will across the booth from Claire, Will on the outside.
“We’ve been in chaos since Darcy—since she disappeared,” Tara said, reaching over to squeeze Claire’s hand, although they had hugged earlier. “I see they are even closing this place at one today, but who would want to be out when the weather goes downhill?”
As Tara drew her hand back, Will said, “So how have you been, Tara? Sorry I haven’t been out for a while, but I’ve been at work—and trying to help Claire and Nick.”
Yes, surely she could trust both of these people. They, too, had been terribly impacted by Darcy’s vanishing. She was blessed to have people beyond the family who cared deeply, but then, that just showed how lovable Darcy always had been—was still, of course. And unless these two were in cahoots, that answered one of Claire’s questions: evidently, Will had not been out to Tara’s to purchase large numbers of red rims, though she didn’t plan to entirely let that line of questioning go.
They ordered iced tea and ignored their menus, huddling in the greatly deserted restaurant. “Last night,” Claire told them, watching both their faces as best she could, “after dark, someone yanked up all our butterfly flowers and bushes. Worse, there were at least forty dead red rim butterflies in the ruin of soil, roots and wilting leaves smeared on the patio concrete.”
“Oh, my—all red rims?” Tara said, looking genuinely distressed.
“Were any of you home then?” Will asked. “Jilly—and Lexi. Are they all right? Did the girls get upset?”
“The girls were there with a couple who is living with us at the moment. They love that butterfly area. Thankfully, they only saw it after we had removed the butterflies. They haven’t reasoned it out well yet, thinking the coming storm had bad winds that yanked up plants.”
Still frowning, Will said, “I must tell you, red rims are one of the favorite funeral release types. The idea, I guess, of the darkness of death, but with that red stripe as the sunset—or maybe new dawn—on the horizon. A striking variety. I’ve seen hundreds of those over at Butterfly World in Coconut Creek near Fort Lauderdale. Since Tara doesn’t breed that variety, I’ve ordered from several places for funeral releases so—Claire, are you working up to asking me if I left those in your yard?”
“I’m bringing them up because I want to tell you both that Nick and I—Steve, too—attended Captain Larry Ralston’s memorial service at Doctors Pass last night, although we all stood a ways back. And someone, obviously not Larry’s brother, Clint, who was conducting the gathering, released a huge number of red rims.”
“No one saw who it was?” Tara asked, looking shocked.
“It wasn’t someone at the service. It was getting dark. A motorboat pulled up in the pass and let the hoard of them go. It was obvious from the reactions, even though Nick and I had moved even farther away by then, that everyone was shocked, and we didn’t hear Clint Ralston take credit—or blame—for that. By the way, Detective Jensen, who is heading up the search for Darcy, was there to observe, too.”
Will looked more furious than flustered. Tara looked clueless. Another dead end, Claire thought.
“As I said,” Will told them, “I’ve used those for funeral releases, but it wasn’t me in that boat or in your backyard. Were you and Nick thinking it was? But what would someone’s motive be, and who is that someone?”
Tara said, “Will, do you think someone is trying to point the finger at you? And for what? Larry Ralston’s death? I mean, he was the most vocal Fly Safe member and anti-butterfly-farm speaker, he and Lincoln Yost. Well, actually, Lincoln saw the good in a safe, nearby breeding place for butterflies, including some of his own, but he was adamantly against shipping them or releasing them at events—abuse, he called it. He lectured me on that more than once. I told him he had to take the ‘bad’ so the good could flourish, but I never won him over, nor did he convince me.”
Will just
clenched his hands until his fingers turned stark white.
Yet Claire trusted these two, and wished she could think the best of Lincoln Yost, too. This was a terrible time for tracking down and questioning Yost again, but Claire knew they had to do it. And Tara had just given away more than she’d told them earlier: she had named Larry and Linc as hostile to her efforts, so if either of them had found Darcy there alone...
“Will,” Claire said, “I’m sorry, but I have to ask, you are telling me you definitely were not so disgusted with the Ralstons or Fly Safe that you decided to release those butterflies?”
“Nor dump some in your backyard!” he said, and glared at the waiter who came to take their order but then backed off. “You and Nick need to trust me.”
“We do, or you wouldn’t be sitting here, helping as you are—you both are,” she added hastily. “But who does that leave?”
“Who knows?” Will insisted. “Darcy’s disappearance has been all over the newspapers, including the fact that Tara’s place was the site of her abduction.”
He was obviously growing angrier by the moment, but, thank God, not at her. A vein had appeared at the side of his forehead, beating madly. He’d gripped his water glass so hard she wondered if it could shatter.
“But those red rims are a clue,” he went on. “A clue, but also, I swear, an attempt to smear me, implicate me, and I’m not going to take that. Ladies, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Will, wait,” Claire cried as he started to slide out of the booth. “Can’t we work together? Can you think of someone who would want to implicate you and why?”
“Why? For one thing, to intimidate me—us—from finding Darcy. The more a kidnapper, and maybe a murderer—of Captain Larry, not of Darcy, I hope to God...” His voice snagged, but he went on, “The more that person can get in our way, can obscure the truth, like smearing dead red rims and butterfly plants all over... Claire, I will be in touch,” he said, and walked out.