The Butterfly Farm
Page 1
Praise for
The Butterfly Farm
“Eerily recalling today’s headlines, Diane Noble spins a tale of innocent young women gone missing in exotic locales … and you will adore the heroine who makes it her business to solve the riddle of their disappearances. Harriet MacIver is a woman for our times, and The Butterfly Farm is a pulse-pounding adventure.”
—ANGELA HUNT, author of Uncharted
“Diane Noble has created an intriguing mystery and delightful heroine in The Butterfly Farm. Harriet is wise, intelligent, and compassionate, solving the crime with a spunky determination that kept me up way past my bedtime. A terrific and versatile writer, Ms. Noble had me alternately laughing, holding my breath, and cheering as Harriet followed God’s leading when almost everyone else thought she was a bit barmy. I can’t wait for the next book!”
—SHARON GILLENWATER, author of Twice
Blessed and Standing Tall
“A masterpiece of fiction with cleverly arranged twists and turns from a most unique heroine.”
—DIANN MILLS, author of Leather and
Lace and When the Lion Roars
“I want to be Harriett MacIver when I grow up! She’s a fresh, faith-filled, and feisty heroine ready to take the mystery world by storm.”
—LYNN BULOCK, author of the Gracie Lee mysteries
and Less Than Frank
OTHER BOOKS BY DIANE NOBLE
The Last Storyteller
Heart of Glass
The Harriet MacIver Mystery Series:
The Butterfly Farm
Those Sacred Bones
The California Chronicles:
When the Far Hills Bloom
The Blossom and the Nettle
At Play in the Promised Land
The Veil
Novellas:
Phoebe
Come, My Little Angel
Other Fiction:
Tangled Vines
Distant Bells
Written as Amanda MacLean:
Westward
Stonehaven
Everlasting
Promise Me the Dawn
Kingdom Come
Nonfiction for Women:
Letters from God for Women
It’s Time! When Your Children Have
Grown, Explore Your Dreams and Discover Your Gifts
THE BUTTERFLY FARM
PUBLISHED BY WATERBROOK PRESS
12265 Oracle Boulevard, Suite 200
Colorado Springs, Colorado 80921
Scripture quotations and paraphrases are taken from the following versions: Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.
The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.
eISBN: 978-0-307-55062-0
Copyright © 2006 by Diane Noble
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published in the United States by WaterBrook Multnomah, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House Inc., New York.
WATERBROOK and its deer colophon are registered trademarks of Random House Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Noble, Diane, 1945-
Butterfly Farm : a Harriet MacIver mystery / Diane Noble.—1st ed.
p. cm.
1. Travel writers—Fiction. 2. Caribbean Area—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3563.A3179765B88 2006
813′.54—dc22
v3.1
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Gus is the Cat at the Theatre Door.
His name, as I ought to have told you before,
Is really Asparagus. That’s such a fuss
To pronounce, that we usually call him just Gus.
—T. S. ELIOT,
Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats
At 11:38 a.m. on day three of the spring-break adventure cruise, Carly Lowe was ready to make her escape. She tramped down the gangway, a crowd of passengers growing around her like a giant ameba and adding to her annoyance. The rattletrap ship was too small, the stuffy lectures too boring, the same old group she hung with at Shepparton College too predictable. Why should she spend another day with any of them, especially today, lurching along by aerial tram through a drizzling, bug-infested rain forest?
Drifting toward the back of the group, she turned her thoughts to Julian Mendez. The fiery-eyed Latino had asked her to meet him just before noon in front of Club Bolero. It was a date she intended to keep. He was totally sweet … and hot. Capital H hot. And he played guitar. She’d heard him play onboard and loved the sound.
Following Ricki Ross, the ship’s naturalist, the group trailed into the deserted main street of Parisima. Harriet MacIver walked beside Carly, but the older woman was paying no attention to her. Harriet had whipped out her notepad and was writing down some bit of scientific trivia imparted by the man to her left, Dr. Jean Baptiste, the onboard guest lecturer on the scientific wonders of the human body. Bo-ring.
Ricki Ross walked backward, holding high an unfurled umbrella as she shouted last-minute instructions about splitting into two groups—one led by her ecologist husband, Gregory; the other by Ricki herself. The umbrella thing was weird because it wasn’t as if they were surrounded by hordes of other tourists. Parisima was practically deserted.
For several minutes Carly pretended to hang on Ricki’s every word, but as the group rounded a corner, she ducked behind a potted palm. She waited, peering through the fronds, as the last of the passengers straggled along. If Harriet or any of the others noticed she wasn’t with them, they would assume she was with the other group.
Carly had not invited her roommate, though now she was having a few guilt twinges. Zoë had glanced up when Carly left the room, but only to shoot her a sad look. Not many people liked Zoë. Truth be told, Carly didn’t either. Not much. But Zoë was on Carly’s list of things to work on in her new be-kinder-to-others self-improvement campaign. Her classmate wasn’t part of the “in” crowd, and Carly felt sorry for her. Part of her crusade on this cruise was to help the poor waiflike creature dress better and improve her image so she might gain acceptance from their peers. Carly didn’t even grimace when they were assigned to the same stateroom on the ship, but she was dismayed when Zoë rebuffed her every effort to help her improve her looks and interact with Carly’s friends.
She’d also been surprised to
find something comforting in Zoë’s solid, studious, no-nonsense ways. Here they were on the sun-kissed eastern coast of Costa Rica—well, sun-kissed might be a stretch; more like insect-infested swampland with lonesome gray beaches, straggly coconut palms, and air so heavy it dripped—and Zoë was holed up in their stateroom with her nose in a chemistry textbook. Too bad. This would have been a great opportunity to impart a few wise tips about social graces to her roomie.
Not that Carly didn’t appreciate Zoë’s hard work and the sobering realities that went with good grades. But work was work and play was, well, essential to one’s well-being. Most of Carly’s friends saw her as a fun-loving airhead who knew more about Kate Spade than Albert Einstein. It was true that she loved a good time, but she also got a kick out of things that fed her intellect and soul. She just didn’t advertise it.
She watched the last knot of passengers disappear around another corner, their voices fading until only silence remained. The Sun Spirit brochure said that this village was known for its Latin music and native art, but from what Carly had seen so far, Parisima was more sleepy than artsy. Now that the tour groups were gone, she realized how empty the town was. Maybe she should have done the buddy-system thing after all and insisted that Zoë come with her.
She pushed aside her creeped-out thoughts. After all, she was here for simple pleasures—a cold lemonade in an outdoor café, a tour of Julian’s village, a bit of dancing at Club Bolero while he played his guitar. Her only concern was getting back to the Sun Spirit in time to meet Harriet for dinner.
Leaving her hiding place and stepping out into the sunlight, Carly glanced up and down the cobbled street. It was flanked on both sides by sun-bleached, pastel-colored buildings. She wondered where the photographer had found the beautiful spots featured in the Sun Spirit brochure. From what she could see, Parisima was a ghost town. She half-expected to see tumbleweeds blowing through the streets.
She almost sighed with relief when she caught the faint strums of an acoustic guitar drifting on the heavy air. She squinted toward the sound, barely making out the hand-painted name on the building’s facade: CLUB BOLERO.
Squaring her shoulders, she strode down the street toward the club, halted in front of it, and swallowed a laugh. The so-called club was little more than a faded, crumbling storefront. Maybe she had misunderstood Julian. He had said there was no better place for dancing and meeting people than the Bolero. She suddenly pitied the town if this was all they had to look forward to on Saturday nights.
Then she grinned, thinking of what Harriet would say: “Honey, some folks, desperate to find happiness, try to find happiness in the most desperate places. The harder they look, the more desperate the places. And all along, happiness is in the simplest place of all—right smack in the middle of their hearts.”
That was Harriet, her philosophy in a clamshell. A wave of affection for the older woman washed over her. And she wondered at the chill that overtook her as she gazed at this desperate place. She thought about turning around and heading back to the ship, but the call to adventure was too strong.
On the outside patio a few plastic tables and chairs had been placed near a faded terra-cotta fountain. Dried palm fronds covered the ramada, providing shade over the patio. The sound of trickling water joined with the strums of guitar music, and the balmy wind tickled the dried tips of the fronds. A cockroach the size of Carly’s fist crawled up one of the supporting poles. She shivered.
Julian sat to the right of the fountain, chair tipped against a stucco wall, his hat pulled low. As Carly took a seat, he lifted his guitar in a friendly salute, then once more let his fingertips dance across the strings. Jazz. A smooth, liquid jazz with a Latin beat.
The village no longer seemed so empty or scary. Julian didn’t take his eyes off her as he sang, and she lost herself in his music. And when he began “Bésame mucho” she leaned forward, elbows on the table, and shot him a flirty smile.
She wasn’t surprised when, after a few more songs, he put aside his instrument, sauntered over, pulled out a chair without asking, and sat across from her. He wore khaki pants with a brilliant white shirt, tucked in, sleeves rolled up, unbuttoned enough to see the tan of his chest. When he smiled, his teeth matched the white of the shirt. He looked even more delicious than he had onboard the Sun Spirit.
“You came.”
“You thought I wouldn’t?”
“I have watched you on the Spirit. You are smart and cautious, not one to take chances. I thought you might have second thoughts about meeting a stranger.” His tone was teasing.
“Are you a stranger?” She matched her tone with his.
“I worried that you might think so.” He reached for her hand, turned it over, and gently stroked her palm. She pulled it away, but not before a 5.3 tremor shivered up her spine. “Now that we are no longer strangers, I have questions for you.”
“And they would be …?”
“How do you like this place, my little village? How is it you prefer an educational adventure cruise to a party ship? How is it you prefer meeting me to soaring by aerial tram through the rain-forest canopy? How is it you travel on a ship about to ‘go under,’ so they say?”
Carly countered, “And how is it you work on such a ship instead of on a five-star, two-thousand passenger party ship where the tips would be two hundred times what you get now?”
“Your spirit matches your flame-colored hair.”
“And you speak beautiful English, but in clichés.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “You very adeptly sidestepped my questions. Most American students travel only as far as Mexico to party. What makes you different?”
“I’m not most students.”
His gaze traveled down her frame. “So I have noticed.”
“To return to your first question, your village certainly doesn’t match the pictures in the brochure. As for your second, I’m on this cruise because my mother gave it to me as an early graduation gift—plus I need the credits to graduate. She thought the whole package would be more suitable than partying.”
He leaned closer. “And what about you? Do you think it is more suitable?”
“A ship with so few passengers is a bit limiting, but not unpleasant.”
“You do not mind one lone guitar player instead of clubs that rock all night?”
“I’m not that kind of girl.”
“You are intelligent, then? A serious student?”
“I like to think so, but why should you care?”
He threw his head back again and laughed. The sound of his laughter was almost as beautiful as his singing. “I treasure women with brains.”
Carly’s cheeks warmed, and she let her gaze drift away from him, enjoying the moment. She felt him watching her and turned.
There was a new look in his eyes, perhaps admiration for something more than her figure. “When are you due to board the Sun Spirit?”
“The same as you. This evening.” A mosquito landed on her arm, and she brushed it away. Another took its place.
“Ah, what you say is true … to a point, and I will explain later. But this also means you can stay to see me perform tonight at the Bolero—at least for a little while. But we cannot have you waiting around here. I think you might enjoy a personal tour of Parisima, yes? What you see here in town is nothing. It is out there where the magic begins. Beyond Parisima.” His gesture took in the outskirts of the village, the ocean to the east, the rain forest to the west, the banana plantations to the north. “You can trust me. What I tell you is true.” His teeth flashed in the sunlight.
Julian seemed to sense her indecision. He removed his hat, raked his fingers through his hair, and leaned forward intently, his eyes never leaving hers. “We can stop by the ship if you would like. Captain Richter will vouch for me—even though he is no longer my boss.” His smile was wide and confident.
“Don’t you sail with us tonight?”
“That is what I need to explain. I am sorry to r
eport that my contract ended with last night’s performance. Does this mean you will miss me?”
Carly didn’t answer. It bothered her that he no longer worked on the Sun Spirit. She felt as if she was stepping close to the edge of something dangerous, unable to help herself, yet unable to move away. It was the same feeling she once had when standing too close to an overlook at the Grand Canyon. It had made her toes ache.
“I will be at the Bolero every night for the next six weeks. And as for the five-star super ship you so glowingly described? That is the reason I ended my contract with the Sun Spirit. I will be performing onboard the Empress Catalonia.”
“A step up. Congratulations.”
“You do not sound sincere.”
The boldness of his gaze was beginning to bother her. And the way it darted now and then to the dusty cobbled road, as if he was looking for someone.
“I would like to return to the ship before our tour, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course I do not mind. The captain knows me well—”
“No, no. It’s not that at all. It’s just that I was supposed to meet someone later tonight.”
Julian’s eyebrow shot up. “Someone I know?”
“No, just a friend. But I want to let her know I may be late.”
“Of course. We’ll head to the ship first.” He rose, bowed slightly, and took her hand as she stood. “I will tell you about our beautiful country and my little village as we walk.” His obsidian eyes glinted as he adjusted his hat brim. He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm as they walked toward the edge of the village. “I will start with butterflies, something Costa Rica is known for. They are so abundant we claim ten percent of the world’s species. One of our butterflies—the blue morpho—has a wingspan the size of a saucer.” He laughed. “A very large saucer—nine inches to be exact. And it is a vivid, electric blue. The bright color serves as a warning for predators to stay away. Is it not a shame that beauty cannot always do that in nature? So many innocent creatures would be spared.” He smiled, but he obviously didn’t expect an answer.
They stepped around a wooden cart filled with overripe bananas. Flies buzzed around the fruit, and a sickening scent hung heavy in the air. An old man sat nearby in the shade of a dried-palm shelter. He held out his hand, palm up. “Por favor, señorita, ¿quiere comprar de fruta?”