The Butterfly Farm

by Diane Noble

  “Okay, buddy, your turn,” I said to Gus. He purred, arched his back, and waved his tail elegantly, acting cute so I would hurry up and feed him. I gave him fresh water and a scoop of sensitive-stomach food. He continued to purr as he ate.

  The ship’s engines droned on as we moved through the water. The coastline of Playa Negra was even more deserted than that of Parisima. A few scattered huts were visible in the rolling hills and, closer in, a sagging wharf that had seen better days. From the ship’s brochure, I knew the Sun Spirit would anchor in the harbor, and the passengers would be shuttled to shore in little boats known as tenders. I found it a stretch to believe a five-star resort spa was anywhere in the vicinity. But so far nothing on this cruise matched what was advertised.

  I planned to tell the truth about it in my article, from the bucket-of-bolts vessel to the missed ports of call, from the dead body in the pool to my suspicions of drug trafficking. The more I thought about it, the more inspired I became. I would pull no punches. These students were in danger—the thought hit me like a bullet train traveling faster than sound.

  Students?

  What about Carly? The bullet train slammed into my heart, and I sank into a chair, almost breathless. What if Zoë was right? What if Carly was really missing?

  When my kids were still under my roof, I had kept to the old adage that ninety percent of the things you worry about never happen. I’d found it mathematically correct. More or less. And usually working out closer to the 99.9 percent. Of course, there was the time Joey dyed his sister’s hair fluorescent orange two days before her first piano recital. Though the box said the dye would wash out in three shampoos and we scrubbed Janie’s hair at least a dozen times, she performed “Spinning Wheel” with hair that could have stopped trucks at a hundred feet.

  I took a quick shower and pulled on my bermuda shorts, camp shirt, multipocketed vest, high socks, and sensible walking shoes. I would find Carly, and we would laugh over the fright she’d given me.

  I stepped to the window to whisper a prayer for a calm spirit, something that would take some doing on God’s part in my present state.

  Ribbons of gray mist and fog clung to the dark water. The faint drone of a private plane echoed in the distance. I would know that sound anywhere. I squinted through the mist trying to see the plane as it came in closer, then headed toward the rolling hills. Realization dawned. Not all La Vida Pura patrons arrived by sea. Many flew in, of course. If the spa lived up to the description on its website, the runway length could accommodate fixed-wing aircraft or corporate jets.

  The little plane, a Cessna, disappeared from sight. I thought of Hollis and turned away from the window. Too often the ache in my heart lurks just below the surface and little triggers—sounds, images—bring a sharp clarity that threatens to double me over with grief. This was one of those moments.

  Grimly, I stared into the mirror as I donned my “You Go, Girl!” cap and laced my ponytail through the back opening.

  Taking a shaky breath, I sang a few measures of the old Helen Reddy song: “I am woman; hear me roar.”

  The sound was so pitiful I couldn’t help smiling. I tried it again louder. My heart lifted in spite of my worries as I hurried through the door.

  I stopped by Zoë and Carly’s stateroom, knocked once, then again. No answer. I tried once more before heading downstairs. When I arrived, I hurried toward the dining room, now set up for a breakfast buffet with an array of the usual nondescript fare: scrambled eggs, sausage, bacon, fried potato wedges, and canned fruit. I didn’t think it wise to mention to the chef how I thought he could improve his breakfasts. And lunches. And dinners. I was even willing to tie on an apron and help him out. Well, except for the frozen surprise in his Sub-Zero.

  Cooking was once my hobby—no, make that my passion. But ever since Hollis died, I hadn’t had the heart to put on a dinner party. He had been a chef par excellence. I like to cook, try out new recipes, that sort of thing. But my Hollis, he made a study of it. I’m hoping that by interviewing chefs on my journeys, my passion will reignite. But I’m not holding my breath.

  I made a beeline for the hot oatmeal, ladled out a generous scoop, topped it with butter and maple syrup, then headed to a window table. It was still early for most passengers, and the dining area was all but empty. I’m not good company until after I’ve had my third cup of coffee, so I hoped that no one would bother me.

  So much for wishful thinking.

  “Ms. MacIver?”

  I turned to see a group of Shepparton College students lolling at a table toward the back of the room. Behind them, the early morning mist was rolling back in off the ocean, settling deeper and thicker close to the water, turning the ocean a murky gray green.

  Three of the young people I’d interviewed for my article were scattered among the others. A pretty, dark-haired girl leaned forward. I remembered her name was Kate. “Ms. MacIver?” she called again.

  I glanced at my oatmeal, worried for a second about how quickly it would cool, then nodded to her as I stole a quick spoonful.

  “We need to talk to you,” Kate said. “Do you mind?” They were already standing and heading my way. Max Pribble, our dinnertime server, brought up the rear.

  I was savoring that first sweet, nutty bite and couldn’t answer. “All right,” I said after I swallowed.

  Kate looked distressed but gave me a slight smile as she sat down next to me. The boys, sloppy as they looked with their baggy pants and untucked shirts, were surprisingly polite. They pulled out two chairs across from me and sat down.

  “Did you hear about the dead guy?” This from a baby-faced boy named Price Alexander III.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “He was hanging around us a lot, you know?” Kate’s face was pale, and her large green eyes looked frightened. “I’ve never known anyone who died before? I mean, like, talk to ’em just before they died?” I swallowed an impatient sigh. Every sentence the girl uttered ended in a question mark.

  “Yeah, it’s weird,” Max said. He was thin and tall, a beanpole of a young man. He looked as if he would be a lady-killer when he grew into his feet and hands. “Like one minute he’s sitting here talking to us about his kids, like where they’re gonna go to school, then he up and dies.” His hand trembled as he swept a blond shock of hair away from his forehead. Death has a way of changing even the most self-confident.

  I went after another scoop of oatmeal, making sure it was laced with melted butter and syrup. Savored the taste, then washed it down with coffee. I was almost ready to talk to someone other than Gus.

  Max leaned toward me, elbows on the table. “You know, you asked me last night if I’d seen Carly?”

  “Have you seen her?”

  Kate broke in. “She was talking to the dead guy a lot before she got off the ship? You know, Mr. Easton?”

  “Before the shore excursion?”

  Baby-faced Price slouched back in his chair, his knees propped against the table edge. “We didn’t think much about it until the dude died. I mean, it was just another conversation. But we’ve all been talking just now about how weird it is that the last one we saw the dude talking to was Carly. Then he died.”

  “And none of us have seen Carly since yesterday.” Kate’s eyes were wide.

  My heart stuttered and threatened to stop. So much for my 99.9 percent theory. “You’ve asked around?”

  Kate nodded. “Nobody’s seen her.”

  “We didn’t put it together until just now,” Max said. “That she’s gone missing and was the last one to talk to the dead guy.” He shivered visibly.

  “Did anyone overhear their conversation?”

  Price and Kate exchanged glances, then looked at me again. “None of us did,” Kate said. “But we could see they were arguing.”

  “Carly has a temper,” Price said with a laugh. “Matches her red hair.”

  Original.

  “There was someone else with them?” Kate’s lip curled. “Zoë Shire?”
<
br />   I felt my forehead furrow into a frown. “Zoë?”

  “Yeah.” Price lolled back in his chair again. “Zoë heard every word.”

  As if on cue, Zoë hurried through the swinging doors into the dining room. She went straight to the coffee machine without looking to her left or right. I wondered if this was how she always dealt with her peers. Act like they didn’t exist so their indifference wouldn’t hurt so much.

  I glanced longingly at my still-steaming oatmeal, then pushed it aside. I had to catch Zoë before she got away.

  “Excuse me,” I said to the kids at the table and headed toward Zoë, who was pouring coffee into a paper cup.

  “Zoë?” I spoke softly so I wouldn’t startle her. When she turned, I could see she’d been crying.

  I poured another cup of coffee, number four, one beyond my limit. “Mind if I join you?”

  She shrugged one shoulder, slouched over to the condiments table for a sugar packet and a stir stick, then joined me at another of the round plastic tables. She sat across from me with a heavy sigh.

  “I take it Carly didn’t come back last night.”

  She shook her head.

  I got right to the point. “I just heard that Carly and Easton talked before she went ashore.”

  She looked up at me, her gray eyes large behind her thick glasses. “I told you, he was talking to everybody.” She shrugged again, letting her gaze drift away from me. “I didn’t think it mattered.”

  “Maybe it didn’t … until last night. Now it does.”

  She tore open the packet of sugar, dumped it into her coffee, and stirred.

  “I heard they argued.”

  “It didn’t mean anything.”

  I studied her as she stirred her coffee.

  “Yeah, she talked to Mr. Easton just before she left to go onshore. I was there. He told her not to go, like he was playing dad or something. I don’t know what she had planned, but what he said really made her mad.”

  “What exactly did he say when he tried to stop her?” Mr. Easton certainly was full of surprises.

  Zoë launched a Scud missile.

  “He warned her that things might not be what she thought. That you couldn’t trust everyone you met—especially on spring break.” She paused. “Isn’t that weird? Why spring break? And then he said something else weird.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He said she needed to be on hyperalert here—in Costa Rica. That’s the word he used. Hyperalert. Carly laughed about it afterward. Called him ‘Hyper Daddy on Alert’ behind his back.”

  I took it all in. Could he have been DEA? Killed because he was hot on someone’s trail? I was beginning to feel sick. It seemed that Carly was connected somehow, that Harry knew something specific and had tried to warn her. I was more alarmed than ever.

  “And you were aware that she was the last person to talk with Easton before he died. Why didn’t you mention this last night?”

  “I thought the doctor said Mr. Easton died of a heart attack. Why would it mean anything that he talked to Carly?” There was a hint of defiance in her voice, and a glimpse of something I didn’t understand flitted across her face. Something dark. Hard. It struck me that I didn’t know much about this girl. Parents. Siblings. Background. She was an outsider; that much I knew. Few, if any, friends. Tucked in beside the hard places in her heart, I suspected, might be a longing to be accepted.

  “It could just be a coincidence, you know,” I said, softening my voice. “Carly missing the ship and Easton dying of a heart attack.”

  She sniffed. “So you think Carly will show up at our next stop?” That dark place behind her large gray eyes made me suspect she knew more, but the set of her jaw said no amount of prying would get it out of her.

  I excused myself and headed to the galley to reschedule my appointment with the chef. I had changed my mind about the tour. The chef looked disgruntled, said that he was too busy to see me anyway and that he doubted another time would work. That’s all I needed. A prima-donna chef in a rusting galley with a body in the freezer. Now that I thought about it, maybe he was disgruntled because of his lack of usable freezer space.

  I left the galley and hurried toward the bridge to inform Captain Richter about Carly, unzipped vest flapping. When I rounded a corner on deck three, I ran into the man himself.

  “Just who I’m looking for,” I said, halting in front of him. “One of the students seems to be missing.”

  The captain barely blinked. His eyes were red rimmed and deep circled, and he smelled of alcohol and mints. “It happens all the time,” he said. “Students take off on their own—out from under the supervision of their chaperons. They’re big kids, most of them legal adults. I wouldn’t worry if I were you.”

  “You need to have your crew conduct a search.”

  He rolled his eyes. “If she doesn’t show up today, we’ll do just that. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

  “What if her disappearance is connected to Easton’s death?”

  He blinked. “What do you mean?”

  I pulled out my notepad. “Sir, do you mind if I ask you some questions about last night?” I flipped over the cover of the pad and clicked my pen.

  “Wha—?” His mouth dropped open in barely disguised irritation. “There’s nothing to tell.” He looked at his watch. “Besides, I have more important issues awaiting me on the bridge.”

  “My readers will want to know the details,” I said. “If I recommend this cruise, I need to let them know what happens in cases like this.” I met his icy blue eyes. “In the event of a passenger’s death.”

  He shot me a hard stare, then threw back his balding head and let out a mirthless laugh. “Recommend this cruise?” He laughed again and tried to brush past me. I stepped in front of him. He sighed heavily, started to move around me, then thought better of it. “Costa Rican authorities removed the body by helicopter earlier this morning. That’s all I can tell you.”

  I must have been dead to the world to have slept through the racket. “Will they perform an autopsy?”

  “I suggest, Ms.—”

  “MacIver.”

  “Ms. MacIver, I suggest you put away your notebook and go have breakfast with the rest of the passengers. Have a nice little omelet or doughnut or something, and then get ready for the shore excursion. Today is spa day, you know. You’re in for a lovely, relaxing time. Believe me, it will be the highlight of your trip.” He gave me a condescending smile. “Leave the unfortunate death of Mr. Easton to those of us who know best how to handle such things.” He put his arm under my elbow to propel me toward the stairs leading to deck two.

  I didn’t budge. Hollis learned a long time ago that nothing could make me dig in my heels faster than an attempt to play the condescension card, the don’t-worry-your-poor-little-head approach. My hackles were standing tall as I glared at Captain Richter. “First of all, I’ve eaten. Second, you didn’t answer my question: Is an autopsy planned?”

  “I have no idea.” He shrugged. “Please, Ms. MacIver, return to the other passengers. Leave the handling of all this to—”

  “To those who know what they’re doing,” I finished for him. I took a few steps away from him, then turned. “You might also want to find out what Harry Easton was really doing on this cruise,” I said. “I don’t think he was who he led us to believe.”

  “What do you mean?” The captain looked puzzled, then shook his head and exhaled noisily.

  I stared at him, considering whether to tell him what I had surmised. I had no proof that Easton was DEA or involved in any way with Carly’s possible disappearance. And if I was right, who was to say Richter himself wasn’t involved?

  Now I was really going off the deep end. “Just think about it,” I said.

  I clambered down the metal stairs to the deck below and, leaning stiff-armed against the railing, stared out at the rolling swells. I thought about Carly. If the captain didn’t start a search soon, I would knock on every stateroom door mys
elf and examine every inch of the ship from the top of the smokestack to the bottom of the holds.

  “Good morning.”

  I turned to see Adam Hartsfield heading toward me. He was wearing a lightweight jogging suit and earphones plugged into a small piece of electronic equipment in his pocket. The sunlight hit him squarely in the face, and I almost gasped. I knew him from somewhere other than the cruise. Or at least I thought I did.

  He came closer, his craggy face guarded. With one hand he removed the earphones; with the other he lifted a paper coffee cup to his lips and took a leisurely drink, watching me. It was as if he knew that I recognized him and was challenging me to figure it out.

  In my mind’s eye, I could see the grainy face set in newsprint, the sloped shoulders of a man brought down by criminal charges, the defeated look in his eyes. Front-page stuff. Important enough to make the headlines. But the story behind the photos didn’t come to me.

  He leaned his back against the railing, crossed his feet at the ankles, and studied me. He wore the earphone headset around the back of his neck. “Have you come up with the answers?”

  For a split second I thought he meant about his identity. “Oh, you mean about Easton?”

  He nodded, then took a swig of coffee. I noticed he liked it black. A silly thing to notice about someone, but I did. I had always teased Hollis about liking a little coffee with his cream and sugar.

  “I talked to the captain a few minutes ago, but I couldn’t wheedle any information out of him.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me. He’s in charge of this ship. The company image is at stake. I’m sure he’ll play this close to the vest.”

  “We’re talking about a human life, not how such an event might affect business.”

  He raised an eyebrow, and I thought I saw a smile. Then he uncrossed his ankles and turned to look out at the ocean. Gulls swooped by, wheeled upward, only to dive again, calling out in mournful cries. A breeze kicked up, and a few wisps of hair blew across my face. I tucked the longer strands behind one ear, still trying to remember what I’d read in the paper about Adam Hartsfield.