by Diane Noble
Slowly, I stood, feeling every piercing ache in my arthritic knees. I followed Ricki and the others to the clearing and left Zoë in a sniffling heap.
After we caught up with the others, I kept to myself. To their credit, Price and Kate made an effort to be courteous to Zoë and at the same time kept their distance from me. Zoë, her eyes red-rimmed and watery, held her chin in a lofty way as she tramped along, alone as usual.
We came to the clearing, sunlight filtering through a thinning canopy of tall trees. Several yards ahead, across a savanna of grass and tropical succulents, stood the gated entrance to the butterfly farm.
I edged to the rear of the group, pulled my Nikon 35mm from its case, and made some light adjustments. I hadn’t yet entered the digital, computer-friendly, point-and-shoot age. Give me an old-fashioned, solid, weighty Nikon any day.
I lifted the viewfinder to my eye and turned the lens, bringing the entrance gate into focus. I frowned as I read the sign that arched above the gate:
THE BUTTERFLY FARM
PROPERTY OF LA VIDA PURA SPA AND RESORT
ENTRANCE DENIED WITHOUT PERMIT
“It seems our Mr. Nolan has an interest in ecology.”
I recognized Adam’s voice and looked up from the viewfinder. “It does indeed.”
Ricki had circled back to round up some stragglers and now joined us. “So this is also owned by La Vida Pura,” I said to her.
She paused. “Oh yes. We’re here only because they allow a few tourists each year.”
“I thought this was government run.”
She shook her head. “Used to be, but the Costa Rican government just didn’t have the money to operate it. They have another big farm over near San José, and now all funding goes there. From what I hear, they jumped at the chance to sell this facility when La Vida Pura made the offer. The only stipulation from the government was that so many thousands of tourists must be allowed in per year. They are determined to continue educating the public about endangered species, ecology, and the environment.”
“Why would La Vida Pura want a butterfly farm?” I squinted at the sign.
Ricki laughed, shrugging. “Who knows? The funny thing is that locals call the spa the real butterfly farm. Rich people come here expecting a metamorphosis—from ordinary to beautiful, from ill health to vibrant new life.”
I lifted my camera to get another shot.
Adam cleared his throat. “I’ve heard there’s a medical clinic associated with La Vida Pura. Is that true?”
I fiddled with the f-stop and took my shot. Then, letting the camera again swing from its strap around my neck, I looked up at him. His eyes were fixed on Ricki, his expression unreadable.
“It may be,” she said, “but we won’t be visiting that part of the facility.”
“Do you think we might get a tour of the whole campus? Perhaps speak to the doctors if there is such a clinic?”
“We’ve had others in the group ask the same question,” she said. “But we’re contracted for the spa-resort tour only. I’m sorry.”
As we entered the preserve, I felt an odd sense of discomfort similar to that which had swept over me in the rain forest. We were surrounded by mesh enclosures filled with a froth of colorful flying insects. I still had my questions about the deadly swallowtails and blue morphos and wanted to see their enclosures, so I wasn’t about to turn around and run. But it was tempting.
“Are you okay?”
I turned as Adam walked toward me. He carried a walking stick, and again, I wondered about the injury that had caused his limp. Had it been connected with the headlines I remembered?
I saw no cruelty in his face this time. Only concern. I drew in a deep breath and shot him a weak smile. “Yeah, I’m great.”
“Great?”
I laughed. It felt good. “Great might be a stretch. Let’s go back to okay and settle there.”
He fell in beside me as we walked along a dirt path, butterfly enclosures on both sides. Other insects were apparently in the same enclosures, for the buzzing surely didn’t come from butterflies. It sounded more like the roar of cicadas at home. I shuddered, an involuntary reaction to stress that seemed to have happened too often in the past couple of days.
“I don’t know what happened back there,” I said.
“The kid had it coming. Any of us would have done the same thing to get him off Zoë’s back. And off that bridge.”
“I don’t know where all that emotion came from. It seemed to fly out of the trees and land squarely in my heart.”
“Gut reaction. I understand.”
Equating my flying at Price with his barehanded pummeling of a criminal? That made me feel worse. “And to top it off, Zoë didn’t even appreciate my coming to her rescue.”
He stopped and looked at me. “That’s not why you did it, though, is it?”
I stared at him, wondering how he knew. I shook my head. “There was something about the sweltering rain forest that brought it all back. In a way I was lashing out at the unanswered questions from when Hollis died, I suppose. But it was bigger than that even. I was going after everything from social injustice down to rich bullies like Price Alexander who pick on geeks like Zoë.”
He smiled, a rare expression for him. “Geeks are chic these days.” I shot him a quizzical look, and he added, “I read that somewhere.”
We resumed our walk down the path. A few stragglers from the main group trekked along ahead of us by several yards, and two middle-aged couples were closing in from behind.
I stepped to one side to let them pass and asked Adam, “Did you see the butterfly by Easton’s body?”
“It couldn’t have had anything to do with his death. For one thing, it doesn’t make sense that if Harry Easton was murdered—which we don’t know—the killer would have left a calling card.”
“They do that, though, don’t they?”
“Sometimes. Usually to thumb their noses at the cops. A sort of catch-me-if-you-can taunt and ‘Here’s a clue to help, you dummies.’ If Easton was murdered, it’s an international incident, which makes it impersonal. Which authorities would he be taunting? And why?”
“Maybe the killer, or killers, didn’t think it was impersonal.”
“Still doesn’t make sense. One poisonous butterfly when—from what I understand—it would take a multitude of the creatures to cause death. And they would have to be ingested.”
“Or the venom injected.”
“Even then, the poison would have had to have been in Easton’s system for twenty-four hours to bring him down. He would have felt the illness coming on, probably have been in extreme pain, with vomiting, dizziness, and episodes of passing out. Not the sort of thing that would go unnoticed, then hit him after he decided to treat himself to a midnight swim.”
“You know a lot about butterfly poisoning.”
“I know a lot about death,” he said, “but not from the perspective you think.”
We came to a fork in the path. A giant swallowtail enclosure, the size of an aviary, rose directly in front of us. Another enclosure filled with blue morphos was to our left; Heliconids and Lepidopteras to the right. Adam took off to the left. The hurried pace of his gait and the set of his shoulders told me our conversation was over. And he didn’t want me to follow. He also didn’t like what I’d implied.
I adjusted my cap to shade my face, then walked to the giant swallowtail area. I looked up in wonder. Sunlight was filtering in through a stand of giant ficus trees with their otherworldly buttress roots. The trunks were literally covered with newly hatched insects, their wings stretched wide, drying in the sun. Other swallowtails were flitting, almost soaring, on wingspans wider than I had ever seen on a butterfly. Larger than my Pottery Barn sunflower bread plates, they rose toward the sun, away from the dark shadows of the canopy shade. From caterpillar to chrysalis, they had been transformed and were now free to rise with the wind.
I stood there, wanting to cheer as they flashed golden and glori
ous in the sun.
Then a sign on the mesh enclosure came into focus. I stepped closer. First in Spanish, then in English, the sign listed the species names, the factual information about both the swallowtail and the blue morphos endangered status, and the regions in the world and in Costa Rica where these giant butterflies could be found. But as I read, my concern grew. Everything Adam had told me about their deadly venom was true, down to the minutest detail—though the references to killing by butterfly poison on the sign had to do with nonhuman predators. Adam’s information had to do with humans.
How did he know? And more important, why did he know? Why had he taken the time to find out so much about how a man would die by butterfly poison?
I didn’t like the answer that came to me.
I started back down the path to catch up with the rest of the Sun Spirit trekkers. A movement behind the cream owl butterfly enclosure caught my attention. A flash of cloth made me think it was one of the students. I thought about the captain’s admonition to keep together and began to move closer. Then I halted midstep.
Price Alexander stood in the shadows watching me. The look on his face was venomous. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end.
The motor coach pulled slowly through the elaborate gated entrance to the spa. A large guardhouse stood beside the outer gate, and just inside the gate on either side, waterfalls cascaded into reflecting pools. Ferns and wild orchids lined the road, tall bromeliads and palms towering behind them.
At first I could see no man-made structures, only gently rolling hills covered with lush lawns and flowering plants. The coach wound among the hills, beneath a canopy of trees, then into the sunlight again. Then we rounded a final corner, and the bus driver brought the coach to a halt to let the passengers take in their first view of the resort.
A chorused gasp filled the vehicle. Before us lay the most lush setting I could imagine. In the distance the sun was setting over a shadowy range of mountains, and closer in a small lagoon lay alongside a slow-moving river. Buildings seemed to rise from the shores of the lagoon as if placed there by nature. Some were on stilts, rising to nearly the height of the mangrove trees that edged the water. They looked like luxury tree houses. Other buildings, made of stone and sticks, blended with the landscape. Still others, tucked in among the surrounding hills, were platform tents. The whole setting evoked an atmosphere of peace.
For me, peace lasted all of thirty seconds. That’s how long it took me to notice the fencing at the borders of the property—ornate, scrolled ironwork that blended with the soft pastels of the buildings. Every ten to twelve feet for as far as I could see, monitoring devices that looked like cameras with wide, horizontal lenses sat atop the crossbar. The cameras were pointed toward the inside of the compound, not outward as one might expect for security. It was puzzling.
I glanced at Adam, who was again sitting across the aisle from me, and he was staring at a nearby section of the fence. He must have sensed my scrutiny, because he turned, looking perturbed. At my stare, I wondered, or had he noticed the cameras?
Everyone started talking at once. Ricki was besieged with questions, mostly having to do with how those who hadn’t signed up for the spa could do so now. I pictured Granny Clampett doing the Club Med thing and for a few minutes argued with myself about raising my hand to give up my spot. But I couldn’t. Not now, when I needed to find out why Harry Easton—and Adam Hartsfield—had signed up for this outing.
The driver started down the last half mile or so leading to the resort, crossed a stone bridge, pulled up in front of a building designed with a massive stone motif, and came to a halt. The doors swished open, and the passengers tumbled out.
Ricki instructed those who would be returning to the ship to stretch their legs, use the rest-room facilities inside the reception area, and then return to the motor coach within ten minutes. The rest of us—including the Browns, the Doyles, the Quilps, Adam Hartsfield, Zoë Shire, Price Alexander, Max Pribble, Kate Rivers, and me—were escorted to the reception desk. Ricki handed over our paperwork, including copies of our passports, to a young Costa Rican woman behind the desk. A name tag on her lapel announced her name was Carmen.
Ricki greeted Carmen warmly, the two exchanged a few words in Spanish, then Carmen set about checking us in.
I hadn’t thought to request a private room and now chided myself for the oversight. I held my breath as assignments were made. The married couples were easy; they each received private rooms.
Then Price, Max, and Adam Hartsfield were assigned a room that Carmen said was a luxury dormitory. I could see Adam working his jaw in annoyance. Price exchanged a glowering look with Max, who merely shrugged and gave his blond hair a shake.
It didn’t take me long to do the math. Only Zoë, Kate, and I remained. I stepped to the counter. “I am a writer and need the work space. I really do require a room to myself.”
Carmen looked sympathetic. “Oh dear. I am so sorry. You are Mrs. MacIver, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
She stared at the screen. “I am so sorry,” she repeated. “We are fully booked.” Then, still scrolling down the screen and clicking her mouse, she brightened. “But I see you are in a suite. One of our finest, the pagoda. You will have a room to yourself with a common room between you and Miss Shire and Miss Rivers.”
“We’re rooming together?” Kate’s whine sounded more incredulous than usual.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Zoë turn pale, and Kate exchange a high-eyebrow glance with Price. Strange bedfellows, all. I stifled a smile. A little social discomfort would do them good.
We said our good-byes to the passengers who were returning to the ship. They filed out the spotless glass double doors to the waiting coach. Ricki blew us kisses, bowed with a merry flourish, and said she would see us the following evening. Then she headed through the doors to join the others. I turned back to Carmen who was handing out keys and maps to the members of our group.
The Browns were first in line. Judging from the manners I’d observed in the past few days, I figured it was happenstance rather than a position gained by elbowing and tackling. Although Ed Brown, a tall, broad-shouldered man, looked as though he could elbow his way through anything, whenever he chose to. The Browns signed their registration card and stepped aside to let the Doyles take their place. Barbara Doyle, a delicate, pretty woman with short auburn hair, smiled at Carmen, and said a few words in Spanish. Earlier I had overheard the Doyles and the Browns talking about Barbara’s recent stint as a travel agent.
Next, Adam, Price, and Max stepped to the counter. Price’s shoulders were in a slump, and he leaned on the wooden surface with a heavy sigh. “Any way to get a room alone?” he asked pointedly. Max lolled against the counter, his grasshopper legs crossed at the ankles. He looked studiously bored.
Carmen gave Price a patient smile. “I’m sorry, sir. We’re completely booked.”
He shot a glance through the glass just as the bus pulled away from the hotel entrance. With another grunt of a sigh, he signed the registration card, then sauntered to one side while Adam and Max did the same.
A few minutes later, keys, maps, and printed schedules in hand, we exited through the back double doors, also made of inch-thick glass, and stopped on the terraced patio near a massive three-tiered water fountain to orient ourselves to the layout of the compound. The sun had since disappeared behind the mountains to the west, and dusk had fallen. A twinkling of lights dotted the landscape in the distance and, closer in, squat solar-powered lamps illumined the pathway leading from the patio. The balmy air was heavy with fragrant blooms.
Crickets chorused nearby, and from the rain forest down the road, faint nocturnal cries carried on the breeze. Some sounded human. I tried to purge my mind of the thought. No need to let my imagination work more than it already was. The Jurassic Park butterfly thing by the rope bridge was quite enough for one day.
Zoë trudged ahead of Kate, and I brought up the rear. No one spok
e.
The others in our group had trooped off to their various accommodations, and as the sounds of their voices disappeared into the night, I felt strangely alone. There was something about the atmosphere of the place that was causing my antennae to rise. And it wasn’t just the guarded gates and the surveillance cameras.
“There’s no one here but us,” Zoë pointed out as we headed down the path.
Ah, that was it. I looked around. She was right. The compound seemed oddly empty, especially considering Carmen had said they were booked solid.
“They may be holding yoga sessions or talks on nutrition before dinner,” I said, hoping I was right.
“Feels weird,” Zoë said in a hushed voice. “Spooky.”
“Spooky? As in Halloween?” Kate punctuated her words with a sarcastic sniff.
“Okay, girls,” I said a few minutes later. “Here’s the place.” I held the map to the light and pointed to a bungalow slightly away from the other buildings. Kate looked bored.
We climbed the stairs to the front door, and my mouth dropped open as we stepped inside. The suite was in a class of its own, with a sunken living room, a king-size bed and Jacuzzi bathtub in my room, twin beds in the girls’ room, and a Bali-style outdoor shower in their bathroom. A wraparound deck framed the entire bungalow, and come daylight, I knew the views would be spectacular.
Seemingly dumbfounded, Zoë and Kate didn’t utter a word as they explored.
“Wow,” Kate finally managed several minutes later.
“Wow,” Zoë said.
I suspected it was the first time the two had agreed on something since the cruise started.
I stepped out onto the deck and closed the sliding door behind me, leaving the girls to their riveting conversation. Squinting into the deepening dusk, I surveyed the compound, mentally comparing the buildings in front of me to the features on the map we’d been given at the front desk.
I pulled the map from my vest pocket, unfolded it, and held it to the light streaming through the sliding-glass doors. I might have been turned around because we arrived near dusk, but it struck me as odd that the brightly lit building in the distance wasn’t on the map.