by Lorena May
Slipping on her gloves, and pulling plastic coverings over her shoes, Darby moves on. The kitchen is a cook’s dream. Two stoves, a warming oven and enough counter space to host a banquet. The cupboards and drawers are filled with a variety of spices and accents, expensive cookware and handy gadgets. This woman lived well. Opening the fridge, Darby finds three bottles of white wine chilling beside two haddock filets, and crispers full of fresh fruit and vegetables. Was she expecting company?
From the kitchen Darby descends stairs that led to a separate entrance to the left and a walk-out basement that boasts a high-end spa. The area is divided into a waiting room filled with comfortable couches and a counter holding bowls of fresh fruit and empty water jugs. Off the waiting room there are two large steam showers with plush towels and robes hanging on hooks. Down a hallway two treatment rooms with large tables smelling of exotic oils and lotions complete the spa. Very nice! It seems she ran a good business.
Mounting the stairs to scrutinize the rest of the house, Darby feels a heaviness in her chest. No matter how many murders she sees, the senselessness is overwhelming. Here is a woman of obvious talents and joie de vivre struck down in her prime. On either end of the main floor are two guest rooms with adjoining ensuites filled with all the amenities any visitor could wish for: Toiletries by the sink, books, chocolates (Did she replenish them regularly or just have a lot of company?), comfy robes, lounge chairs, luggage benches, and king-sized beds decorated with satin-covered cushions fill each room. Large windows with custom-made blinds look out onto a small patio filled with big-ticket lawn furniture in the back of the house.
The master bedroom is strikingly different. An empty wine glass and books on the end table, clothing strewn over a chair, the bed unmade . . . indicate a room that is lived in. Darby stands in the door-way, a fluttery, breathlessness in her stomach. The room smells of a musky perfume and something else. A sensual smell. Closed blinds covering a large window and patio doors leading to the front yard kept out the morning sun. Was the woman n in bed when her attacker appeared?
Darby searches the adjoining bathroom first. Nothing unusual there. An assortment of expensive creams and cosmetics litter the vanity. A medicine chest holds only aspirin, sun-tan oil and Vaseline. Towels and wash cloths fill the cupboards. Returning to the bedroom, she opens the chest of drawers to find neatly stacked luxury-lingerie, bathing suits, t-shirts and socks. A large walk-in closet reveals a love of flashy jewelry, top-of-the-line shoes, and brand-name clothing for all occasions; casual, hot-weather, cold-weather and dress. The woman had good taste.
Darby kneels to open the bedside table drawer, rifling through it with care. She finds a small bottle of sleeping pills, a box of condoms, lube gel, a couple of joints. Her heart races as she pulls out a thick piece of writing paper, neatly folded. Slowly, Darby opens it. Drawing in a deep breath, she reads the words, “You will pay”. She stands, staring a moment. Each letter has been cut from magazines and pasted onto writing paper. Setting it on the floor beside her, Darby carefully reaches back into the drawer, grasping another sheet this time thick art paper. As she unfolds it her eyes widen. A butterfly lies within the creases. Brilliant orange and black; perfectly symmetrical; dead.
BACK AT THE STATION Darby paces the floor of her partner, Mel’s office. Mel leans back in his chair, his hands folded across his ample belly, listening intently.
Darby glances at him, her eyes flashing. “I got the call at five-forty-five this morning. Murder by gunshot. The coroner estimates the time of death to have been around three am.” She stops a moment to rest her hands on Mel’s cluttered desk, studying the photos laid carefully out before her. Photos of the items she took from the house. Items that are now in forensics. She read aloud the familiar words, “’You will pay’. “What the fuck, Mel? . . . Revenge, obviously, but . . .” She shakes her head, her forehead furrowed. “Nothing else in her house indicates any kind of hidden unpleasantness. Eri Morgan’s social media is all upbeat, positive, happy - until this.”. She looks at the photo of Erin’s Facebook page, jabbing her finger at the horrible woman posted there with the words, ‘I am not who you think I am. I have fooled all of you.’
Mel sits up to look, once again, at the photographs on his desk. Making a steeple with his hands, he sits back in his chair. “So a woman who has everything going for her has wronged someone. Or someone thinks she has. Do you think she posted this? Or did the perp use her computer? Have we got prints from it yet?”
“Yeah, but they found only Erin’s, the vic’s. The perpetrator may have worn gloves, though . . . She’s really pissed someone off. What did she do, I wonder?” Darby resumes her pacing, her dark eyes thoughtful. “Let’s get officers combing her e-mails, texts, social media. We’ll talk to her clients, friends, family, business associates. . . She seemed to have a shit-load of money – or credit. We’ll need a thorough check into her business affairs, banking and competitors. Who hated this woman enough to kill her?”
Chapter 3 ~ Jen
Saturday, April 14
On week days our family members are all up and off early. I make lunches while shoving a cup of coffee at Darren as he emerges from the shower, frantically jumping into a fresh shirt and pants. He gulps, nods his thanks, gathers his brief-case and races out the door, pecking my pursed lips. I dart back to the kitchen and throw oats, water, salt, raisins and cinnamon into a pot. Porridge is a staple at our house. While I stir their breakfast I call the kids. “Lillia! Logan!” to no avail. So I leave the pot on the stove, tug my gym clothes on in their bedrooms while cooing in their ears, “Time to get up.” After some groaning and flopping around, they do. I run out the door shouting back over my shoulder, “Don’t forget to let Sadie out! Remember to soak the porridge pot. . .” I head to the gym and hope for the best. It’s pretty much the same every morning.
Saturdays we sleep too late and then scramble to get to swimming lessons, gymnastics and soccer; Darren and I running with kids in different directions. By noon this Saturday we’re home again, and I’m rummaging through the fridge for sandwich fixings.
“I know it’s been a long time, but I feel I should go to Erin’s memorial service this afternoon,” I tell Darren, trying to sound nonchalant, hoping he’ll just agree. I look squarely at the sliced chicken, lettuce, condiments, and buns I’m placing on the table.
“Why? You haven’t had anything to do with her for years,” he says.
And suddenly it matters to me. Enough to take a stand. “I know, but we were close friends once. I feel like I need closure,” and I look him in the eye. Why should he care? He’ll be watching hockey on TV or out showing houses anyway.
“Mom, do you want me to go with you?” Lillia asks me as she forks chicken onto her plate. Oh, my sweet girl! I can tell she doesn’t really want to.
“Oh, Lillia, would you? I don’t think I’ll know anyone there. It would help a lot.” I give her an apologetic look.
She manages a perky smile. “Sure, Mom. No worries.”
WE SIT IN THE CAR FOR a few moments once we arrive at the funeral home, watching people stream in. It looks like a well-heeled crowd, mostly. A few older people. I recognize Erin’s parents emerge from a car in front of the doors. The way they walk, the way they hold their heads and each other shows their deep emotional pain. My heart aches for them. I wipe away a tear. I can’t imagine burying a daughter!
“Ready?” I ask Lillia who is shifting in her seat. We step out onto the pavement, and walk tentatively toward the chapel. Soft music plays as we enter. We are greeted by a kindly-looking funeral director who hands us a brochure and guides us to seats near the back of the room. I look at my daughter sitting meekly – an unusual pose for her – and I grasp her hand. Thank God for her! No matter how many times she rolls her eyes at me, or tells me with the tone of her voice how stupid I am, or just doesn’t listen to me at all . . . she is so precious.
As the funeral director begins to speak, my eyes wander. A large photograph of Erin is placed
on a table accompanied by a vibrant floral arrangement. Orange gerbera, sunflowers, brilliant purple delphiniums and white lilies. In her picture Erin glows. From the curve of her neck, to the tilt of her head, to the vivacious smile on her face it’s as if she were there, enchanting everyone with her charisma. What a shame! I glance around. A number of people dab their eyes with Kleenex. Others sob visibly. They all feel it. I look down at the memorial card and reread Erin’s obituary.
Erin Morgan, age 35, passed away on Wednesday, April 11, 2018 in Rockydale, Alberta. Erin was an adventurer, and although her main residence was Rockydale, much of her time was spent away travelling the world. Erin ran her own successful business as a massage therapist. She is survived by her father and mother, Andrew and Michelle Morgan, her sister, Rosie, nieces Jessica and Faith, and numerous aunts, uncles, cousins and friends.
The funeral director is speaking about Erin now, and I’m curious to see if the adult Erin was the same devil-may-care, adventurous character that I knew. It appears that she was. Stories of her escapades send murmurs of soft laughter throughout the gathering. At age twenty she hid on a ship, a stow-away, and travelled to Australia with only five Canadian dollars in her pocket. In Africa she bungee-jumped from one of the tallest bridges in the world, and white-water rafted in some of the wildest rapids. She worked as a tour guide in India after living there a year. When she finally decided to settle down she took herself to Chicago and earned a degree in massage therapy, then came back to Rockydale, opening a massage establishment in a low-rent room. She worked her way up to own and run a prosperous business in an amazingly short time.
I get the impression that she was the life of the party. And that she partied plenty.
After a slide presentation jam-packed with pictures of an effervescent woman, Erin’s uncle speaks about the adventurous child he remembers. A classy-looking friend stands up to speak about Erin as an adult. Bouquets of flowers fill the front of the room. She obviously had many admirers. I assume she had no significant other. No children. A life too busy and free. Part of me envies that, I must admit.
After the service we head downstairs for a reception. A large table laden with sandwiches and dainties greets us at the end of the room. We stand in line, and I smile at Lillia’s shining eyes as she fills her plate. After glancing around, we spot two empty chairs and sit at a table in the corner with a group of what must be friends of Erin’s parents. Sweet, smiling faces who welcome us. I look around at the people assembled.
My breath takes a little hitch. Sitting at the table next to us I hear her before I see her. It’s Mia. That melodious, trilling laugh. She shakes her head, her long, thick, red mane flipping gracefully. She hasn’t changed much. Her skin is perfect; smooth, ivory skin. Her eyes sparkle. Jewel-like green, fringed with long lashes. She’s tall and slim still, her hand movements and posture those of a dancer.
I shrink into myself a little, lowering my eyes, hoping she won’t see me. But she does. She looks enchanting, and she knows it. Mia rises to brush the shoulder of the woman sitting beside her. “I’ll just be a moment,” I hear her say. She glides toward us, her arms held out to embrace me. I stand and hug her back. She feels wiry and a little stiff. Her voice is honeyed. “Jen! It’s been forever! How ARE you?” She smells fresh and lovely, with a touch of sweetness and mint.
I’m uneasy, but I manage a stiff smile as she gracefully steps back a little to gaze at me. “You look fabulous! Haven’t changed a bit,” she lies.
“Mia, it’s good to see you.” Then, indicating Lillia, I say “This is my daughter, Lillia.” Beside me, Lillia tugs at her skirt, lifting her chin in an attempt to look confident.
With a natural grace, Mia turns her head. Her lips curve into a smile and she scans Lillia from top to bottom. “You are lovely, my dear. So much like your mother at your age. I’m very glad to meet you.” Her green eyes look right through us. We sit there awkwardly for a moment; Lillia and I, that is. Mia is never awkward. “See you soon,” she turns and goes back to her friends. As I watch her elegant back drift casually away my mind returns to when I first met her.
HER FAMILY MOVED TO Rockydale during the summer before fourth grade. Mia’s father was a doctor, a GP who was instantly well liked. On the day we met Mia, Erin and I were swinging at the park near our school enjoying the warm weather, the cloudless sky, the freedom and each other. From across the playground a tall, slender girl about our age, sidled up, seemingly out of nowhere. She stood there watching us, an amused little smile on her exquisite, fine-boned face. We dragged our heels in the dirt to slow ourselves down.
Erin, as always, was first to speak. “Hi! You must be new in town!”
The tall, red-headed girl nodded, a bold, self-confident nod. “I am. We’ve just moved here. My name is Mia.” And she looked at us expectantly. We jumped off of the swings and introduced ourselves.
Mia’s family had moved here from Winnipeg. Her father, having always dreamed about being a small-town doctor, joined a team of doctors when a vacancy became available. Her mom stayed home to care for her and her two younger sisters. Like us, Mia would enter fourth grade in the fall. And, like us, she enjoyed riding her bike, playing baseball, hanging out with other kids and playing little tricks on people, she said. We quickly bonded.
Mostly Mia had the ideas, Erin the chutzpa to carry them out - and me? I just wanted to fit in. I’d do anything to fit in.
Chapter 4 ~ Darby
Sunday, April 15
Darby runs her fingers through her thick, dark hair. “Okay. What do we have?”
Mel clears his throat, rummaging through the papers on his desk. “Nothing from the lab yet, but Jill and the team have gathered some info. Let’s see: Erin Morgan, thirty-five, shot in the chest sometime during the early hours of April 11th. Her body remained where it fell except for her arms being placed on her chest, holding a yellow rose.”
“Did she screw someone around with yellow roses involved?” Darby ponders, beginning to pace the floor of Mel’s small office.
He stares straight ahead. “Weddings, funerals, gardens, graduations . . . what goes with yellow roses?”
Darby punches at her phone and reads, “. . . a traditional symbol of friendship. With their warm, sunny disposition a bouquet of yellow roses tends to light up the room, making them a perfect way to say thanks, get well, congratulations or just, ‘Hey! Thanks for being you.’ Long associated with the sun and its life-giving warmth.” She looks at Mel, squinting. “That does sound like the Erin we’re coming to know. Warm, sunny, friendly. But then, why kill her?” She shoves her phone into her shirt pocket. “Hell if I know. What else do we have?”
“Did you see anyone suspicious at the funeral yesterday?” Mel asks.
“No. For such a young, out-going person it wasn’t an overly large gathering. A hundred or so people, I’d say. A lot of well-heeled Gen-Xer’s, her grieving parents and a few of their friends and relatives. Nobody that looked suspicious. Anything come up through interviews?”
Mel scratches his chin as he reads through the reports on his desk. “Her clients, both men and women, seemed to adore her. They felt ‘loved and cared for’ at her spa. A warm, special lady, according to all those on her list. No sign of anything unprofessional. No hint of animosity there.”
“How about friends and family?”
“No one in the neighbourhood saw anything. At least no one we talked to, and no one has come forward. She had only a few friends in town. Judging by her emails most of them are scattered around the world. No red flags. But when we talked to her parents they said she’d had two close friends throughout her school years. Then suddenly all contact with them ended. Erin wouldn’t talk about it, they said. And at one time these girls had been inseparable. People called them the three butterflies. All three were very social and beautiful, Erin’s mom said.”
Darby pivots to face him. “Butterflies! There must be a connection. The dead butterfly in her bedside table! Did you get their names?”
Darby chews on her bottom lip. “Maybe the butterfly has something to do with the past? Yeah, I do want to talk to them. Let’s get their contact information.”
“Will do.” Mel nods, scanning the pages in front of him. He reads aloud, “The weapon used was a 38 calibre hand-gun. One shot to the chest, close range, killed her instantly. Nothing irregular in her emails. She used Twitter and Facebook. That last weird post, ‘I’m not what I seem,’ is the only out-of-character post on both. Just her finger-prints showed up on the two papers you found in her bedside drawer. Lots of DNA around her house, but none we can match. Two different samples of semen in her bed, and the sheets seemed reasonably fresh. Probably had been changed within the week before she died. So, an active love-life, it appears. We’re looking into that.”
Darby waggles her eye-brows, smirking. “Now, that should be interesting! A fascinating lady. We’ll need to talk to those guys.”
“First the so-called butterflies,” Mel says, busy at his computer for a few minutes while Darby checks her phone. “Here it is. They are now Mia Buckingham and Jen Cox.” Ripping a page from a note-pad he scribbles the addresses on it, handing it to Darby.