by Lorena May
“And does the brother still live here?”
“No, I don’t think so. After Adrian disappeared he sold the ranch and left the area. As far as I know he hasn’t been back since. But – like I said – I didn’t really know him.”
“Just hours before they died both Erin and Mia were seen with an attractive blonde, blue-eyed woman. Do you have any idea who that may be?”
Jen’s eyebrows furrow. “No. No, I don’t.”
“I understand there was a boy named Andy that you three picked on. Can you tell me about him?”
Jen lowers her eyes and takes a deep breath. “Yes. We told everyone he had fleas. ‘Andy has fleas’ was our little mantra.” Her head drops. “The poor kid was isolated. I don’t even remember seeing him in High School. I saw him one morning a couple of weeks ago on my way to work. Tried to talk to him, but he just gave me the finger. He obviously hasn’t forgotten. Do you think he killed Erin and Mia?”
“We’re exploring all possibilities right now.” Darby reaches both hands across the table to fold her fingers around Jen’s forearms. She pins her with her eyes. “Jen, whoever it is, there’s a very dangerous person out there, and they seem to be seeking revenge. I think you could be in danger. If you see anything – ANYTHING suspicious – if you get phone calls or notes or someone looks at you funny I want you to call me, okay?”
Jen nods, wide-eyed.
“And be careful.”
Walking back to the road Darby scans the area. What am I expecting? Someone peeking around the bushes? We need to catch this mother-fucker. And quick!
ANDY SITS HUNCHED OVER the table, his head in his hands, a cigarette dangling from between his fingers. He looks up at Darby when she enters the interview room. His watery blue eyes flicker.
Darby sits in a chair across from him. “Hi, Andy. I hear you want to confess to the murder of Mia Buckingham.”
Andy nods with vigour. “That bitch got what was coming to her.”
“You were paying her back for something, Andy?”
He sits up straight, drumming his feet against the floor. “Damn right. Her with the tossy red hair. Lording it over everybody. Fucking bitch.”
“You killed her? How did you do that, Andy?”
“Shot her.” He points a finger, his hand formed into the shape of a gun. “PKEW PKEW Just like that!”
“Where were you when you shot her?”
“In her fancy car.” He puffs out his chest.
“How did you get in her car?” Darby tilts her head, squinting. “Did she let you in?”
He stares a moment. “Yeah. She opened the door and let me in.”
“Where were you when she let you in her car?”
“Out in the bush. Trees and grass all around.”
“You met her out in the country? How did you get there, Andy?”
The drumming of the feet becomes almost thunderous. Andy rubs his upper legs with his hands. “I took a cab.” He looks down at the table, a little cowed.
“Andy, are you sure you shot Mia Buckingham?” Darby’s lips compress into a thin line. She is almost rolling her eyes.
“Soon as I saw that fucking bitch on TV I knew it. I killed her.”
Darby ushers Andy from the room, gently patting his back. “We’re going to have someone take you home now, Andy, okay?”
Suddenly, without warning, Andy throws his arms around Darby’s shoulders, gripping her tightly for a moment. He smells of smoke and something else; a pungent, not unpleasant smell. Darby reaches her arms around him, and hugs him back. “Thanks for coming in to see us, Andy”. He holds on tightly. Finally he drops his arms, salutes her and shuffles off toward the front door where an officer stands waiting for him.
As she turns to walk into her office, wiping a tear from her eye, Darby’s cell phone rings.
She glances at the caller ID. ‘Jim Doherty’ it says. Darby answers. “Hello, Sergeant Greer here.”
“Darby, is that you?” The voice sounds familiar.
“It is.”
“Hi. It’s Jim. From the stables?” He pauses. “I met you the other day when you rode the love of your life.”
“Oh! How did you get my number?”
“Ah, I’m a master sleuth, Detective. If you’ll have lunch with me tomorrow, I’ll let you in on my secrets.”
Chapter 20 ~ Jen
Saturday, May 19
I haven’t gathered the nerve to ask Darren about that receipt. Why can’t I just confront him? If he’s angry that I found it, I have a perfectly legitimate reason. I was checking his pockets before throwing his shirt in the laundry. I wasn’t snooping. I guess I just don’t want the aggravation that a confrontation would bring – even a carefully planned, calm-voiced one.
The other evening as I watched Sergeant Darby Greer jump onto her bike, my insides churned. When she pulled away from the curb I slipped into the bedroom and opened the drawer. It was there. The receipt from Flowers by Fae. ‘One rose’. The words swam before my eyes.
It doesn’t make sense. Darren didn’t know Erin or Mia. Didn’t know all those things we did . . . Why would he buy one rose?
Thankfully, Darby said nothing about Lillia and the Facebook fiasco, I remind myself. At least that’s not an issue. For now, anyway.
Am I in danger? The only link I can think of between Erin and Mia is the ‘butterfly’ link. I was complicit. The dead butterflies, threatening note and the yellow roses all add up. But it’s been almost twenty years! Why now?
As I sit at the rec centre watching Lillia practice on the floor with her team-mates, her lithe, young body strong and promising, her golden ponytail flying, my head swirls. Lillia’s been so withdrawn lately. Her gymnastics sessions are the only time she seems herself; as if she can lose her thoughts through tumbling. At home she spends her time in her room moping. When I look in on her she is usually curled up in her bed. Has there been fall-out from her confession on Facebook? She won’t discuss it with me. Should I take her to a psychologist? And what of Felicity and her family? I feel hot and shaky when I think of them. Who knows what they will do? They may want retribution, and I can’t blame them. Are the police still investigating?
Our home-life is more strained than ever. Thankfully, Logan seems oblivious. My sweet, happy boy. My heart does a little skip when I think of his big, blue eyes; his innocence. I need to protect my boy. What am I doing wrong? Darren is a good husband. He works hard to provide for his family, keeps our home well maintained, takes an interest in his children, doesn’t usually drink too much . . . He believes in following the norms of society. Why can’t we communicate like we once did? What is it between us? Why are we so often at odds? Why was that receipt in his pocket?
I’m having lunch with Kim today. After Lillia’s gymnastics I’ll meet her at my favorite café. She likes and admires me, she said! I glow inside in spite of myself. What a guileless praise-seeker I am!
When Lillia’s coach dismisses the class I meet my daughter in the rec centre lobby. I can’t help but notice the deep circles under her eyes; the whiteness of her face. She follows me to the car in silence.
“How was training today?” I ask her, my voice casual and cheery.
“Fine.”
“Looks like you nailed that back hand-spring.”
“Mmmm.”
I reach over to rub her shoulder lightly, and she almost flinches. Give her some time, I tell myself.
WHEN I ENTER THE RESTAURANT Kim is already there, gracefully sipping white wine. It takes me a moment to see her as my eyes adjust to the room. Stained glass, all crafted by locals, hangs in the window. The walls are covered in paintings. They change regularly as patrons admire and buy them. The diner has an earthy feel. The owners pride themselves on serving healthy food. I smell freshly baked bread along with a basily, chicken smell, and realize how hungry I am. Kim stands, smiling broadly when she sees me, and I manoeuvre my way through groups of lively, chatting patrons to a table at the back of the restaurant where she sets her win
e down and stands to hug me. Her perfume is exotic-smelling, her body toned as she squeezes me into her a moment.
“I’m so glad you could come,” she says as she releases me, looking warmly into my eyes. I’m taken aback. How was it that I found this woman cold? We fall into conversation easily, talking about the seasonably warm weather, how busy our jobs are this time of year, and touch on the state of the world since the election of Donald Trump. She leans forward, her brown, almond-shaped eyes looking into mine, nodding, smiling . . . A wonderful listener. Warm and caring.
Is it the wine? Or just her kindly manner? I find myself venting about my marriage. After all, she knows Darren. Maybe she can shed some light.
“He’s always been so straight, totally above-board,” I say, sighing. “I know he works too hard. I just don’t know what it is. What’s come between us . . .”
Her eyes are filled with compassion, and she nods understandingly. “He’s truly an enigma, isn’t he?” she muses.
I cock my head, narrow my eyes.
“I mean,” she says, “he seems honest and trustworthy, but . . .” She looks to be in deep thought.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” I say.
Her eyes widen and her hand flies to her mouth. She shakes her head. “Oh! I didn’t mean anything. He’s – he’s . . .”
I see her eyes veer to the side and I look up. There stands Sergeant Darby Greer, looking down at me with a half-smile. “Hey, Jen. You’ve found my favorite restaurant,” she quips.
I smile weakly. Why do I feel so shaken? “Hello, Darby. Mine too, actually.” I gesture toward Kim. “This is Kim, a colleague of my husband’s who I was lucky enough to run into at the gym.”
They shake hands. Darby’s dark brown eyes look into Kim’s lighter ones with her customary intensity. Kim remains cool, calm and collected. “Nice to meet you. Have you been friends for long?”
“We’ve met through a case,” Darby says. “And you?”
Kim smiles politely. “I’m new in town. Jen was kind enough to meet me for lunch. I don’t know many people here.”
“Well, nice to meet you, Kim.” Darby turns to me. “I’m starving so I’ll go order. Enjoy your lunch!”
Kim raises her palm and wiggles her fingers, a big smile on her face.
“You too,” I say, watching her walk toward a table near ours where a tall, attractive man sits watching her, clearly enamored by her fascinating energy. He looks familiar.
“You’re involved in a police case?” Kim asks, tilting her body toward me.
I shrug. “Not really. Two women I went to school with have been murdered, and the police have been questioning anyone who knew them.”
Her eyes open wide. “Murdered?”
“Yes. Because they were friends at school the police believe there may be a connection. The three of us were close at one time.”
Kim looks pensive. “What do they think the connection might be after all this time?”
“We weren’t very nice sometimes,” I say, feeling my stomach churn. “Maybe an old grudge.”
Her eyes crinkle kindly. “Oh, I can’t believe that.” She gives my hand a little pat. “You’re a saint.”
I flush. A saint?
After a moment she asks, “Do the police have any leads?”
I shrug. “Not as far as I know.” I want to change the subject. The fact that both Erin and Mia are dead – have been murdered – seems surreal. I can’t quite accept it. I don’t want to.
We go on to talk about the busy realty market, and about teaching kindergarten. Kim laughs heartily at my little stories, and her eyes shine with interest. When she glances at her watch and says, “Oh my goodness! Two and a half hours have flown by!” I can’t believe it. We part feeling warm and fuzzy, agreeing to do lunch again soon.
BY THE TIME I ARRIVE home Darren and Logan are taking basketball shots on the drive-way. They move to let me into the garage, smiling happily. My heart gives a little flutter. Maybe all my misgivings are some kind of hormonal thing. Or expectations that are too high. My imagination.
“Chores all done?” I ask cheerily, ruffling Logan’s hair, winking at Darren. But Kim’s words drum away in my head. He seems honest and trustworthy. . . You’re a saint.
I walk up the steps and reach into the mail-box to check for fliers. We don’t get mail on Saturdays. I feel something strange, and draw it out. It is heavy paper folded into quarters, a firm little note. Slowly, tentatively, I unfold it. My hands shake. I feel my pulse quicken as I stare down at it. Visions swirl before my eyes. I imagine Erin lying dead. Picture Mia’s little green car parked in the bush. Of Darby’s words, ‘Both Erin and Mia received a dead butterfly before they were killed.’ I feel dizzy; light-headed. My skin is clammy, and I hear the rush of my pounding heart. I feel sick. Within the folds is a beautiful Monarch butterfly. Dead.
Chapter 21 ~ Darby
Saturday, May 19
“I love how your eyes flash when you talk. Your passion,” he says, leaning back in his chair.
Darby chuckles, taking a sip of wine. What do you say to that? Her phone buzzes. Good timing! Reaching into her pocket, she glances at the caller ID before answering. “Jen Cox”.
“Hello, Jen.”
The voice on the other end shakes with panic. “Darby? The dead butterfly? I just got one.”
Darby feels her stomach roll. “Stay calm, Jen. I’ll be right there.”
Grabbing two twenties from her wallet, she plunks them on the table in front of Jim. “I’m so sorry. Emergency at work. I have to go.”
He halts, his wine-glass halfway to his lips. “Sounds serious. Is everything okay?”
“I hope it will be,” Darby hedges.
“Is it to do with the two murdered women?” Absently, he sets his glass on the table.
“I have to go,” Darby says. “Sorry, Jim!”
He pushes the money back at her. “I get that. But lunch was my idea. I’d be insulted if you paid.”
As Darby stands, looking unnerved, he says, “Get me next time.” He smiles, the dimples in his cheeks deepening, his lively green eyes amused.
“Thanks for lunch, Jim,” Darby says, pocketing the bills. “Next time’s on me!” Turning, she strides quickly through the restaurant and out the door.
DARBY PULLS UP TO THE Cox house on her bike. It looks like no one is home. Despite the warmth of the day, not a window or door is open. A basketball lies beneath the net, and a bike stands by the front step. The care-free ambiance of the place is gone. Darby rings the bell and the door opens immediately.
A compact, middle-aged man greets her, bending to push away the little brown dog that scrambles to jump on her legs. This must be Mr. Cox. His face is drawn, and his eyes anxious-looking. “Sergeant Greer?” he asks.
Darby nods. “Are you Jen’s husband?”
He bobs his head and stands back, beckoning Darby in. “She’s right in here.” He ushers the police-woman into the living room.
Jen, wild-eyed and trembling, rises from the couch she’s been sitting on and rushes toward Darby, her hand held outward. In it is a thick, folded paper. Her voice quivers. “I found this in the mailbox just a few minutes ago.” As if the handing over of the paper releases her pent-up emotions she breaks down in tears.
Wrapping her arms around the shaken woman Darby speaks softly. “Jen, we won’t let anything happen to you. We’ll catch the bastard. It’ll be okay . . .” Isn’t that more or less what I told Mia?
Sitting in the darkened house, Jen speaks of days long ago when she and her friends were the snooty, popular girls. She talks about how they picked on vulnerable kids; Andy and Marnie mostly. In High School they’d become especially vicious toward Marnie and then Adrian. Darby listens intently, sympathetically, while Jen recounts her sins in a brittle voice. Her hands mechanically fiddle with Sadie’s fur. Darby glances at Darren, who sits rigidly upright, his face revealing nothing.
“No one saw anyone place the butterfly in the mailbox?”
Darby looks at him.
Darren shakes his head. “My son and I were playing basketball in the front yard. If anyone put it there within the last hour or so we’d have seen them.”
“But we haven’t looked in the mailbox since yesterday morning when Darren brought the mail in,” Jen adds, staring at Darby through bulging eyes.
“Do you have a school year-book or anything that might help us look into the time when you, Erin and Mia were together? Likely that’s the link.” Darby absently chews her bottom lip.
“I do.” Jen stands. She appears deep in thought a moment, and disappears down the hallway. “I know where it is,” she calls back.
Darby turns to Darren. “Have you any thoughts or ideas as to who is doing this?”
“Absolutely not.” He speaks with a firm finality.
Jen returns, handing Darby three Rockydale High year-books.
“I’ll keep these for a bit if that’s okay,” Darby says, rising. “Call if anything at all seems out of the ordinary. Both Mia and Erin were last seen with a blonde woman – but it could be anyone in disguise. Be on the look-out. We will keep as close an eye on you as we can, and damn it, we’ll find this person,” she assures the distraught couple as she walks out the door.
“MEL!” DARBY BURSTS into his office, her eyes blazing. “Now Jen’s got a butterfly in the mailbox. Who is this motherfucker?” Heat stains her cheeks as she flops into the chair across from her partner. “She’s a nice woman. Whatever fuck-wit things these women did twenty-some years ago, they don’t deserve this.” Darby rakes her hair with her hands, staring at him, her dark eyes big and shiny. “Tell me we’ve got something!”
Mel sighs, his expression thoughtful. Scrolling through a file on his computer he says, “We’ve collected consensual DNA from Erin’s parents, sister and nieces – not Graham Braun, of course. They’ve also got DNA from Mia’s husband, from Sean, Andy and from the Cox’s. No word from the lab yet as to matches.”