Stuart Kaminsky - Poor Butterfly

“You,” she said, looking at me. “You’re supposed to protect us.”

“Lorna.” Vera said, “Mr. Peters has only been on the job a few minutes.”

“I’m telling the Maestro,” Lorna said, pulling at her purse, snapping it open with shaking fingers and finding her cigarettes. She pulled one out without noticing that it was bent and accepted the light from Lundeen’s instantly produced lighter.

“Good idea,” I said. “Miss Bartholomew is right about the police. They’ll ask questions and go home. You need a clear felony to capture their interest.”

“Shouldn’t we lock the doors. Search the …” Vera began.

Lunden was doing better with his wind now. “Too many exits. Too many places to hide,” he said, shaking his head. “Too many people with a reason to be here.”

At first I thought the sound was a workman humming. I wasn’t sure when it started. It got louder, closer. Lundeen kept talking, gesturing, expounding on the futility of any defined course of action.

Vera heard it now. A voice, a man’s voice, singing.

Lorna looked up. “What’s that?”

“What?” asked Lundeen.

“The voice,” Vera said.

Lundeen listened now. The voice was loud.

“It’s him,” Lorna cried, standing again, looking around. Vera comforted her. Miguelito growled.

“It’s just a workman, a …” Lundeen started, but the voice grew louder.

“What’s he singing?” I asked, trying to figure out where the sound was coming from. I moved toward a men’s room door down the hall.

“It’s from Verdi’s Un Ballo in Maschera . Renato’s lament after mistakenly killing his friend Richard,” Lundeen said.

“Where is it coming from?” I shouted, and the music stopped instantly, mid-note.

I sensed someone behind me in the shadow. I went down low and started to come up with a right. Raymond jumped back, dropping a glass and sending a splash of water over my pants.

“I’m not going for more,” he said, stepping into the dim light.

I opened the bathroom door. A small, temporary light bulb dangled from the ceiling. All the stalls but one were open. I wasn’t carrying my gun. I usually didn’t. It nestled in my glove compartment, where it couldn’t hurt anyone. I’m not a particularly good shot anyway; I’ve been shot by that gun more than anyone else. I moved slowly, back to the wall. Outside the door I could hear Lundeen giving Raymond a hard time. Inside the bathroom I was giving myself a sweat.

Something moved behind the closed stall, something alive. The stall door went down to the floor. Hell, it was probably just a plastered plasterer taking a … I looked for something to bash him with, but there wasn’t much in the way of choice. I picked up a piece of broken wood with a semi-serious jagged end. If I unleashed a vampire, maybe I could draw some blood. I took a breath, stepped in front of the door, and kicked it open. Something moved inside, a flicker. The door banged closed and slowly started to creak open again. A large, dark butterfly fluttered past me and drifted past the single open bulb.

I pulled myself together and went back out into the hallway. Vera was handing a glass of water to Lorna. Raymond was looking at me, one hand plunged deep in his pocket, the other holding an empty and not particularly clean-looking glass. Lundeen was seated next to Lorna.

“Nothing in there,” I said, “but a butterfly.”

“This is ridiculous,” Lundeen said, turning around. “Someone is trying to frighten us.

“Doing a good job, too, from the looks of all of you,” Raymond retorted. “Got you shadow-scared. I’ve been alone in this building every day for the past thirty-four years and never saw nor heard anything except Milo, the Furs, and the Ghost till you people came.”

“Milo and the Furs?” Lundeen asked.

“Ghost?” asked Vera.

“Snakes, rats,” Raymond explained. “Ghost been here since the place closed. Doesn’t bother anyone.”

“Who paid you all those years?” I asked.

“Providence,” said Raymond, winking at me and holding up the empty glass in a toast.

“Providence hell,” bellowed Lundeen. “I thought the real estate company paid you. But when I have the final inventory I’m sure it will confirm … You’ve sold off all the paintings, every piece of sculpture, every vase, every chair, every …”

“Plenty left,” Raymond said. “It was all ugly as a horse’s heinie anyway.”

“You are fired,” Lundeen cried.

“Ha,” said Raymond. “I repeat, ha. I could damn well say it all night and into next Tuesday. I don’t work for you. Kick me out and you won’t be able to find anything in this place. I’ve got the keys and the know-how.”

“Lundeen,” I said. “Raymond’s not the problem.”

“I’m getting out of here,” said Lorna, standing up.

“I’ll take you home, Lorna,” Vera said, giving me an apologetic smile.

I turned to the old caretaker. “Raymond, will you please escort the ladies to the front door.”

“Certainly.” Raymond handed Lundeen the empty glass and took Lorna’s arm. Miguelito let out a single yap in Raymond’s direction and then settled back in Lorna Bartholomew’s arms. “All you gotta do is ask polite.”

Lundeen sat deflated. I moved to the railing and watched Vera and Raymond help Lorna down.

“Erik,” Lundeen sighed. “I tell you, Peters, the world is populated by lunatics. This war breeds fanatics. You’d think people would have enough to worry about without fixing their delusions on an opera. Why isn’t he …”

“… or they,” I corrected.

“Or they,” he agreed, “in the army or navy, fighting the Japanese, if they are so … I’m sorry. How would you know?”

“Maybe I’ll find out,” I said. “Round up everyone you can find in the building and bring them back into the theater. Ask them where they’ve been for the past fifteen minutes. Ask them for the names of anyone who was with them or saw them during the last fifteen minutes.”

“You mean workmen? Contracting people? Pull them off work? Stop construction? Are you crazy?”

“Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. And I don’t know,” I answered.

Lundeen shook his head and smiled, the smile of a martyr.

“All right,” he said, getting up.

I watched him sway down the stairway, then I headed back into the men’s room. I took two minutes to search it. No doors, no panels, nothing. Back in the hall I thought I heard a sound. I headed across the hallway to one of the doors marked. MEZZAMINE. I opened it and stepped into darkness and the smell of mildewed carpet.

The theater was quiet. The door closed behind me. I stood, trying not to move, listening.

“Poor butterfly.” The man’s voice came from above, echoing.

I listened quietly and when he finished the song with, “you just must die, poor butterfly,” I applauded slowly, without enthusiasm.

“You jest,” came the voice.

“When I can,” I called out. “Did you kill the plasterer?”

“His name was Wyler,” the voice said. “To you he was just a plasterer, but he and I were very close for a brief period.”

“You killed him,” I said, trying to get a fix on the voice.

“I gave him the opportunity to see if he could fly,” said the voice. “He was unable to do so. Close the doors or the butterfly dies. It would be a shame for our beautiful diva butterfly to have such a short life.”

“Buddy,” I said, “you are a ham.”

“On wry,” he called back and laughed.

I wasn’t sure I got the joke. I wouldn’t have laughed even if I had.

“I’m on a daily retainer,” I said. “Give me a run for my money so I can make it worthwhile. Don’t make it too easy to find you.”