When the attorney finished reading, he said, “This can of worms has to be approached with circumspection. He is indeed a prominent citizen who’s just been honored for twenty-five years of public service. And as I said before, there’s hearsay involved. Could she possibly be a little wacky from being punched? How much of the story can be proved? I want to discuss it with my partners.”
Qwilleran stroked his moustache. “I’d like to do a little discreet snooping myself. Do you remember the Campbell scandal? Or did that happen before you came to Moose County? Ramsbottom paid his way out of a misdemeanor, and he could pay his way out of a felony. I’ll call you, or you call me.”
On the way home Qwilleran stopped at the florist shop for two more carnations.
“Again?” asked the young woman with the limpid gaze. She turned down the volume on the radio that was twanging country music. “What color this time?”
“Red. And you’d better make it three.”
“Gee!” she said with a “big spender” inflection. Qwilleran decided to stop tormenting her. He explained, “I’m doing research for a column, raising a crop of butterflies in captivity. They have to be fed sugar-water, sprinkled on fresh flowers. So far, only two have hatched, but I’m expecting more… What’s that?”
A radio announcer had interrupted the music with a news bulletin. Claudine turned up the volume:
“The name of the motorist killed in the Bloody Creek gorge has just been released. The victim is a twenty-three-year-old woman, Phoebe Sloan, a local artist known as the Butterfly Girl and daughter of Mary and Orville Sloan of West Middle Hummock. The single-car accident was reported by a truck driver who noticed skid marks on the pavement early this morning and stopped to look into the gorge. The bridge over the creek at that point has been the scene of several accidents, but petitions to have the hazardous crossing improved have resulted only in cautionary road signs.”
Qwilleran threw down some money, grabbed his carnations, and hurried back to Hasselrich Bennett & Barter.
The receptionist said, “Mr. Barter isn’t seeing anyone this morning. He’s just returned from several days out of town.”
“He’ll see me! Send in my card.”
In a matter of seconds the attorney appeared and ushered Qwilleran into his office. “I didn’t expect you back so soon. Another cup of coffee?”
Qwilleran dropped into a chair. “Skip the coffee this time. My informant - who was supposed to be in the spelling competition last night and wasn’t and who was supposed to leave for California this morning and didn’t - is Phoebe Sloan. It was her body that was found in Bloody Creek this morning, victim of a single-car accident.”
“Do you suppose she was speeding to catch the shuttle?”
“The airport is southwest of Indian Village, where she’s been staying; the Bloody Creek bridge is northeast. What was she doing up there in the woods? As of this minute it’s my contention that the medical examiner will find evidence of violent death prior to the car crash. I say she was murdered elsewhere and her body driven to the bridge. The obvious suspect: the guy she was living with - the bartender. You read her letter. I could reconstruct a scenario.”
“Go ahead. What’s his name?”
“Jake Westrup. After he blackens her eye and she flees to a friend’s house, she calls her grandmother and makes arrangements to fly to California. All she has to do is wait until he’s at work and then go over and pick up her clothes and other belongings. She doesn’t know he’s been fired and will be there!”
“How do you know?”
“I get around. I hear things… So there they are, face to face. She knows too much, and he knows that she knows. There’s only one thing to do, and he does it. He has to make it look like a car accident, and he has to wait till the following night. Who knows why? I can think of several reasons… Whatever, he drives the body to the Bloody Creek bridge, straps it into the driver’s seat, then rolls the car into the gorge. From there he can easily cut through the woods and get home before daylight… I could tell you more, but the police should pick him up before he heads back to Montana. I’ll leave it up to you and the prosecutor and the medical examiner. You can take Phoebe’s letter, but leave me out of it.”
Walking away from the law office, Qwilleran experienced a singular reaction: suddenly he wanted nothing more to do with butterflies. He would set them free immediately, ready or not. There would be no celebration, no excited audience, no dissertation in the “Qwill Pen” column. He was still clutching the three carnations wrapped in green tissue, and his impulse was to toss them in the nearest trash receptacle. On second thought he drove home and left them on Celia Robinson’s doorstep; she would spend the rest of her life wondering who left them.
The Siamese were awaiting their noon treat impatiently, but he ignored them and ran up the ramp to the guestroom. All five Painted Ladies were now flying deliriously around their enclosure. He carried the box outdoors and opened it without ceremony. One of them could hardly wait to test the great outdoor world. The others followed cautiously, one by one, until all were joyously on the wing.
Qwilleran was neither glad nor sorry to see them go. He had a sense of desperation that he could not explain. The box he threw into the trash in the toolshed. Indoors he consigned all butterfly notes to the wastebasket and would have tossed the butterfly guidebook after them, but it had been borrowed from the library.
Was it anger? Or was it grief? The so-called Butterfly Girl had been just another interview subject, another - newsworthy character, yet she had told him more about herself than he wanted to know. With an artist’s instincts she had wanted to carve her own career and design her own lifestyle. One of her major decisions had been wrong, only to be followed up by impulses of equal mischance. One recollection that infuriated Qwilleran was that jackass’s rude way of calling her Monkey. And she liked it!
-18-
The Siamese always had a calming effect on Qwilleran when he was perturbed by outside circumstances. With apologies for the delay he gave them their noontime treat and watched as they devoured the Kabibbles with serious crunching and rapturously waving tails. When the last morsel was gone, and no more could be found on the floor surrounding their plates, the two epicures washed up in unison: four licks of the paw, four swipes over the mask, four passes over the ear - all repeated with the other paw. The choreography was remarkable.