All the Butterflies in the World

by Rodney Jones

  As soon as we made it back to the car, Liz said, “My God, Tess! Thirty thousand? For a book?”

  “Say I get thirty for the book. That would put me at fifty thousand. I think I can buy seven hundred ounces of silver for ten thousand. How much can I get for fifty?” I did a quick calculation. “Thirty-five hundred. Whoa! That’s—”

  “A lot,” Liz said.

  “So how much would that be worth in 1875?”

  “Even more?”

  “Approximately a lot more,” I said.

  chapter twenty-two

  John

  Judge Pinkerton lifted his muddy-brown eyes from the indictment lying on the polished mahogany desktop before him. “Says here there were three witnesses who saw you within four paces of the body.” He peered at me over the top of his spectacles then looked at Mr. William Buckhurst, the prosecutor sitting in a tall-back chair to my right.

  Buckhurst was a pale man with dark, sunken eyes and a prominent beak. His crow-black hair was precisely parted, glued down the middle of his pink scalp like tar on a pig’s rump. The judge glanced at the sheriff leaning against the varnished walnut paneling to my left then turned his attention back to me.

  “Sir,” I said, “I believe it was double that.”

  “Six witnesses?”

  “No, eight paces.”

  He raised a bushy gray eyebrow then returned to the document, dragging his index finger across it. “Tess McKinnon… what’s this? No father? No mother? No town of residence, age, or anything? Who in the dickens was this gal?”

  The sheriff tapped the floor with the toe of his boot, one hand tucked under a black suspender, the other twisting one end of his well-greased handlebar moustache. “Mr. Paulson claims she was staying under his roof.”

  “Mr. Paulson?”

  “You’ll be seeing him next, Your Honor,” Mr. Buckhurst said.

  “He’s the fellow who attacked me,” McNeil said. “Quite ornery, I might say. I had to shoot the bastard to stop him from killing me.”

  “That’s hogwash,” I said. “My uncle was trying to protect his family, is all.”

  “Let’s not get sidetracked here. One calamity at a time.” The judge flipped to the next page. “So you’re telling me we don’t even know the victim’s age? Was she five? Eighty? What?”

  “Seventeen,” I said.

  The judge turned a stern eye on me. “Son, I’m going to have to ask you to keep your trap shut. I’m addressing these gentlemen here.”

  “Fifteen would be my best guess,” McNeil said.

  “A young and impressionable age,” Mr. Buckhurst added.

  The judge leafed through several more pages. “Have I missed something? I’m not seeing a coroner’s report here.”

  The prosecutor cocked his head. “Coroner’s report?”

  “Yes, a report from the coroner,” the judge said. “I’m sure a man in your line of work is familiar with such.”

  “Well, of course. But—”

  “She was shot,” McNeil said.

  “Your Honor,” Buckhurst said, “I believe that if you were to spend a moment or two with the details there, all thorough and tidy, you’d agree that we have more than enough evidence to convict this murderer.” He threw a glance my way.

  The judge sighed. “Was she shot before she died or after?”

  “Well, before, naturally.”

  “And what brings you to that conclusion, Mr. Buckhurst?”

  “It stands to reason, sir. No juror is going to question that.”

  “Mr. Buckhurst, we can’t try a murder without a coroner’s report. It’s just that simple. You’re surely aware of the requirement.”

  The sheriff’s mouth hung open. “We have witnesses. One of ’em is the son of a highly respected preacher.”

  The judge closed his eyes and groaned. “No one is dead, Henry, not without that report. And because there is no death, there can be no murder.” He gestured at me. “You’ll have to release this boy if this is all you’ve got.”

  “I’ll get you that report, Your Honor,” Mr. Buckhurst said. “Just give me a few days.”

  The judge shook his head. “So what do we do with this fellow in the meantime?”

  I pictured myself hightailing it for the ribbon place—no horse, no food, no money—just me and enough determination to do it twice over.

  “Suspicion of murder,” Mr. Buckhurst stated.

  I held my breath. No, I prayed, tell him no. Let me go.

  “Suspicion of what murder?” The judge tapped the documents. “I see no proof of a death here.”

  The veins in McNeil’s forehead bulged as he shook a fat finger at me. “Hold him for assault of a federal marshal. And robbery. He stole my gun, tried to kill me with it.”

  “Oh?” The judge riffled through his stack of papers then turned to me. “And what say you, Mr. Bartley? Are you guilty of these crimes?”

  “Sir, I was as close to the sheriff as I presently am. If I had a gun and wanted to kill him, then why is he standing here perfectly healthy?”

  “So what is that? Are you trying to tell me something, son?”

  “I’m innocent, sir.”

  “You didn’t steal Sheriff McNeil’s gun?”

  “I borrowed it… to avoid being shot.”

  A smile came to the judge’s face. “Do you have an attorney?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You’ll need one.”

  “I can’t afford one.”

  The judge drummed his desktop with his fingertips. “I’ll see if I can find you some help.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He again turned to Mr. Buckhurst. “If you want to prosecute a murder trial in my court, you’ll have to provide some evidence that there has been a murder. I want to see a coroner’s report.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “As it stands, Mr. Bartley, you are being held for theft of state property, a felony. You’ll face additional charges as more evidence is provided. I’m setting bond at four hundred dollars.”

  The sheriff had a pained look on his face. “What about the assault charge?”

  “You want to see a hanging, Henry, you’ll need more than that.”

  Uncle Ed returned from the courthouse, looking drained. He had pled guilty after the judge explained that it would mean only twenty-seven days in jail. A not guilty plea, he was told, could wind up costing him more if he was later found guilty, which the judge figured he would be.

  “Four hundred dollars?” my uncle said. “Lil and I have eighty-six.”

  I nodded. “I left my money with Tess. Seventeen dollars is a long way from four hundred, anyhow.”

  Uncle Ed pulled his blanket tight around his shoulders. “Four hundred. If we could get you out of here, you could disappear to you know where. We’ll borrow the money if we can.”

  “I can’t do that, sir. I can’t leave you with such a burden.”

  “Well, we’ve got the three horses and the wagon. They’d maybe fetch us a few hundred.”

  “I don’t think there’s time for that, sir. The sheriff and the prosecutor are dead set on having themselves a murder trial. And they will, once they get their coroner’s report.”

  “We can’t give up, John.” My uncle leaned back against the brick wall and closed his eyes.

  “I’m not. I just haven’t figured it out yet.”

  That evening, when Deputy Hoffman and Mrs. McNeil showed up with our supper, the distinctive smell of ham and beans preceded them. Hoffman stepped forward to unlock our cell door.

  “Sir,” I said, “I believe Dr. White might ought to have another look at my uncle. He’s been feeling more and more poorly since this morning.”

  “It’s gonna have to wait. The sheriff left special orders. No visitors without his knowin’.”
>
  “Well, can’t you just let him know, sir?”

  “I would if I could, son, but he’s off to Greendale with the coroner.”

  “I’ll fetch him.” Mrs. McNeil’s dress whispered against the bars as she spun around to set the supper tray on the stool behind her.

  The deputy looked surprised. “What?”

  “The doctor,” she said.

  “Mary Anne, Henry was specific.”

  “Well, he doesn’t really need to know now, does he?” She turned and left.

  “I can’t let you do that,” Hoffman said.

  “You can let her lug honey pots in and outta here, but she can’t see to a poor man’s fever?” Mr. Ferguson growled from his cell. “You lawmen are as hard to figure as beans in a jar.”

  Hoffman called out, “This ain’t nothing to do with you, Joe.”

  “I’m just a sayin’, Al.”

  My uncle rolled over on his bunk.

  I bent over him and put a hand to his forehead. “He’s burning up.”

  Thirty minutes later, Dr. White was at my uncle’s side. He measured his temperature, administered some medicine, and changed the bandage. Hoffman leaned against the whitewashed corridor wall, rolling a cigarette while glancing frequently toward the front office. Mrs. McNeil watched from the open cell door, a concerned look in her eyes.

  “Mr. Hoffman,” Dr. White said, “this man is not getting the fresh air he needs.”

  “He’s getting the air he deserves,” the deputy mumbled.

  The doctor stood and grabbed his leather bag.

  I started to put a hand on his arm then remembered I was a prisoner. “Is it getting worse?”

  He turned to me with sympathetic eyes and a subtle nod. “I’ll drop back by in the morning.”

  Mrs. McNeil’s eyes dropped down to her folded hands. “What can I do?”

  The doctor gave her a puzzled look.

  “There must be something I can do to help,” she added.

  “You’ve done more than what’s expected of you, Mary Anne.”

  Her chin wrinkled as though she might be fighting back tears. “Which is just about nothing.”

  The doctor walked over and patted her shoulder. “Well, I’ll tell you what. You can give him a cup of hot water with a teaspoon of molasses and a drop or two of turpentine. One in the morning and another in the evening. It’ll improve his appetite. That there’s about the best anyone can do.”

  The morning following the doctor’s visit, Mrs. McNeil delivered our breakfast and emptied the slop pails as usual. The food, however, was not the usual. The fare included apples, butter, and molasses mixed in with the oats. She’d also brought an extra blanket for my uncle, and I discovered a few boiled eggs tucked in its folds.

  “Don’t let Mr. Hoffman learn of this,” she whispered.

  The medicinal tea she’d made per the doctor’s instructions smelled a bit like house paint, but it appeared to make a difference. In the days that followed, Uncle Ed spent more time awake, talking mostly about his worries over Lil. We didn’t see the sheriff at all, which brightened everyone’s mood, even Mr. Hoffman’s.

  Then, one afternoon, Mr. Hoffman entered the corridor with a man I didn’t recognize. The fellow had on a well-worn suit and a dusty derby. He was clean-shaven with a droopy face that made me wonder if it’d ever seen a smile.

  “Mr. Bartley, you have a visitor,” the deputy announced. He spun around and went back into the office.

  The man stepped up to the cell door and stuck his hand in through the bars. Curious, I stepped over and shook the fellow’s hand.

  “Charles Morse,” the man said.

  A hoarse chuckle and a cough came from up the corridor. “That you, Chuck?” Joe called.

  Mr. Morse glanced to his left then, without a word, turned back to me. The puffiness around his mouth left me with the impression that he’d spent a good portion of his life indignantly defending himself.

  “Did ya go and git yourself a new hat, Chuck? That’s a lawyer’s hat, ain’t it?” Joe laughed.

  Morse drew in a breath and said, “Judge Pinkerton has asked me to give you a hand with your defense in court.”

  “I can’t pay you much of anything, sir,” I said. “I’ve got no money.”

  Mr. Morse shrugged. “I was told to expect as much. I’ll be paid by the state, my usual wages.”

  “Are you a lawyer?”

  “Well, no, not exactly.” He reached up and scratched the back of his neck. “I work for the county.”

  “‘Not exactly.’” Joe chuckled. “Spoken like a true lawyer.”

  I glanced to my left, willing Joe to shut his yap. “Do you know if they’ll be bringing more charges against me?”

  Morse squinted and furrowed his brow. “Did you do it?”

  “Oh, I like that,” Joe said. “Didja do it?”

  “Is he being tried for murder or theft?” my uncle said. He’d managed to prop himself up in his bunk.

  “Sir, I don’t believe this concerns you,” Mr. Morse said.

  I waved my hand. “Mr. Morse, this is my uncle, Edwin Paulson.”

  “Oh.” Morse blinked and nodded. “Beg your pardon, sir.”

  “I can tell you, for a fact, John never killed anyone. It was the same person who did this.” Uncle Ed patted his chest.

  Mr. Morse looked at my uncle. “So who did that?”

  “Henry McNeil.”

  Mr. Morse grabbed the stool and pulled it close to the bars. He sat down and said, “I probably should hear your side of the story, Mr. Bartley.”

  chapter twenty-three

  Tess

  On Wednesday night, Liz and I drove to Nicole’s house, where another fat brick of hundred-dollar bills awaited me, ninety of them.

  Then on Friday, Mr. Harrison called. I had to have him repeat the amount twice before it sunk in.

  The moment I got off the phone with him, I called Liz. “Sixty-six thousand, three hundred dollars,” I said as soon as she answered. “That’s how much I got for John’s book.”

  “Are you freaking kidding me?”

  “Nope. Have you eaten? Mom’s out getting stinko with Mick. Do you want to go into town and get some… what’s your favorite food ever? I’m buying.”

  An hour later, we were sitting in The Starry Night, my favorite Rutland restaurant, eating crab cakes, sea scallops, and the best calamari I’d ever pigged out on. The fact the food was so good was excuse enough to delay giving her the news. But when she’d licked the last bit of crème brûlée from her spoon, I dropped the bomb.

  “I’ve decided to go.” I was certain she knew what I was talking about. She’d known for some time now that this was coming.

  “Now?” she said. “Before you’ve paid?”

  She could be such a smart ass. I would miss that, always. I’d miss her more than anything and everything.

  I explained, the best I could, telling her of the feelings I had for John.

  She stared at me for a long moment, saying nothing. Then her eyes drifted off into oblivion, where it was all about me and her, all about misunderstanding my priorities and misjudging my motives. I hated that moment. I fought the urge to undo it, take it back, but of course nothing could be taken back. It was said, and that was that.

  And then she snapped, “Pay the freakin’ bill. I want to go home.”

  “Liz, I’m really—”

  She scooted back from the table, stood, and marched to the door. I had anticipated having to slog through her feelings of betrayal hidden behind sarcasm and guilt-trip tactics, but I was determined to treat her with sincerity and respect. To her, whatever she was feeling, whether justified or not, was as good as truth. It was her truth.

  The waiter came over and asked if everything was okay. Glancing toward the door, I assured him I was fine but
that I was in a bit of a hurry.

  I opened my purse. “How much is the bill?”

  “I’ll be right back with that.” He started to walk away.

  “Please, can I just give you…” I pulled out a hundred and held it out to him. “Is that enough?”

  He stood there as though struggling with the math.

  I dug out another twenty and dropped all the money on the table. “I’ve got to go.” I got up and headed toward the door. I had a picture in my mind of Liz standing in the parking lot next to my car, fuming and working up an account of the many ways my leaving betrayed our friendship. And she would be right that I was risking it and a lot more. I hoped that I could return, but I had to operate on the assumption that I would never be able to come home.

  I stepped outside and hurried to my car. Liz was nowhere to be seen. Turning, I scanned the area in front of the restaurant. The lights of passing cars swept by, pushing shadows to one side then the other, but Liz was not among them.

  I called out her name, turned, and called again. When I got no response, I walked to the edge of the street and looked in both directions. No Liz.

  We both had friends in town. I figured she was on her way to one of their houses. I climbed into my car, dug my phone from my bag, and scrolled down my list of contacts. I called Liz first. The call went to voice mail after a few rings.

  “Liz, please don’t do this. Call me. Don’t turn your back on me.” As the words left my mouth, it hit me what a flaming hypocrite I was. “I love you, Liz,” I added before hanging up.

  I called Nicole next. “Have you heard from Liz?”

  “No, why?”

  “Crap. We just had a fight. She won’t answer my calls.”

  “Oh, that sucks.”

  “Would you do me a favor and call her? Make sure she’s okay and that she has a ride home.”

  “A ride home?”

  I explained what had happened at the restaurant, leaving out the part about possibly ditching all my friends forever. Liz, I realized, was in such a state that she could sabotage things. But no, that wasn’t her style. She would keep my secret.