Girl With The Origami Butterfly

by Linda Berry

  But the nightmarish episode in the woods last night split open an old wound. Memories of her husband’s abuse resurfaced like sharp glass slicing her skin. Every small sound—a shovel falling over, the branches of trees clicking together in the wind, made her flinch and look up, as though her drunken husband towered over her, ready to strike.

  A low buzz of anxiety hummed along her spine. She missed Bailey. Normally the hound shadowed her every move and slept on the other side of her bed at night. His absence felt like a part of her had been torn away.

  She parked her basket on the porch and crossed the clearing to the old gabled barn. An amber glow filled the interior of the cavernous structure and dust motes swirled in shafts of light. Ann climbed the creaking wooden stairs to the loft. Over the past seven years, the barn had been converted into a factory of sorts. From the loft, she could view the whole operation; the laboratory kitchen where she and Selena experimented with recipes, the four-gallon stainless steel vats used to melt beeswax for candles, the distillery equipment that reduced hundreds of pounds of flowers into oils, and in the back, rows of herbs and flowers suspended on drying racks. A bouquet of fragrances lifted into the air and combined with the sweet, musty smell of old wood.

  To make the loft homey, she and Selena had moved in a rust-colored sofa, which provided a place to curl up and read or nap. The sofa faced two overstuffed chairs dragged home from a garage sale and redressed in chenille slipcovers. One wall, lined with shelves, displayed beautifully packaged natural products labeled “From Selena’s Kitchen”—scented candles, potpourris, huckleberry vinegar, lavender honey.

  Ann’s desk was strewn with orders that needed to be processed. Selena’s desk looked the same. Lots to do, if she could only focus. This was where she normally felt safe, but today she felt like she would never be safe again.

  Ann bypassed her desk, crossed to a window, and stood gazing at her neighbor’s farm, three times larger than her own. Miko’s tidy orchards and corrugated fields stretched down to the shoreline, with tall pines and maples blurring the border between their properties.

  If not for this vantage point, Ann would never see a sign of life from her neighbor. She often distracted herself by watching Miko, like some enthralled bird enthusiast observing the habits of an exotic species. Ann knew his seasonal routines—plowing the fields in the spring, tending his vegetable fields in the summer, picking fruit from his orchard with a handful of migrant workers in the fall. In the winter, he hibernated, and if she was lucky, she caught a glimpse of him trudging through the snow to the shed for firewood. Though she had never seen him up close or exchanged a word, she felt an affinity for Miko—a man who had lived in solitude since the brutal death of his wife, who worked doggedly over the land as Ann did, grinding out a respectable living.

  Ann picked up her field glasses, scoured his property, and found him chopping wood outside a sun-bleached shed. The muscles in his back bunched up when he lifted the ax, and his forearms rippled when he swung it down and sliced through the wood. A wide-brimmed hat shaded his face. Since she lacked the ability to coordinate facial features, it made no difference whether Miko was handsome or homely. Faces were irrelevant.

  When he put down the ax and started organizing the split wood into a pile against the shed, Ann realized the man wasn’t Miko. Her neighbor had a distinctive gait with a slight limp to his right leg. This man was wider in the shoulders, narrower in the hips. With a sharp intake of breath, she realized the man was Noah, Miko’s son, whom she hadn’t seen in three years. The last few months before he went to prison, she recalled with distaste, Noah had become a disturbing presence in her life.

  He’d started stopping by her stand at the market when she was alone, and spoke to her in an arrogant, flirtatious manner. His tattoo-covered body and muscular build were easy to recognize. She always responded to him coldly, and eventually, he’d leave, uttering a crude remark. Once he stole into her stand from the back entrance and quietly stood behind her. When she backed into him, he wrapped his arms around her, held her tight, and murmured, “You feel good.”

  She’d roughly pulled away. “Please go!”

  He lingered long enough to say, “Just trying to help.” He nodded toward her parked truck. He had unloaded a few crates of vegetables while she was engaged with customers.

  “I don’t need your help.”

  Ann shivered, remembering his unwanted touch. And now he was back.

  She pulled her eyes away from Noah and gazed across the countryside. Mirrored in the lake were billowy white clouds and the brilliant reds and yellows of the forest. A flicker of movement at the edge of the woods caught her attention. A lone figure stood in the shadows and then disappeared. A man. She felt a sudden thud in her stomach. The walls of the barn shrunk inward for a moment and then swelled back out.

  Was she hallucinating? Or had she seen someone?

  Downstairs, the barn door opened. Ann went rigid.

  “Ann, are you up there?”

  Selena. Ann sighed her relief. “Yes. I’m coming down.” She had been so intent on Noah, and the male form she thought she saw, she missed Selena driving up to her house. Her friend stood silhouetted in the open doorway against the bright afternoon light.

  Selena pulled her into a warm hug and Ann allowed herself to be comforted.

  “How are you?” Selena asked, pulling away.

  “Not good,” Ann said. “I’m worried sick about Bailey.”

  “Me, too.” A pause. “I didn’t see Matt’s truck.”

  “I told him to go to work.”

  “You’ve been here alone?” Selena sounded alarmed.

  “I don’t need a babysitter. And he can’t afford to lose a day’s work.” Ann linked arms with her young friend and guided her in the direction of the house. “Let’s eat. I’m making you a special lunch. Italian.”

  “It better be marinara sauce over angel hair, with grilled eggplant.”

  Ann smiled.

  “Yum. Suddenly I’m starving.” Selena grinned. “I’ll throw a salad together.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  SIDNEY’S STOMACH TWISTED as she and Granger climbed the stairs to the front porch of the Ferguson home. She pressed the doorbell and braced herself when she heard footsteps on the other side of the door. It swung open, and Samantha’s parents stood facing them.

  Dressed in golf clothes, the couple looked as though they had just stepped off the course or were about to leave for one. Jack’s eyes widened when he saw their uniforms. A big man with broad shoulders, he appeared to be in his late fifties, with a gray, close-cropped beard and fashionable tortoiseshell glasses. Terry was petite and looked a decade younger than her husband. A tan visor shaded her hazel eyes, and reading glasses hung suspended from a gold chain around her neck.

  After exchanging introductions, Sidney cleared her throat and said, “I’m afraid I have some bad news about your daughter. Maybe we could sit down with you for a minute?”

  Jack’s face tightened and he made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “Please, come in.”

  “Thank you.” She and Granger stepped into the spacious foyer and the four stood awkwardly staring at one another. The Fergusons glanced at each other and frowned, then ushered them into a sunlit living room decorated with elegant Victorian antiques. A lot of velvet upholstery, ornate furniture, polished hardwood. For a moment, Sidney felt as though she’d stepped back in time.

  Jack and Terry sat stiffly together on the damask couch as though bracing themselves for bad news. Sidney and Granger seated themselves across from them in matching wingback chairs.

  “Christ, don’t tell me,” Jack said sternly. “Samantha’s using again.”

  Gathering her thoughts, Sidney glanced out the large window that provided a sweeping view of well-tended gardens, the tennis court, a swimming pool and the vibrant colors of the forest. She found the easiest way to convey bad news was to get straight to the point. “I’m sorry to tell you that your daughter was found dead last ni
ght.”

  Jack and Terry recoiled as though hit by bullets. Terry covered her heart with a hand and gasped.

  Jack found his voice first, and asked, “Did she OD?”

  Sidney cleared her throat. “I’m afraid she was murdered. She was found in the woods on the west shore of the lake around midnight.”

  “You’re sure it’s Samantha?” Jack asked.

  “Yes. The fingerprints match.”

  He drew in a sharp breath and closed his eyes for a moment. One of his large hands moved down to his knee, which had begun to tremble. Terry bowed her head, and a curtain of blonde hair fell over the right side of her face. She pressed a fist to her mouth and sobbed almost soundlessly, her shoulders shuddering.

  Sidney sat frozen, her eyes darting away from the raw anguish that threatened her own composure, then drifting back.

  “Do you know who did it?” Jack’s voice, almost a whisper, sounded inordinately private.

  “Not at this time,” she replied. “But we’re focusing all our efforts on finding her assailant.”

  “Please tell me she didn’t suffer,” Terry said, voice tremulous, face streaked with tears.

  “We’re still putting the facts together, Mrs. Ferguson. We’ve arranged for the M.E. to do a full examination.”

  Jack pulled a handkerchief from a back pocket and gave it to his wife.

  Terry dabbed her eyes, blew her nose, but the tears kept streaming. “When can we see her?”

  “I’ll call as soon as that information is available. Late afternoon, I imagine. We’re so sorry for your loss.” Sidney paused. “I know this is difficult, but we need to ask you a few questions that could help us find who did this. Would you like us to come back at another time?”

  Jack exchanged a glance with his wife. She nodded.

  “If it will help, we’ll do it now,” he said.

  Terry wiped tears from her flushed face and sat straighter on the couch. She looked like a smaller, older person than she had minutes ago.

  “Do you know anyone who would want to harm your daughter?”

  Jack exhaled deeply, his eyes vacant with shock. “Samantha didn’t confide in us much. She lived a private life. Other than old family friends, we don’t know who she associated with.”

  “Can you give me a list of those friends?”

  Granger pulled out a notepad and pen from his breast pocket.

  Jack stammered a few names.

  She heard Granger scribbling. “Do you know if your daughter was seeing anyone?”

  “No one we approved of.” His voice croaked. He looked away for a long moment and then continued in a husky voice. “Someone named Jason Welsh. A druggie. I think they broke it off before she went to rehab.”

  “Does the name Matt Howard mean anything to you?”

  Jack shrugged, shook his head.

  “I remember Sammy speaking of Matt.” Terry wiped tears away with trembling fingers. “They went out a few times.”

  “Do you remember the time period when they dated?” Sidney asked.

  “Back in April or May. Didn’t last long.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Probably because he didn’t party, like her other friends, or use drugs.”

  “So, she broke it off?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did he take it?”

  “Not well. Sammy told me he kept calling. Showed up at her apartment. She threatened to call the police.”

  “What about Noah Matsui?”

  Terry blinked and the muscles in her thin neck tightened. “He’s the one who got her into drugs. He went to prison.” There was a spark of anger in her now, as though she were fighting to keep control of herself. “I heard he’s out. I prayed he’d stay away from Sammy.”

  Sidney met Granger’s gaze for a moment. He raised a brow. Matt and Noah just moved to the top of her suspicious persons list. “Was Samantha staying out of trouble?”

  “Yes. She got out of rehab two weeks ago. She was a new person. Optimistic. Hopeful. She enrolled in school and was going to start next month. She wanted to be a teacher.”

  Sidney glanced at her hands to disconnect from the profound loss and anguish in Terry’s eyes.

  Jack reached over and covered his wife’s hand with his own.

  Granger kept his eyes on his notepad.

  “How was Samantha paying her bills? Waitressing at Hogan’s?”

  “Yes. She made enough to get by. We refused to help until she went to rehab. Then we paid all her expenses,” Jack said. “As long as she stayed in school, we were going to continue.”

  “Samantha had been in rehab several times. Was this time different?”

  “Yes. They approach addiction differently. Like a disease. Not a crime. A lot of therapy, a lot of structure. It wasn’t in-and-out treatment like before. There’s a satellite clinic here. She’s…” He paused to correct himself. A frown tugged the corners of his mouth. “She had been going to sessions five times a week.”

  “Sounds like she was very committed.”

  Jack nodded.

  “Did Samantha have a relationship with Mimi Matsui?”

  “Noah’s mother?” Terry looked puzzled. “I don’t know. We’re not church goers, but Sammy and I went to concerts at the Episcopal church on occasion. She had a lovely voice. Poor woman. Murdered, like my baby.” Her face contorted with grief and she covered it with both hands.

  Time to go. Sidney rose from her chair.

  Granger shoved his pen and notepad back into his pocket and stood to leave. Sidney took a moment to scan a row of gilt-framed photos on the mantle above the fireplace; a chronicle of Samantha’s life from infant to lovely young woman, and the gradual aging of her parents. The smiling faces and affectionate poses portrayed a warm, happy home life. A sanitized version of a family afflicted with the heartache of a drug-addicted child.

  Sidney and Granger repeated their condolences and left, a cloud of gloom hanging over their heads. Driving away, she noticed a white SUV parked on the road that had not been there when they arrived. She spotted Jeff sitting in the driver’s seat gazing intently at his phone, pretending he didn’t know they were there. The reporter was relentless. There was no heavy crime presence in Garnerville. Jeff normally covered social events, obits, and petty crime. He was taking this opportunity for investigative reporting seriously. Murder sold papers. She hoped he had the decency not to invade the privacy of Samantha’s grieving parents.

  CHAPTER TEN

  SELENA AND ANN busied themselves in the kitchen. Ann sautéed chopped tomatoes with garlic, onions, and fresh herbs, while angel hair pasta bubbled in a pot. Selena tossed baby spinach, Swiss chard, green olives, and crumbled feta cheese in a bowl with balsamic vinegar and olive oil. They swapped small talk about recipes, customers, and the paperwork that needed to be processed in the office. On the surface, life took on a semblance of normalcy.

  “I need wine. My nerves are shot,” Ann said, studying the wine in the cooler cabinet. She pulled out a bottle of Merlot.

  “Pour me a glass, too,” Selena said.

  Ann uncorked the wine, filled two long-stemmed glasses, and passed one to Selena. By the time the pasta was finished, she was on her second glass. They carried their dishes out to the patio and sat at a wrought iron table in the shade of the eaves.

  Cumulous clouds drifted across the blue sky, and sailboats glided on the surface of Lake Kalapuya, white sails billowing in the wind. The air smelled of damp earth. The lapping of water on the lakeshore sounded like a lullaby. Peaceful. But on the inside, Ann felt as if wild birds were clawing at her chest, trying to escape.

  “Delicious pasta,” Selena said, eating with gusto, soaking up sauce with the rosemary-cheddar scones she’d brought.

  “Thank you.” Ann pushed her food around her plate with her fork.

  “Try to eat a little,” Selena said, her sensitive face puckering with concern.

  Ann took a bite and chewed, but the pasta stuck in her throat like dry sto
nes. She washed it down with a sip of wine. “Your sister’s good at her job. I saw her in action last night. She seemed fearless. I sat cowering in the car while she tramped off into the woods like a Marine, armed with a shotgun.”

  “She can be a badass, for sure, just like Dad. I wish he’d lived to see her become police chief. He would’ve been so proud. They had a lot in common. Love for the law, helping people.”

  Ann watched her friend eat the last bite of scone. “You worry about her?”

  “Not as much as when she was in Oakland.” She bit her bottom lip. “Until last night.”

  “Did she tell you what happened?”

  “Yes, but I can’t talk about an ongoing investigation.”

  “I saw the coroner’s van. I know that woman was murdered.”

  “Yes. She’s dead.”

  “That could have been me, too.” Ann shuddered and sipped more wine. For a long moment, they sat in silence listening to chimes tinkle in the light breeze. The trees moved gently, incessantly whispering. Life felt surreal.

  Selena pushed her plate away and sat back in her chair. “I’m glad Sidney’s on the job. If anyone can find this killer, she can. She closed a large percent of her murder cases in Oakland.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.” Selena leveled her clear green eyes on Ann. “It took a toll on her, though. She gets compulsive. Can’t leave a case alone until the rat’s in the cage. I think she was on the verge of a breakdown when she moved back home.” Selena shook her head. “Witnessed too much death. Too many crime scenes.”

  Ann felt a little lightheaded. “We need to take care of her. Make sure she eats healthy.”

  “I’ve tried to get her to come to yoga, but she only laughs. She says people shouldn’t do some of those poses without a chiropractor on the scene.”

  “I agree.” Half-smile. “How’re you doing? Have you heard from Randy?” Ann knew Selena’s rodeo bum husband had moved back to town two months ago and was working as a baker at Katie’s Cafe. The two had been separated for a year, but neither seemed to have the will to pull the cord and bail completely out of the marriage. Selena rarely brought him up in conversation. The corners of her mouth lifted slightly, but Ann sensed it was a sad smile.