Poor Butterfly by Stuart M. Kaminsky Read Free Book Online Page A

on up here. Got to go downstairs, find some glasses, clean ’em out, fill ’em up, juggle ’em up here. I’ll lose most of it. You could get over to the Longshore Bar before I’d be back.”
    Lorna groaned and rubbed her cheek against the little dog. Vera helped her toward a marble bench against the wall.
    “Get the water, Raymond,” Lundeen insisted, moving to help Vera with Lorna.
    “I’ll miss something,” Raymond complained.
    “I’ll bring you up to date,” I promised.
    Raymond shuffled off, hands plunged deeply into his overall pockets.
    Lorna was sitting on the bench leaning against Vera when I reached the three of them. There was enough room for Lundeen, but he was standing.
    “He came up behind me,” Lorna gasped. “I was … from under the staircase. From the right. No, the left. I didn’t hear … well, maybe I heard … something. Then it, something was around my neck. My purse. I dropped my purse.”
    She looked around for her purse. Vera showed her it was still on the strap around her neck.
    “I screamed,” she said. “I could smell his breath. Sickening. Sweet. My head bumped against his face.” She shuddered. “His face was … hard. I think Miguelito bit him. Then he was gone.”
    “I’ll call the police,” Lundeen said, turning.
    “The police,” Lorna cried. “What will they do? They’ll say I did it myself, that we’re looking for publicity. If they wouldn’t believe Leopold Stokowski, they certainly won’t believe me. The only thing that would make them believe is my dead body.”
    Anger was taking over, masking the fear. I’d seen it before. It was safer to be angry than frightened. She would turn into attacker instead of victim.
    “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