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

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