Poor Butterfly by Stuart M. Kaminsky

down the stairway, then I headed back into the men’s room. I took two minutes to search it. No doors, no panels, nothing. Back in the hall I thought I heard a sound. I headed across the hallway to one of the doors marked. MEZZAMINE. I opened it and stepped into darkness and the smell of mildewed carpet.
    The theater was quiet. The door closed behind me. I stood, trying not to move, listening.
    “Poor butterfly.” The man’s voice came from above, echoing.
    I listened quietly and when he finished the song with, “you just must die, poor butterfly,” I applauded slowly, without enthusiasm.
    “You jest,” came the voice.
    “When I can,” I called out. “Did you kill the plasterer?”
    “His name was Wyler,” the voice said. “To you he was just a plasterer, but he and I were very close for a brief period.”
    “You killed him,” I said, trying to get a fix on the voice.
    “I gave him the opportunity to see if he could fly,” said the voice. “He was unable to do so. Close the doors or the butterfly dies. It would be a shame for our beautiful diva butterfly to have such a short life.”
    “Buddy,” I said, “you are a ham.”
    “On wry,” he called back and laughed.
    I wasn’t sure I got the joke. I wouldn’t have laughed even if I had.
    “I’m on a daily retainer,” I said. “Give me a run for my money so I can make it worthwhile. Don’t make it too easy to find you.”
    “We won’t,” he said. “You’ll see me soon. Ah, wait. A present before I take my leave.”
    Something whirled from the darkness under the boxes across from where I was standing. Whatever it was flew toward me. I moved to my right and the thing hit the wall of the box and clattered to the floor. I got up and looked over the railing. I thought I saw a figure, black against black. I know I heard a door close.
    I considered getting out, down the stairs and after him, but I knew I had no chance. Instead I reached down and picked up the ax Erik had thrown. The light was bad, but even in the dimness I could see there was something wet and sticky on the blade. I had a few guesses about what it might be.

5

    I t was late afternoon when Lundeen and I and a young woman named Gwen, who seemed to have no lips and eyes twice the size of normal behind thick glasses, put together the notes on where everyone in the building said they were when Lorna Bartholomew was attacked. Gwen, in addition to having no lips, had no breasts and no sense of humor. She was, Lundeen explained, a volunteer, a graduate student of music history at the University of San Francisco. Gwen was wearing a green dress with puffy shoulders and ruffles around the collar.
    We were sitting in Lundeen’s office at his conference table. Lundeen needed a shave and a new tie or a thinner neck. He kept shaking his head at the pile of papers. I had already called Los Angeles and told my “team of agents” to get to San Francisco by the next morning.
    “Gwen,” I said.
    She looked up from putting the scraps of paper into neat piles.
    “Yes,” she said, giving me her full attention.
    “You know what to do?”
    “Yes,” she said. “I’m checking alibis. And you want me to see who, if anyone, doesn’t have reasonable corroboration, an alibi, for the period in question. You’d like me to do the same for the period in which Mr. Wyler the plasterer died. In that case, I am to determine who was at the rehearsal.”
    Lundeen looked at the girl hopefully. Perhaps she would solve all of his problems. The police had certainly failed to solve any of them.
    After Erik had heaved the ax, Lundeen had insisted on calling the authorities. About twenty minutes later a pair of cops were ushered by Raymond into the mezzanine box where Lundeen and I were waiting. On the main floor, about forty people were gathered, waiting to find out why they had been called. The workers weren’t complaining. They were paid by the hour. Some of the opera staff were grumbling. There were no musicians