Waiting for Butterflies Read online

  “Hmm, let me guess.” Maggie winked. “It must be Samantha.”

  The dimples in Olivia’s cheeks deepened. She shook her head.

  “No? Well, it must be Morgan then. Surely it’s Morgan’s turn to be student of the week.”

  “It’s me! Olivia Alaina Blake! And I get to make a poster about me and then I get to show it to the whole class and tell them about it, and then my teacher will hang it in the hallway for the whole week! Isn’t that great, Mom? I have lots of ideas for my poster!”

  Maggie kissed the girl on her nose and took her hand. With an apologetic wave to the teacher for being early, she led Olivia to the classroom, all the while listening as the child’s plans multiplied and divided and became contagious, lifting the cloud that had followed Maggie all day. Maggie gathered papers out of a cubby, slipped her arm through the straps of a backpack, and steered Olivia toward the car.

  “Where are we going, Mommy?” Olivia paused her planning long enough to ask as Maggie turned the car in the opposite direction of their usual route.

  “To the store. I have to get a few groceries before we pick up Rachel from school, so I can have dinner ready early tonight. I have some exciting news myself.” Maggie decided to give herself permission to share the joy she had suppressed since the phone call she received late morning. “I’m showing the old Hitching house this evening.”

  Maggie felt as bubbly as Olivia, but she contained it much better. For years she’d wavered between feeling sorry and secretly happy that the 1912 two-story farmhouse that sat just outside city limits had not sold. The few times she’d shown the house, she’d swept potential buyers from room to room, trying to revive the life still left in the old southern belle. But no one seemed able to overlook the flaws and envision the beauty the way Maggie could. She dreamed of holding a contract in her hands, writing her signature on the black line above buyer rather than broker, and renovating the house into a quaint bed and breakfast.

  “Oh, I don’t want go to the store.” Olivia slumped in her booster seat.

  “If we don’t go to the store, where will we get supplies to make your fabulous poster?”

  The little girl leaned forward and listed the required items on her dainty fingers. “We need poster board and glue and glitter . . .”

  While Olivia inventoried the craft department, Maggie imagined driving past a newly purchased Hitching house every day, admiring each new improvement, witnessing the revival of the magnificent home. Even if she couldn’t realize her dream, she hoped someday a new buyer would love the old place as much as she did.

  “We’re here.” A text appeared on Sam’s cell. He looked at the time, just after 1500 hours. Reports, interviews, and crime scene photos lay scattered across the table in front of him and two other detectives who were sifting through them, trying to see with new eyes the words they had read over and over, words that led nowhere.

  “Hey, I’m gonna take a break. The family’s here. Why don’t you do the same, and we’ll meet back in fifteen.”

  “Yep. I need to get my head out of this.” Donnie Wade tossed a file aside and leaned back in his chair. A young detective, he was sharp, ambitious, and earning the lieutenant’s respect.

  Nikki Shaw continued to study the interview in her hand. “I’m in my zone. But you go ahead. Family first.” Without looking Sam’s direction, she tossed a mane of red hair over her shoulder.

  Sam flinched. It was her tone, the same tone she’d used when they interviewed Ricky’s widow earlier in the day. As much as Sam didn’t want to, they’d had to ask her about a single piece of evidence the medical examiner found on Ricky’s sleeve. A blonde hair. Ricky’s wife, a brunette, had no idea who the hair might belong to, and after a few silent moments, began to cry. “You’re not suggesting—” she’d said. That’s exactly what Sam was suggesting, though he didn’t want to believe it. Was Ricky having an affair? Did a jealous boyfriend or husband find out? But he wouldn’t say that to Ricky’s widow. Not yet. Detective Shaw, on the other hand, didn’t hesitate. “It happens,” Shaw had said, in that same tone.

  Sam pushed away from the table without comment. He turned down the hall, and beyond the glass doors that led to the police department lobby, his girls waited for him. Olivia, holding Maggie’s hand, jumped up and down when she saw him.

  “Daddy!”

  Sam pushed open the lobby door, bent down, and caught Olivia as she sprang toward him. She threw her arms around his neck as he greeted Maggie with a quick kiss and pulled Rachel to his side for a hug, which she tolerated. At fourteen, public affection from a parent was forbidden, but he planned to pretend he was oblivious to Rachel’s discomfort as long as she would allow. “How are my girls?”

  “Guess what, Daddy! I’m student of the week!” Olivia proceeded to tell him about her poster and her plans and the three different colors of glitter that would make her poster the best. “Wow, Livi. Sounds like you had a great day.” He pecked her nose and turned to Rachel. “And how was your day?”

  “Fine.”

  “Just fine? Not great?” Sam grinned. The teenager before him still resembled the seven-year-old who once announced, “School interrupts my life.” Her mantra would make a good bumper sticker for her first car, a car she would get only if she stayed on the honor roll, even if school wasn’t her favorite way to spend seven hours every day.

  “It’s eighth grade, Dad. There’s too much drama for any day to be great.” She gave him an eye-roll followed by a half smile that mirrored his own.

  “And how about Mom? Was Mom’s day great?” The glow that had not left her face since he entered the lobby indicated it was.

  She poised a finger in the air. “Promising. What about you? Are you getting anywhere with the investigation?”

  “Mmm. Maybe. So, what’s up?”

  She took a deep breath, and Sam sensed her resistance to spill over with excitement.

  “I’m showing the Hitching house this evening, and based on my phone conversation with the potential buyers, I think they might be serious.”

  “That is promising. You haven’t shown that property in months.” And for good reason, but Sam trapped that thought on the tip of his tongue as always. The house would be a perpetual vacuum on a bank account. He couldn’t share her optimism for the potential sale, but he enjoyed seeing his wife distracted from the sadness that enveloped her last night.

  “You’re showing the house this evening, so—” There must be a connection with the unexpected visit. “Do you need something?” Evidence from the investigation that lay scattered across the table flashed in his mind.

  “Well, I’m meeting the buyers at 6:00, which won’t leave us much time before dusk, but I thought I could have dinner ready by 5:00. Can you make it home to eat with us, and then stay with the girls while I’m out?”

  Sam weighed his options, trying to veil the struggle so Maggie wouldn’t see it on his face. Was it really necessary for him to be home with the girls? Couldn’t Rachel watch Olivia? He still had so much to do before he wanted to call it a day. He was focused on finding a suspect, or a witness, or at least another piece of evidence. There had to be someone with information to keep this investigation alive. Maybe a blonde.

  But he hadn’t seen his girls in forty-eight hours, and the weight of Olivia in his arms reminded him of what he was missing. “Sure.” He gave Olivia a squeeze. “What’s for supper?”

  Rachel buttered the garlic bread as Maggie pulled a piece of spaghetti out of boiling water for testing. “So, what do you think, Mom? Can I make a good argument that the art in photography is going extinct because of technology?” She hesitated. “Do you think it’s weird?”

  “I think it’s magnificent.” Maggie loved many things about her right-brained, out-of-the-box daughter, but she especially enjoyed their shared passion for photography. Maggie had taken a class in college for fun and found herself immersed in a new hobby. She bought a used Pentax K-1000, an excellent choice for student photographers the shop o
wner said. She’d spent hours outside of class learning through trial and error, mastering composition, experimenting with depth of field, and just as many hours in the darkroom, watching chemicals wash over blank photo paper to reveal, she hoped, her next masterpiece. The professor recognized Maggie’s interest, and as he cleaned out old darkroom supplies, he gave them to her. By the time she graduated, she had acquired nearly everything she needed to start her own darkroom. With her first paycheck after college, she purchased a used enlarger to complete her setup. It was her original camera and enlarger that Rachel learned on and still used.

  “Speaking of photography . . .” Maggie stepped aside as her daughter reached for the oven door. “Guess what I saw today?”

  Rachel raised her eyebrows as she slid a pan of garlic bread onto the wire rack.

  “An old barn on a property I might be listing.”

  “Cool!” Rachel set the timer and leaned against the counter.

  “It has a lot of contrasts that’ll make stunning black and whites—boards weathered varying shades of gray, a metal roof covered with large patches of rust, sunrays shining between tired fence posts extending from the barn to enclose a small corral.”

  Rachel clasped her hands together as if in earnest prayer. “Barns are my favorite, Mom.”

  Maggie laughed. As if she didn’t already know that. She couldn’t count the times Rachel had begged to stop when they drove past a dilapidated barn, so she could capture it with her ever present camera.

  “There’s also an old stone cellar on the property that would make some good shots, too.” Maggie answered Rachel’s question before she could ask. “Do you want to drive out there with me after school tomorrow? I’m meeting the owners to negotiate the listing. I mentioned that you might enjoy photographing some of the structures on the place.”

  “S-weet! Mom, that’s so awesome! Thank you! Thank you! But . . . I’ll be right back.” Rachel sprinted out of the kitchen and returned seconds later, camera in hand. “I have a few pictures left on this roll. I need to finish them, so I can reload for tomorrow.” She aimed the camera. “Say cheese!”

  “Geez, Rachel.” Maggie shaded her face with her hand. “I think you can find a better subject than me cooking dinner.”

  “Aw, come on, Mom. Strike a pose!” Rachel giggled.

  Maggie played along, enjoying her daughter’s laughter as she focused the lens and finished the last few shots. She rewound the film, popped open the camera, and snatched the canister.

  “I’m gonna reload.” Rachel disappeared into the hall as the oven timer beeped and Maggie pulled out the garlic bread.

  Sam opened the front door. “Something smells good.”

  “Hey, can you set the table? I lost my helper.”

  Olivia ran from her bedroom and met Sam as he entered the kitchen. “Daddy, you’re home!”

  “How about you and me help Mommy with dinner?” Sam ruffled her curls.

  After the blessing, the clink of forks on plates mixed with the family chatter. “Olivia, I put a stack of magazines on the coffee table in the family room. You can cut out pictures of a few of your favorite things to put on your poster.”

  “Like puppies! And ice cream!”

  “Or . . .” Rachel hummed a familiar tune and waved her knife in the air like a conductor’s baton. Olivia squinted. Rachel hummed louder.

  Then the child’s face lit up and her mouth fell open.

  “Mom, you said ‘a few of your favorite things,’ like the song!”

  Maggie smiled at her inadvertent reference to the song she sang as a lullaby when the girls were babies, and that Olivia still sometimes requested.

  “Hey, it’s 5:30. You better get going.” Sam nodded toward the clock on the wall.

  “Yeah, I better.” Maggie pushed back her chair. “Olivia, will you help clear the table? Rachel, load the dishwasher, please. I should be home in time to tuck you in. I’ll call if I’m going to be late.”

  She bent down and kissed her girls. Then she placed her hand on Sam’s cheek as she passed his chair. “Thanks for coming home for dinner.” She paused and gazed into his eyes, acknowledging the work he left behind at the station. A few short years ago, work trumped dinner, her, everything.

  “Love you.” She glanced back at her family and closed the door behind her.

  CHAPTER 3

  Once dinner was cleared and the hum of the dishwasher dismissed them, Sam and Olivia retreated to the family room, Sam to lose himself in a sitcom, an old movie, maybe a football game, anything to keep his mind off the investigation. Olivia tackled the stack of magazines.

  Rachel didn’t join them. Eager to prepare for her photo op the next day, she disappeared to her darkroom. The space was not much larger than a walk-in closet, which her dad converted into a darkroom a couple years ago when her mom decided it was time to revive her old hobby and pass it on to Rachel. But she always suspected there was more behind the plan than her mom revealed, since her mom suggested it about the same time Rachel was cut from the fall soccer league, and Kristen was selected for the all-star traveling team. Rachel wasn’t nearly as disappointed as her parents thought she might be. In fact, she was relieved. She only played because Kristen begged her to back in third grade when everybody made the team. She quickly learned Kristen was the athlete, not her. But being on the team allowed them to spend time together, even though Kristen was on the field most of the time while she yelled from the sidelines. When Kristen was chosen for all-stars, Rachel had no reason to stay on the team without her, so the cut wasn’t devastating. Still, she enjoyed her parents’ sympathy for a few days, and as far as she was concerned, the resulting darkroom was the best consolation prize a girl could ask for.

  Although she wasn’t developing film this evening, Rachel turned off the overhead so the darkroom red light could cast its glow. Her eyes adjusted, and a calm washed through her. This was her sanctuary. The roll of film she had finished before dinner was in her hand. Searching for a safe place to keep it until she could develop it, she decided to set it on the counter beside her favorite piece of equipment, the timer. She loved the black square box with the silver toggle switch on top, which controlled the arm that swept by the illuminated numbers and hash marks, counting off the seconds of light exposure needed to develop a photo. Timing was crucial. Too much time or too little would be disastrous.

  Rachel proceeded to check her equipment. The bulb on the enlarger worked. The developing trays were in line and ready to process. She had an adequate supply of chemical solution but noted she would need to restock soon. To her right and stretching nearly the length of the room was a clothesline her dad put up, so she could hang her prints to dry. She stepped over to inspect her most recent photos still hanging by clothespins. Her favorite, she decided, was a close-up of Olivia eating a chocolate ice cream cone; the evidence surrounded her mouth. Rachel had taken a series of shots, but the best one showed Olivia rushing to catch drips of chocolate racing down the cone. The photo captured the determination on her face as she squished her brows and stretched her tongue to make the rescue. Maybe Olivia would like to use the picture for her poster. Rachel smiled and unclipped it from the line.

  She removed the other photos as well and added them to the album where she stored most of her prints. Her favorites, however, were kept in a special album in her bedroom, and the very best were framed and hung on her wall, surrounded by her other artwork—watercolors, oil pastels, acrylics. Reluctant to leave the darkroom but having no reason to stay, Rachel decided to gather the other three albums she had filled to date and began flipping through the pages, starting with the first and working her way through the last two years of photos. She was amazed how her skills noticeably improved from her early prints to the most recent.

  As she closed the last book, a yawn signaled bedtime was near. Surprised at how long she’d been in the darkroom, she returned the albums to their shelf, snatched the photo of Olivia, and started up the stairs, just in time to hear someone open
the front door. “Good. Mom’s home.”

  Maggie waited on the front porch of the Hitching house. The buyers were a few minutes late, which gave her time to gather herself after a rushed evening at home and rehearse her dynamic sales pitch. She knew very little about the couple she was soon to meet. They were from Kansas City, newly retired, and searching for a place close to their daughter and grandchildren, Mr. Hill had explained over the phone. He called after seeing the listing on the Internet. Although it seemed an unlikely match, a retired couple and a large farmhouse, Maggie had a feeling about this. The commission would be nice, but more than that, she looked forward to the property being off the market, so she could squelch the desire to own the house herself.

  A blue pick-up slowed as it approached. Its turn signal told Maggie the buyers had arrived. Mr. Hill exited the driver’s side, walked around the front of the vehicle, and opened the passenger door for his wife. Maggie liked this couple already. She walked down the steps to meet them on the sidewalk and offered her hand. “Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Hill? I’m Maggie Blake. It’s so nice to meet you.”

  After they exchanged greetings, Maggie gestured toward the house. “I don’t mean to rush you, but we better get started. I want you to see everything while we still have daylight.” She led the couple to the sweeping porch that wrapped across the front and around both sides of the house.

  “This would be perfect for a porch swing and some rocking chairs for a retired couple like us.” Mr. Hill grinned and pointed his thumb from himself to his wife.

  “Actually the porch extends around the back of the house, too.” Maggie let the detail settle before sharing the best feature. “Where it’s screened in . . . and it has a hammock.”

  “Oh, he’ll be good for nothing for sure.” Mrs. Hill winked at her husband.