A Butterfly in Flame Read Free

ranch.”
    “You’ll want this paper,” Fred said, holding out Melissa’s holograph.
    “No point upsetting him. Not yet,” Abe said, waving the paper away. “You keep it. For now, we assume they are fine. Just missing.”
    Parker growled, “As far as anyone knows, the two are holding hands in Atlantic City or Capri.”
    “We’d really appreciate it,” Abe said. “If you can agree. First class is tomorrow at eight-thirty. English One. This being his suggestion, Mr. Reed has generously offered to continue your compensation as usual, and any incidentals…”
    “Not an issue,” Clay said.
    “What the hell,” Fred said. “It can’t be worse than jumping into a jungle at night by parachute. I’ll give it a week. What’s tomorrow, Tuesday? By Wednesday of next week, either Morgan’s back in the saddle, or you find a guy with chalk marks all over him to do the job those kids deserve.”
    “I appreciate this,” Abe said. “I know Stillton Academy will appreciate it. We’ll go, then.”
    “Does the town of Stillton have a hotel?” Fred asked. “Just curious.”
    “You stay in Morgan Flower’s rooms,” Abe said, standing and taking an envelope from a side pocket. It bulged and rattled with what must be keys. “The place belongs to the academy, so it’s no problem for you to be there. You might pick up some insights.”
    Parker stood also, asking Abe Baum, “You want me with you while you talk with Missy’s father?”
    “We’ll discuss it. Two people might spook him. Here are directions, Mr. Taylor, and your schedule.” He handed Fred the envelope. “My number’s inside. Check in with the acting director, Elizabeth Harmony. Her number’s there also. She wants to meet with you tomorrow morning. Eight O’clock, she said. In her office. For coffee.”
    “Let us know if we can be helpful,” Parker said. “When you learn something.”
    “You say Morgan Flower’s place belongs to the academy,” Fred said. He’d opened the envelope, pocketed the keys, and was glancing through the notes and schedules. “They own all this property? Or do they rent?”
    “Stillton Academy owns property in the town,” Abe said, making for the door.
    “So,” Fred said, “this failing college could be sitting on a gold mine of prime waterfront property.”
    “Point noted,” Parker Stillton confirmed, “Not relevant.” He reached to shake Fred’s hand, and Clayton’s, and followed Abe Baum into the entrance hall. The hall was hung, this month, with Japanese and Persian exercises in calligraphy, the walls that pomegranate color you see in British films of country houses. The floors were lavishly rugged with Orientals. “It’s as if he’s Catherine the Great condemned to come back as somebody’s maiden aunt,” Molly had said once after a prolonged glass of sherry at Christmas time.
    Fred let Clay do the honors at the front door, which opened onto the ivied wilds of Beacon Hill. He had a fresh beer in hand when Clayton reentered the parlor. “There is some plan at work here?” he demanded. “Aside from your customary eleemosynary activity, which in this case you wish me to carry out?”
    “Charity is not beyond me,” Clay snorted. “But my charities are my business. I would not ask you to participate. Nor would I tell you of them. Charity, like sex and religion, should be kept close to the vest.”
    Fred said, “Explain.”
    “I refer to the
New Testament
parable of the Publican and the Pharisee,” Clay said.
    “Explain the Stillton Academy diversion.”
    “There are wheels within wheels,” Clay proclaimed.
    “
Ezekiel
won’t help either,” Fred said.
    Clay writhed a moment until he resolved the agony of indecision by pouring himself another glass of sherry. “Almonds?” he asked.
    “Clarity. Before I head north. Unless I change my mind,” Fred said.
    Clay sat with his sherry and stared across it with suspicion. He said, “For years I have wished to find a subterfuge by which to get an