Butterfly (59 page)

a man whose campaign platform was strongly pro-environmentalist, and a man whom

Beverly had been instrumental in getting into office. He invited Miss Highland to speak.

“Thank you, Mr. Chandler. I would like to open my testimony with a question. Who

owns the coastline? Surely it is human vanity and ignorance to think that it is for the good of

all to carve up our planet into little self-serving patches, each operating in purely selfish inter-

est without regard for its impact upon neighbors and the world at large. The issue before us

here today is not about a small part of our planet; we are talking about the earth and all of

humanity. Mr. Webster wants our coastline. And all we risk in return is our oxygen supply.”

Beverly went on to point out that while the developer had indeed investigated the

impact of his project upon the environment, he had done so halfheartedly and with

incomplete results. “I would like to point out, gentlemen, some essential information that

has not appeared in the other reports, and that is that what Mr. Webster is proposing is

the destruction of an extensive network of tide pools that are vital in preserving the bal-

ance of the earth’s oxygen supply.”

She spoke clearly and in a strong voice that seemed to ring throughout the hearing

room as the television cameras kept their electronic eyes on her, as reporters and stenog-

raphers recorded her every word, as the public in the gallery listened in silence.

“Methane gas, gentlemen, is produced by bacterial fermentation in the muds and sed-

iments of seabeds, wetlands, marshes, and river estuaries. Methane is a vital regulator of

the earth’s oxygen, in a process that is very delicately balanced. According to Michael

McElroy, Jim Lovelock, and other distinguished scientists, the absence of methane pro-

duction would cause a dangerous and rapid change in the concentration of our oxygen.

We humans exist within a self-regulating biosphere that maintains an atmospheric bal-

ance vital to life on earth. Mr. Webster’s marina would eradicate a very large and necessary

part of that delicate mechanism.”

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The crowd stirred. People murmured up in the gallery. Senator Chandler banged his

gavel.

“I would like to further point out, gentlemen,” Beverly continued, “that I have looked

into the land that Mr. Webster proposes to set aside as a bird sanctuary, and I have learned

that Mr. Webster’s own developer advised him that the land would be difficult to work

with and would not be worth trying to turn into a marina. And I further discovered, gen-

tlemen, as I explain in detail in my written report, that the land in question is totally

unsuitable to the birds in the first place!

“The land he proposes to develop is the very wetlands and tide pools the birds and

other creatures have adapted to and used for millennia. The land he proposes to ‘give’ to

them is useless to both man and bird, except as a natural barrier to the last remaining

essential habitats on the California coast.

“I suggest, gentlemen, that this land be set aside
forever,
that Mr. Webster be equitably

compensated for his investment, including interest. And my foundation, working

together with other like-minded organizations, is prepared to fund such a buy-out for the

good of us all, for the good of our planet!”

Miss Highland had asked Bob Manning to drive up to Santa Barbara in the Rolls-

Royce. So that was where Jonas Buchanan now sat, in the backseat, waiting for the arrival

of her private jet.

It amazed him to think of what a turn his life had taken since that day nine years ago

when he had sat at the bar of that dark restaurant, studying the young blond woman at

the corner table. Jonas recalled how he had had doubts about going through with the

meeting, how he had looked her over and wondered if he wanted her for a client. And

then how he had remembered his overdue rent and had decided to go over and talk to her.

What if he had decided the other way? What if he had just gotten up and walked out? It

frightened him sometimes to think about it, to think about how close he had come to

making the dumbest move of his life.

Instead, he had made the smartest move. He had gone to work for Beverly Highland,

and he hadn’t looked back since.

When Jonas had left the police force twelve years ago, his only ambition had been to

lead a comfortable life. Well, he had that now and then some, this son of an East L.A.

mailman! Jonas Buchanan had the good life—he worked hard, was devoted to his

employer, and was paid handsomely. It was back in 1976 that he went to work for

Highland Enterprises, closing up his place on Melrose, turning his client list over to

another investigator, and moving into the fancy black-glass building on Wilshire, where

he had a plush office and a private secretary. Since then he had worked solely for Beverly

Highland, as chief of security for the company and as head of a security system that he set

up around her new estate in Beverly Hills. Jonas also handled both personal and corporate

investigations, such as doing research on Irving Webster’s proposed yacht harbor or

snooping into Danny Mackay’s financial affairs. Today Jonas had private investigators

working for
him,
and they were placed all around California and the Southwest, in the

continued search for Miss Highland’s mother and sister. It had, in fact, been his Santa

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Barbara-based man who finally found Naomi Burgess, but the new tack had been Jonas’s

idea. Without it, they might never have found her.

Yes, indeed, Jonas marveled as he watched the familiar Learjet touch down on the run-

way, he had come a long way since those days in the storefront on Melrose struggling to

go it on his own, wishing he had never left the force. Now he drove a Mercedes, lived in

an expensive house on Coldwater Canyon, had more girlfriends than he could juggle, and

was, at last, the man who pulled the strings. Jonas had always held the belief, ever since he

was a little boy, that he was going to be somebody someday. He had wit, streetwise know-

how, a college education, and savvy picked up during his years on the force. But Jonas

didn’t take all the credit for his success—Miss Highland deserved more than half of it.

When he had taken on her case nine years ago she had given him free rein. She hadn’t

balked at the money or his methods, so Jonas had finally been free to conduct an investi-

gation the way he wanted. And she stood by him. He wasn’t finding the mother and sis-

ter, but he was working hard and sticking to their trails, and Miss Highland appreciated

that. She never got mad or threatened to fire him if he didn’t produce something soon; in

fact, she was always grateful for what little he came up with. And at times, over the years,

that had been damned little. She was a heck of a woman, Jonas often thought—and he

was thinking it with increasing frequency of late. Just as he had been forced to rethink his

views on white women. Nine years ago he had conceded that she wasn’t bad-looking for a

white woman; now he thought she was downright beautiful. And smart, too. Jonas had

seen what her new spirit had done to her hamburger company. She had infected him with

it too, the challenge to dream big and make those dreams come true. Beverly Highland

was, in her own way, he granted, canny and streetwise smart. Jonas often wondered where

she had learned to read people so well.

Bob Manning got out of the driver’s seat and came around to open the passenger door.

Jonas looked out the window and saw Beverly coming toward the car. Maggie, her ever-

present companion, went to the airport terminal, no doubt to wait until Beverly was

ready to fly home. Jonas wasn’t surprised that Miss Highland wanted to make this visit

alone. He would, too, if he were in her place.

“Thank you for calling me, Jonas,” she said when she got in and Manning closed the

door.

God, but she smelled good, Jonas thought. Like a kind of flower he couldn’t put a

name to. And she looked so perfect, as usual, with not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in

her clothing. He knew that Beverly Highland was forty-two—he had seen her birth cer-

tificate, but otherwise he never would have guessed it.

“How did the hearing go?” he asked.

“It went fine, Jonas. I think we’ll win. Thanks to your excellent research.” She smiled

at him—sadly, he thought. Then she said quietly, “Take me to my mother now, will you

please?”

It was a Protestant cemetery. Beverly was not religious, nor had her mother been, but

she was glad that someone had cared enough to bury Naomi Burgess in hallowed ground.

The grave marker was simple: NAOMI BURGESS, 1916–1975,
May She Rest in Peace.

Beverly knelt and pulled a weed out of the grassy mound. A tear rolled down her cheek.

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259

1975. I was looking for you then. We were so close. Barely a hundred miles apart. We

saw the same sunsets over the same ocean; we felt the same rains and winds; we read the

same newspapers and listened to the same music. I’m sorry I found you too late…

Jonas watched her from the car, mentally chastising himself for not having found the

woman sooner. He would have given anything to have been able to give Miss Highland at

least a few final days with her mother. But Naomi Burgess had been hiding from the

police, determined not to be found. And it was only because he had come up with noth-

ing these past two years that Jonas had decided to take a rather radical and drastic tack.

First, he had his investigators go through state death records; then, when that proved

fruitless, he literally had them search every graveyard in California: It was a hunch, not

much to go on, but then there was nothing else to go on either.

And the hunch had come through. When Jonas had gotten the call that there was a

Naomi Burgess buried in a Santa Barbara cemetery, he had felt his heart rise in his throat.

That was the last thing in the world he had wanted to report to Beverly.

He watched her come back to the car. Years ago he had boasted that a woman’s tears

didn’t move him. That rule still held, with one exception. Now he had to fight the

impulse to go out to Beverly and take her in his arms.

Bob Manning drove the stately Rolls down the streets of Santa Barbara, past the man-

sions of the rich and the apartment complexes of the college students, until he pulled up

in front of an old Victorian house that was not unlike the house Hazel ran back in San

Antonio. But this house was not brightly painted, nor did it have music pouring out of its

windows; no cars were parked out front. It was run-down, with a yellow lawn and a tired

fig tree littering the gravel driveway. Washing flapped on the lines out back; some toddlers

played in a sandbox while a tired-looking woman watched them.

Beverly didn’t get out of the car right away. She sat staring out the window, at this last

place her mother had known. There was a faded sign over the front porch. It read: ST.

ANNE’S SHELTER FOR WOMEN.

She went up the sagging wooden steps. The front door stood open. From inside the

house came women’s voices. Someone was singing, someone was laughing, someone was

crying. A telephone rang unanswered; a baby howled; the TV was tuned to a soap opera.

Beverly walked in and looked around. There was a table in the hallway covered with pam-

phlets and mimeographed sheets, literature about various charity programs and halfway

houses and drug and suicide hot lines. There was a bulletin board over the table where

notices were tacked, and a daily work schedule, and a sign printed long ago that said,

THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS A WORTHLESS HUMAN BEING.

“May I help you?”

Beverly turned around to find a young woman standing in the hallway. She wore jeans

and a T-shirt and carried a baby on her hip. She also had a black eye and a bandage on her

forehead. “I would like to speak to Reverend Drake, please.”

“Sure!” the girl said. “That’s the office. You can wait in there.”

Beverly went into the small room that was crammed with an untidy desk, old metal

filing cabinets, and an ancient black-and-gold Remington typewriter. Taped to the walls

were photographs of women and children of all ages and in all poses, and certificates and

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letters and other pieces of paper turning yellow and curling at the edges. Over the desk

hung a simple crucifix. Next to it was a religious painting of Saint Ann.

Jonas had found this place. He had made some inquiries at the cemetery and discov-

ered that Reverend Drake had buried Naomi Burgess there, and that the Reverend ran a

shelter for women. Jonas had also learned that Reverend Drake founded this home fifteen

years ago and ran it single-handedly, relying mainly upon local contributions. That it was

a very poor house was obvious even without Jonas’s research.

But it had sheltered Beverly’s mother. Here was where she had come to live the last

days of her life.

“Hello,” came a voice in the doorway. “I’m Reverend Drake. How can I help you?”