Free Poor Butterfly by Stuart M. Kaminsky

inquiry.”
    “How did you know my name?” I asked.
    “I suppose you would not believe it if I told you God gave me your name in a vision,” Souvaine said.
    “I would not.”
    “And you would be correct.” Souvaine laughed, looking at Ortiz. “I’m trying to find Mr. Ortiz’s sense of humor. It is buried deeply by misfortune.”
    “Do I get fifty bucks if I make him laugh?”
    Souvaine laughed again. “I’m afraid I cannot spend our Lord’s money in such a manner,” he said. “When Mr. Ortiz and God are ready, Mr. Ortiz will laugh.” He looked at Mr. Ortiz with satisfaction. Mr. Ortiz continued to look at me.
    “Your automobile,” said Souvaine. “We simply had one of our parishioners who is employed by the local government make a call to the State Automobile License Bureau. We knew your name and the fact that you are a private investigator before you left the Opera building.”
    Someone knocked at the door and Souvaine called for whoever it was to enter. In came the old lady who had spotted me from the window. She was carrying a tray, which she placed on a table in front of us.
    “Bertha,” said Souvaine. “How thoughtful of you. And of the kitchen ladies.”
    Bertha straightened up and looked at me. She wasn’t sure what her feelings should be. I confused her even further.
    “You’re J. Minor’s widow, aren’t you?” I asked, reaching for something that might be lemonade. There were two other lemonades on the tray. When Souvaine reached for the one in front of him, I put mine back on the tray and took his. He shook his head and accepted the trade.
    “I am,” Bertha said.
    “Is that the best picture you have of J. Minor?” I asked, turning to look at the uncomfortable man.
    “My departed was fond of that photograph,” she said, beaming at the photograph through her thick glasses. “I think he looks very stately.”
    “I think he looks like a man with constipation,” I said.
    “Mr. Peters,” Souvaine said with just a touch of what might have been warning. “Is it necessary to insult the dead?”
    “No,” I said, “but Puccini is dead, too. Your people, including the widow Bertha, are standing in front of the Opera insulting him all day.”
    “He did suffer from constipation,” Bertha said.
    “Puccini?” I asked, surprised.
    “No,” said Bertha, flustered. “J. Minor suffered from constipation.”
    “You have a picture somewhere where he looks less in eternal pain?” I tried.
    “Mr. Peters, I must …” Souvaine said gently.
    “Only the one at the beach in his bathing suit with Errol and Faye on my birthday,” said Bertha eagerly. “I think I could find it. Would that be acceptable, Reverend?”
    “If it is your will and that of God,” he said, turning to Bertha and taking her hands in his as he stood. “If God doesn’t mind J. Minor Frank being witnessed cavorting on the beach in his briefs, then I certainly do not mind. It is between you and God.”
    “I don’t think I’ll do it,” she said, looking down at me. I sipped my lemonade and shrugged.
    “Good lemonade,” I said.
    Souvaine ushered Bertha to the door while I toasted Deacon Ortiz, who watched me without taking his drink. When Bertha was safely out, Souvaine went back to his couch and smiled, showing perfect white teeth.
    “You are good,” Souvaine said.
    “Not as good as you,” I said. “At least at this kind of game. I play other games better.”
    “Our Mr. Ortiz in his youth played many games,” Souvaine said, patting Ortiz’s ample leg. “I think he is capable of playing them again. Is there anything else you wish to alter in the sanctuary?”
    “Those paintings,” I said. “Bertha must have done them.”
    “No.”
    “Then whoever sold them to you took you for a ride.”
    “You don’t like our Jesus,” he said sadly. “Or our Washington or Lincoln. You have no empathy for the heartfelt primitive artist.”
    I leaned forward. “You got junk on your wall, Rev,” I whispered.