Blue Twilight by Jessica Speart

helped give him an air of homelessness.
    He must have sensed my stare, for he turned and glowered as I slowly drove by. I slyly glanced in the rearview mirror and was taken aback as his gaze locked on mine, his eyes fierce as those of an angry bear. I tried to focus on the road, but continued to feel their glare, hot as a branding iron, demanding to know what I’d been looking at and warning me to stay away. I hurried toward Portuguese Flats, along the western edge of town.

Six
    M endocino slowly began to change. Gone were the spruced-up Victorian homes with picture-perfect white picket fences, having been replaced by tired cottages and weed-filled lots. I passed one nondescript place after another, until I finally spotted Bill Trepler’s house.
    Chickens meandered around an unkempt yard while rabbits listlessly hopped in and out of a hutch. Of far more interest was the car that sat parked in the hard dirt driveway. It was a shiny, brand-new, top-of-the-line Lexus.
    I got out of my Ford, walked up to the front door, and brazenly knocked. But the only sound to be heard were the chickens scratching and clucking in his yard.
    Go away, go away! they seemed to say, as if annoyed at being disturbed.
    I knocked again just to show them who was boss.
    This time they seemed to cluck, What a schmuck , what a schmuck .
    They were probably right. This was getting me nowhere and my inner clock was becoming fed up.
    I turned to walk away when the door swung open, as if of its own accord, and Bill Trepler appeared. He looked to be in his early sixties, had thinning gray hair, and dots all over his hands that fell somewhere between freckles and age spots. As for his face, it was sunburned and displayed patches ofdry, scaly skin. Equally apparent was the fact that he was in excellent physical condition. The guy had arms to rival those of Popeye. Trepler clearly spent a great deal of time working outdoors.
    “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested in buying,” he announced in a voice so scratchy that he must have been gargling with kitty litter.
    “I’m not selling anything. I’d like some information.”
    “What about?” he asked, sounding as suspicious as Camo Girl.
    “The Lotis blue butterfly.”
    The words softly floated in the air, light as soap bubbles blown by a child.
    Trepler studied me, giving my presence careful appraisal.
    “And why would you be interested in the Lotis blue?” he finally asked, his raspy voice bursting the bubbles one by one.
    “I’m concerned with anything that’s considered rare and which might prove to be a problem for industrial interests and land developers.”
    Those appeared to be the magic words. Trepler opened the door a little wider.
    “Then it seems we have something in common. That being the case, why don’t you step inside?”
    I entered a hallway that looked as though it had been decorated by an old Irish grandmother. Hand-crocheted lace doilies lay strewn on every tabletop and chair, while porcelain leprechaun knickknacks were positioned just so. Keeping with the theme, the walls were painted dark green and the house had a musty smell about it. My boss had said that Trepler made four thousand dollars a day as a private consultant. Whatever he was spending his money on, it certainly wasn’t the décor.
    “Are you a fellow entomologist?” Trepler politely inquired, leading the way into the living room.
    Holy shamrocks, Batman! The entire space was plastered in wallpaper consisting of dancing four-leaf clovers.
    “No, I’m here scouting around for someone with an interest in the Mendocino area,” I responded, purposely remaining noncommittal.
    As far as I was concerned, I was telling the truth. After all, Dr. Mark Davis had requested that I look into the disappearance of his colleague.
    “In other words, you might be requiring my services?” Trepler probed with the deft touch of a skilled surgeon.
    “It’s certainly possible,” I concurred.
    “Then let me properly