Blue Twilight (8 page)

The town seemed to hold its breath as a set of waves violently crashed and churned against the convoluted shoreline. Or perhaps the stillness was due to the wet fog blanketing every surface from the sidewalk to the water towers to the board-and-batten siding on the buildings. I wouldn’t have been surprised to discover this was where the Ghost and Mrs. Muir now resided. More than anything, Mendocino resembled an old sepia photograph that had sprung to life.

“Unbelievable, Rach. You certainly know how to pick the most out-of-the-way spots,” Terri murmured.

“What do you think? It looks pretty interesting, huh?”

“I’m not sure yet. I’ll have to get back to you on that one. To tell you the truth, this place kind of gives me the creeps. I don’t know whether to explore the town or run for my life.”

“What say we grab something to eat while you decide,” I suggested.

“Good idea. I didn’t have any breakfast, and I’m sure you must be coming down from off your Cocoa Puff high.”

I grinned, accepting the fact that Terri knew me all too well.

We drove into town and parked on Main Street. Then, following a sign, we climbed a set of rickety wooden steps up to a restaurant that overlooked the bay. The place had the feel of a hippie dive trying hard to appear casually chic. We kicked back, sipped some coffee, and ordered a couple of
omelets. After that, we proceeded to study the local wildlife outside.

One resident wandered around with a furry raccoon tail hanging from the back of his pants. It gave him the appearance of a brand-new species that was half critter/half human. He strolled past a battered VW bus with tattered lace curtains strung across its scratched-up windows. A girl emerged from within wearing a denim vest and a long flowered skirt.

Our waitress delivered two how-fast-can-these-clog-your-arteries brie omelets, along with a mound of greasy homefries. We promptly devoured them and she returned with our bill. I wondered if it was a requirement to wear over-sized camo pants, a tight T-shirt, no bra, and a belly-button ring to work in this place. A quick glance at the other waitresses revealed that it was her own bad fashion sense.

I immediately caught myself and wondered if I would have had a similar reaction just ten years ago. Then a worse thought hit me. It was a knee-jerk response to the fact that I was getting older. Terri’s gaze met mine and I knew he was thinking the exact same thing. We nodded in silent agreement, as if secretly vowing to buy identical outfits and make ourselves wear them at home in order to feel younger.

“Keep the change,” I said, giving the waitress a hefty tip as a form of penance. “By the way, do you happen to know where Bill Trepler lives?”

Our Lady of Camo wrinkled her nose and rolled her eyes. “That old coot?” He lives at the end of town near Portuguese Flats. But I don’t know why you’d want to go see him.”

“Oh? Is there a problem I should know about?”

“Only that he’s one of the most unpleasant people ever to walk the face of this earth. That is unless you have a soft spot for right-wing, obnoxious jerks. Then it’s a whole different story. I guess it pretty much depends on which side of the issue you fall.”

“What issue is that?” I questioned.

“About turning this area into a developer’s wet dream,” she said, nonchalantly scratching her breast. “If Trepler had his way, every inch of Mendocino would be built up and changed for the worst. You’re not here to see him about anything like that, are you?” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

For chrissakes, I might be a few years older than Our Lady of Camo. But no way did I look like some sort of conservative businesswoman. I took a quick gander at my jeans and sneakers just to make certain.

“No. It involves something totally different,” I assured her.

“In that case, his place is easy to find. It’s the one with the mountain lion skull over the door.”

“The guy sounds like a real charmer,” Terri remarked, as we left the restaurant and walked downstairs. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll hang around town and let you see Trepler on your own. I spotted a few shops I’d like to check out.”

“That’s fine,” I agreed, figuring he had the better end of the deal. “What say we meet inside that place around three o’clock?” I pointed to an art gallery just down the street from where we were parked.

“Sounds good to me. Break a leg, sweetie. Just remember, don’t think twice about slapping him around with some of those fancy moves you’ve learned if he tries anything funny.”

I promised to do my best, jumped in the Ford, and took off.

I drove toward the opposite end of town, taking note of all the expensive restaurants and boutiques that were scattered about. Each was quaint enough to make me wonder if Martha Stewart had been set loose in the place. Mendocino was proving to be an interesting mix of hippies, rednecks, and yuppies, with a large dollop of tourism rolled in.

Turning my head, I looked across the street toward the bluffs and, for one crystalline moment, my heart came to a stop. Striding along the cliffs was a large, imposing figure.
The man seemed to have the same startling effect on a few adventurous tourists, who quickly scurried out of his way.

Perhaps it had to do with the fact that he towered close to six feet five and wore duck boots, carpenter jeans, and an army surplus jacket. Slapped on his head was a navy knit cap, even though it was a warm June day. Long salt-and-pepper dreadlocks hung out beneath, their braids as dark and dense as the links on a ship’s anchor chain. They matched the crinkly dun-colored hairs of his shaggy beard.

I could almost feel the vibration that came with each step he took, as though the earth were slightly giving way beneath his feet. A worn canvas bag and thick walking stick 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.

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 of
dry, 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 introduce myself. Bill Trepler, former director of Conservation Biology at the University of Nevada. And you are?”

“Rachel Porter,” I responded, shaking his hand.

“All right, Miss Porter. Why don’t you take a seat and I’ll give you some background on the Lotis blue.”

I sank into a sofa that seemed to have no springs, its cushions enfolding me like a large cocoon.

“First of all, what do you know about the bug?” Trepler questioned, as if prepping me for an exam.

“That it was the first of six butterflies to be placed on the endangered species list and is extremely rare.”

“Well, you’re right about that. These days it’s the rarest butterfly in all North America. One major problem is that its territory is restricted to the Mendocino area. There’s no other habitat for the Lotis blue anywhere else on earth. At least, as far as we know. I believe it was Vladimir Nabokov, the novelist of
Lolita
fame, who said lepidopterists have more information about butterflies in deepest, darkest Africa than they do those living along the coastal stretch of the western U.S. from Mendocino northward. Strange, isn’t it?”

“How long has this particular butterfly been around?” I asked, wanting to pump him for all the information I could get.

“The Lotis blue was first discovered in 1876, when two specimens were caught. It was described as a new species of Lycaenidae, a family that includes the blues, coppers, and hairstreaks.”

I hate when experts slip into scientific jargon. My mind inevitably begins to drift.

“Okay. Then as far as collectors know, the Lotis blue has been in existence until just recently,” I affirmed, determined to keep myself on track.

“Not quite. The butterfly disappeared for fifty years shortly after its initial discovery.”

“What do you mean disappeared? They literally vanished?”

“Exactly.”

Trepler pumped a bicep while plucking a pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket, and I knew he was trying to impress me.

“It wasn’t until 1935 that a colony of Lotis blue were once again stumbled upon by a man living right here in Mendocino, a naturalist who had no idea what he’d found. He spent the next eighteen years showing specimens to lepidopterists in the Bay Area, none of whom had a clue as to what they were, either. Finally in 1953, an entomology professor came to visit and identified the butterflies as the mysterious Lotis blue.”

Trepler lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and promptly broke into a coughing fit. I waited as he grabbed a tissue and hacked up whatever had settled in his lungs. He spit out some phlegm and looked at it. No wonder the guy was living alone.

“So, what happened after that? Did collectors come in and wipe out the colony?” I impatiently asked, wanting to move the story along.

“Absolutely not. The exact location was kept secret for that very reason. However, Professor Tilden did trade some
of his samples for other butterflies that he wanted in his collection. He also gave a number of specimens to several museums. In fact, Tilden is responsible for the lion’s share of Lotis blue butterflies that reside in collections today. It wasn’t until years later that he revealed the location to a graduate student, who then made several trips to the site. That’s when word finally began to spread. But stop and think about it. Here was a butterfly that had been seen by only four men in over a hundred years, up to that point.”

“So then, this grad student was ultimately responsible for the butterfly’s demise,” I concluded.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course not. He ended up working as a biologist for the Fish and Wildlife Service. In fact, he petitioned for the Lotis blue to be listed as an endangered species.”

“What happened after that?”

Trepler shrugged. “Not much. Only twenty-six adult Lotis blue butterflies have been spotted since 1977. The last one to be seen was in 1983. After that, nothing.”

“Where were the butterflies usually found?” I questioned, refusing to give up.

“Near their food plant, the
Lotus formosissimus
. It’s a diminutive weed just a few inches high that produces a pretty little yellow-and-purple flower.”

“Then what’s been responsible for their disappearance?” I prodded, beginning to feel enormously frustrated.

“Who said they’ve disappeared?” Trepler responded with a crafty smile. “After all, they were only ever collected at seven sites, ranging from wet meadows to sphagnum bogs. Maybe people have just been looking in the wrong spots. I happen to know of a number of coastal bluffs where small marshes occur as the result of numerous springs popping up. I’ll let you in on a little secret. I’ve seen
Lotus formosissimus
growing profusely in those areas.”

Trepler emitted a throaty laugh while puffing on his cigarette. It was probably because I was staring at him with my mouth hanging open. He seemed to interpret it as a sign of concern.

“Don’t worry. I’m not suggesting that you’ll have a problem with development in this region. Quite the contrary. You won’t. Not if you use my services.”

Trepler leaned in so close that I could smell not only cigarette smoke, but also stale coffee on his breath.

“You see that car out there?” he asked, pointing through the Bay window to his driveway. “Let’s just say the Lexus came as a thank-you from a very satisfied customer. That should make you more comfortable about what I’m able to deliver.”

I remembered again what my boss had said. Trepler’s job was to make certain that endangered species didn’t bring construction projects to a halt.

“Well, you certainly seem to know a lot about this particular butterfly,” I admitted.

“I know a lot about many things,” Trepler responded and nonchalantly crossed his legs. “That’s why I get paid the big bucks.”

“Then let me play devil’s advocate for a minute,” I suggested. “What if the Lotis blue
were
found on a particular tract of land that my employer was interested in? What then?”

Trepler flicked his ashes into a dirty coffee cup that sat on top of an old wooden chest.

“I’d say the butterfly was just passing through the area at the time. It would be my word as an expert against people who don’t know half as much.” He smiled, exposing a set of stained yellow teeth.

So that was how the game was played. It couldn’t have been any more clear that Trepler was a high-priced “rent-a-scientist,” or what detractors had nicknamed a “biostitute.”

“That all sounds well and good. There’s just one problem. Rumor has it that Fish and Wildlife recently hired a top-notch conservation biologist from Stanford to perform an extensive search for the Lotis blue in this area. I hear they’re also clamping down on the illegal collecting of butterflies.”

“So, is that what they’ve turned into now? The butterfly gestapo?” Trepler snorted contemptuously. “That agency does nothing but go on witch hunts. Hell, they use a bunch of thugs masquerading as agents, who are nothing more than eco-Nazis. Fish and Wildlife’s an ignorant, self-serving government group that would rather spend taxpayer dollars on trumped-up charges than focus on issues that really matter. Hell, those jokers wouldn’t know a Mission blue from a Lotis blue if they tripped over one.”

Ouch!
That jab hit a bit too close to home. Mainly because it was partially true.

“The whole lot of them are out of control, running amok while attempting to play Big Brother,” he continued to rant. “If our government had any backbone, they’d immediately shut the Fish and Wildlife Service down.”

He certainly didn’t bother to mince words.

“As for endangered species? Let me give you my philosophy on
that
topic.”

Trepler slid an arm along the back of the couch until it was lodged directly behind my head. For one brief paranoid moment, I almost believed he knew my true identity and planned to knock me off. The Mister Softee jingle flit through my mind as I once again looked down a gun barrel and broke into a light sweat.

“Please do,” I murmured, and pushed myself forward until I was perched on the edge of the seat.

“When a creature is endangered, it’s usually for a helluva good reason. If something isn’t smart enough to adapt and survive, then it deserves to become extinct,” Trepler lec
tured, building up a head of steam. “I don’t believe in this do-gooder Endangered Species Act nonsense that’s got every frog, gnat, and fish on a must-save list, no matter the cost. Not if it means that a person can’t do whatever he wants on his own damn land.”

Trepler must have interpreted my silence as agreement, because he cracked his knuckles again and began to relax. Then he stared at me and slapped his knee, as if having made a momentous decision.

“Come with me into the next room. I want to show you something.”

I followed him into what seemed to be an office as well as a workspace. A pile of papers sat neatly stacked on a desk in one corner, while an old oak table dominated the center of the room. Covering its surface were all the necessary accoutrements for mounting butterflies. There was a pair of scissors, along with a slender tweezers, glassine paper, a container of stainless-steel insect pins, and a bottle of relaxing fluid. A piece of Styrofoam had a groove cut through its center, making me wonder if it were some sort of spreading board. Most likely the furrow held the butterfly’s body in place while Trepler worked on its wings.

Trepler didn’t stop at the table, but walked over to five wooden cabinets that were lined up against a wall. Each contained fourteen shelves. He opened one of the drawers and pulled it out for me to view. The interior was a display case filled with row upon row of breathtakingly beautiful butterflies.

“Butterflies only live for about a two-week period. So, what’s the harm in harvesting some of them ahead of time? Tell me why collectors should get a bad rap, when so many other factors kill large numbers of them much more efficiently. Take habitat destruction, for example.”

That struck me as darkly funny, considering the role that Trepler, himself, played in it.

“Or how about suburban sprawl?” he continued. “Then there are the pesticides that people use in their gardens to keep their flowers and plants bug free. What do you think that does to them? The same goes for farmers who have chemicals sprayed all over their fields. And don’t forget about automobiles. How many butterflies do you suppose end up smashed against car windshields each year? At least people get to enjoy them this way.”

Maybe so. But ultimately a butterfly is a living thing. Not something to be pinched, gassed, or frozen out of existence in order to be displayed under a sheet of glass. Besides, how many more butterflies would there be if Trepler had allowed those in his collection to live and breed? These specimens had no more life to them than a colorful set of inanimate stamps.