Gemstone Butterfly

Note: ②Giovanni Giacomo Casanova, an Italian adventurer, was an indiscriminate lover. “Tell me, what can you see in this photo?” He picked up the photo and looked at it carefully: “This is a motel, they stayed there on Saturday.” “Who stayed there?” “The girl in the swimsuit and the guy with her.” “Uncle Benedick, you can’t just make assumptions like that. You don’t know they stayed there, nor do you know it was Saturday.” “I don’t know?” He grinned. “Isn’t it obvious? This beach scene photo was taken on Saturday morning, and the car in it is the same as in the other photo. You can infer it from the available facts.” “Your conclusions are somewhat forced and hasty, which is unfair to Stella.” “It’s better than the coroner spreading a girl’s secrets; he should be ashamed of himself. Two months pregnant, and he made it public!” “He had no choice,” she said, “It’s part of the evidence, showing the motive for the murder.” “Hah—hah!” Uncle Benedick scoffed. “What makes you think one photo was taken at noon on Saturday and the other on Sunday morning?” she asked. “Look here,” he told her, “This is the motel, see those garages with cars inside?” “I see them.” “Where’s the sun?” “What do you mean, where’s the sun?” “Look at the shadows,” he said, “Here, give me the ruler.” She handed him the ruler. With his hands crippled by arthritis, he moved the ruler on the photo, one end aligned with a shadow, the other with the top of a decorative lamp post. “See, the sun is at an angle, a very sharp angle.” “So what?” “Look at the cars in the garages. Most motel guests are just passing through. They need to head back to the road. They just want to come in at night, take a bath, sleep, get up early, and then hit the road. “Now look at this photo. The cars in the garages and the angle of the sun suggest either 3 PM or 9 AM. Look closely, and you’ll see it’s morning because here’s a little cabin with a key half-visible on the half-open door, with a large metal key fob hanging below so guests won’t take it away. The sunlight reflects into the camera. That car left early. If it were afternoon, the key would be in the office, not on the door. “Only one car left, most of the motel guests haven’t moved, which means it’s Sunday. These guests came for the weekend, arriving on Saturday. Where did they spend it? Not at the motel, unless it’s by the sea. “Now, look at this other photo. The sunlight is warm, the sea is calm. See the pier in the distance? There are many fishermen there. They come early in the morning—” “I don’t see any pier.” “Look closely,” he said. “That’s just a black dot—no, wait—” “No black dot,” he said. “That’s the end of a pier jutting out. Get a magnifying glass, and you’ll see people gathered at the far end fishing.” “Right,” she said, “I hadn’t noticed that before.” “Ah, look at these people. There’s a road leading to the beach, lined with parked cars, but the northern end of the beach isn’t crowded yet. On Sunday morning, it would be much more crowded. From what we see now, the number of people on the beach is roughly the number of people who came by those cars parked along the road. They don’t have to park far away in the residential area and walk down to the beach. “See the shadows of the cars? The sun is almost overhead, probably noon. In this season, the beach wouldn’t be this busy on any day other than Saturday. Sunday noon would be even busier. What else do you want to know?” She said, “I want to find out whose car this is?” “Why don’t you investigate?” “How?” he said, “How many beaches around here have piers jutting out that far? How many motels are there in this city?” “Which city?” He tapped the decorative lighting fixture, “See the unique design of that lighting fixture? I can tell you a lot about those fixtures. One of my buddies controls the business of selling decorative lighting to a city. There’s a lot of money to be made! But it’s hard work, and it’s strictly legal. I guess that’s why I’m not interested, but I can tell you—” “No need for you to tell me,” she said, “I’ve figured out where it is now. Why didn’t I notice this decorative street lamp before?” “You were too engrossed,” he said, “Because you’ve fallen in love.” “I haven’t!” “I’d bet on it! You’ve fallen for that Beau Brummel-like dandy who’s been arrested.” Note: ①Beau Brummel (1778-1840) was a famous British dandy in the 19th century, originally named George Bryan Brummel. “I haven’t, but I want to make an impression on him, to let him know that I, Peggy Castle, am not just a girl but a logical thinker.” “What are you planning to do?” “I’m going to prove he’s not the mastermind.” Uncle Benedick chuckled, “Listen to her, Martha, she wants him to notice her, to see her as both a pretty girl and an efficient thinking machine, so she’s out here using her brain! Remember, Peggy, if you want to attract a man’s attention, don’t use your brain. Don’t let him think you have any intelligence, show some curves, act helpless.” “Leave Peggy alone,” Aunt Martha said, “She’ll do it her way.” Uncle Benedict shook his head, “A man can’t see beauty and intelligence at the same time, Martha, it’s one or the other.” Martha put down the teapot and asked, “Then why did you marry me?” His eyes were lost in some distant memory. “It was for beauty, curves,” he said, “Good heavens, when you walked on stage in that tight outfit, you…” “So,” she flared up, “are you saying now that I have no intelligence!” Benedict shook his head again. “Arguing with a woman,” he said, “is like forcing the weather to suit the farmer. Where are you off to in such a hurry, Peggy?” Peggy was already heading towards the door, “I’m not just going, I’m already gone.” Before she finished her sentence, she had dashed out. Less than half an hour after arriving in this beach town, she found the motel she was looking for, and her heart leapt with joy. However, the disappointment came when the proprietress was unwilling to discuss the registration. “We run a respectable, clean establishment,” she said, “We don’t ask our guests to show us their marriage certificates every time they come, because they don’t do that even in big cities. We just turn a blind eye.” Peggy interrupted patiently and explained that she was here on private business. If necessary, she could obtain official authorization, but she didn’t want to make a fuss. Moreover, she felt there was no need to force her to do so. This worked wonders, and Peggy meticulously checked the weekend guest registrations. The car number was 5n20861, registered to Peter Bushnell. Mr. and Mrs. Bushnell had spent the weekend in a small cabin. Peggy was almost in tears of despair; all her hopes had turned into ashes. If she could confirm that Stella had spent the weekend with a boyfriend, then Stella’s date with Don Kimberley would seem like just a business meeting. But now, that possibility had vanished. Stella had spent the weekend with the Bushnells. Peggy held back her tears and started back to her apartment. Then, something struck her, and she froze. She was certain Mrs. Bushnell had said Peter was “still” married to her. Did that mean… Peggy frantically searched for the address she had copied from the motel’s register. This time, she could be absolutely sure; she had to try. Peter Bushnell was about to have an unexpected visitor. She drove quickly to the location, an old-fashioned apartment, unpretentious yet visually pleasing. A card in the mailbox told her Peter Bushnell’s apartment was on the second floor. Peggy didn’t wait for the elevator; she ran upstairs, where a sliver of light from under the door greeted her. Her heart pounding with excitement, she rang the bell. She heard someone moving a chair, then the door opened, and she found herself facing the face from the photo, now gaunt and pained. “You’re Peter Bushnell, aren’t you?” she said, “I’m Peggy Castle, and I’d like to talk to you.” She stepped inside, brushing past him, turned around, and gave him a reassuring smile as he closed the door. “Won’t you—won’t you sit down?” he said, “It’s late, but—” “I want to talk about Stella,” she said. His face was filled with fear: “I—I have nothing to say.” “Oh, but you do. I know some facts, and for fairness to you and for justice in remembering Stella, you need to tell me the rest.” “What facts?” “For instance, the weekend at the Seesweep Motel. Why did you register under your own name, Peter?” “Why not? The car was registered in my name, why shouldn’t I use it?” “Because you registered Stella as your wife.” “Oh—so what?” “What if Frances found out?” “How would she find out?” “I found out.” “How?” Peggy just smiled. She said, “Tell me about Stella, Peter.” “Who are you?” “I’m an investigator.” “Police?” “No, I’m investigating on behalf of the company Stella worked for. You don’t want her name tarnished, and neither do we. You loved her, didn’t you, Peter?” He nodded, his face showing anguish. “Well, let’s get to the point,” Peggy said, “You married Frances, and Stella was with Bill Everett. You went out together on weekends, didn’t you?” He said, “That was before I married Frances. After Frances and I got married—well, three months later, I realized it was a mistake.” “Why was it a mistake, Peter?” “Because I was in love with Stella without realizing it. You can’t imagine what it was like being out with Stella; she was a wonderful companion. She never got angry, never went mad, never complained; she just went with the flow, always having fun, which made you have fun too. She loved life, found everything interesting. Frances was the opposite; she needed to dress up for the occasion. When we were all together, she hid behind Stella’s good nature, so you couldn’t see her true character. But after we got married, just the two of us—well, she showed her true colors.” “And then?” “Then I wanted to get a divorce, but Frances wouldn’t agree. By then, she knew I loved Stella, so she did everything to thwart us, swearing that if she couldn’t have me, neither could Stella.” “So you separated from Frances and started living with Stella?” “Oh, in a way, yes, but not entirely.” “Why didn’t you live together all the time, Peter? Why only sneak away for weekends?” “Stella was afraid of Frances; she didn’t want Frances to know. But, well, in a way, we got married.” “What does that mean?” “We went to Mexico and had a wedding ceremony there.” “When?” “Four or five months ago.” “Why didn’t you tell the police?” “Oh, I was trying to make up my mind. When you rang the bell, I was thinking about it; I didn’t know what to do. Of course, Frances could easily make me comply, but in this situation—I didn’t know.”