Death of a Songbird (10 page)

The crowd laughed. Several pushed away their coffee cups, obviously willing to sacrifice a cup of java for the avian population.

“I’ll tell you why. Because it’s a five billion dollar industry, that’s why. An industry that provides work for over three million Mexican citizens.” Katherine paused, searching the faces of her listeners. “And I’ll tell you how: By working with Mexico and the other coffee-growing countries to promote coffee production in shade environments, either by offering incentives or by forcing compliance to new regulations imposed by their governments, at MA’s urging.”

Katherine went on to explain the Smithsonian Migratory Bird Center’s Shade Management Criteria for Bird-Friendly Coffee. According to her, the SMBC acknowledged only two types of shade: rustic shade and planted shade.

“Rustic shade consists of natural forest vegetation,” Katherine explained. “If additional trees have been planted, the system is then called a traditional polyculture. And even in this type of system, trees are generally thinned and trimmed to reduce undergrowth and overgrowth in hopes of increasing light. The SMBC recommends that a minimum canopy cover of forty percent be maintained.

“A planted shade environment contains a backbone of trees, such as
Inga
and
Erythrina
, that provides the optimal shade environment for the coffee plant. And, as the diversity of trees in the plantation increases, so does the number of species of birds. In fact, probably more critical for avian diversity is the stature of the trees. The backbone shade species must be allowed to attain twelve to fifteen meters in height.”

Katherine tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “But shade alone is not enough. MA must push for
organic
designation. Current national crop production standards requirements for
organic
labeling read that the agricultural products must ‘not be produced on land to which any prohibited substances, including synthetic chemicals, have been applied during the three years immediately preceding the harvest of the agricultural products.’”

Katherine looked up from her note cards, scanned the room, and held up two fingers. “Currently, only one to two percent of the coffee produced in the world qualifies. Of the five million bags of coffee produced in Mexico last year, only sixty thousand qualified to be tagged as organic.” She shook her head.

“So, now you ask, how is the Migration Alliance working to help maintain, improve, and increase bird habitat in Mexico? Well, I’ll tell you.” Katherine punched her fist on the podium, and Lark jumped, along with everyone else at her table. “By teaching the farmers. MA supports a team of agronomists who make village visits, supervising, monitoring, and teaching farmers methods of terracing, composting, pruning, and intercropping plants for shade diversity.”

She lowered her head again. “Consumers, we must unite.” Her voice crescendoed as she spoke. “We must purchase only organic coffee from legitimate distributors, and we must do it now, for the sake of the birds. For the sake of humanity.”

Katherine stepped back from the podium and the crowd roared to life. Several people stamped their feet and whistled.

A waiter approached Lark on the right. “Do you care for some coffee, ma’am?”

“Is it organic?” Gertie asked, a smug look on her face.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Lark replied. “That’s all we serve.”

“Good for you,” Andrew said. “In that case, pour me one, too.”

The waiter poured coffee all around. Lark had barely taken a sip when Velof appeared in the doorway and set a course in her direction.

“Here comes trouble,” Eric said softly.

Velof scooted between the tables, apologizing to people he bumped into along the way. He stopped opposite Lark, standing directly behind Dorothy. “May I speak with you, please?”

“Can’t it wait?” Lark asked, setting down her coffee cup.

“No!” Velof exclaimed. “Bernie Crandall is in your office demanding to see Teresa Cruz. Wouldn’t you know, the girl has disappeared.”

Lark found Bernie Crandall
sitting behind her desk, bouncing an eraser off the desk blotter.

“So where’s the girl, Drummond?”

“How should I know?” Lark said. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Crandall palmed the eraser, leaned back, and put his feet up on the desk. “You saw her last.”

“Correction,” Lark said, batting his feet to the floor. “Stephen saw her last.”

Crandall straightened and started bouncing the eraser again. “Okay, I’ll give you that. But he says he walked her back to the Manor House about two o’clock in the afternoon, and she seemed real upset over some conversation she’d had with you. Care to elaborate for me?”

Lark chewed on her lower lip. Part of her wanted to protect the girl; the other part questioned the wisdom of covering up for a possible killer. Self-preservation finally forced her to come clean. “Look, she’s in the States on an expired visa. Gil Arquette was trying to wangle an extension, but things weren’t looking real promising. I had just told her, when Stephen popped in all hot over the fact that I’d been out all morning when he needed help making decisions for the banquet tonight.”

“For what it’s worth, it looked to me like things went off without a hitch.”

“Finally, a break.”

“I know what you mean.” Crandall unfolded himself from the chair, stretching as he stood. “I could sure use one.”

Lark wet her lips. “Then I guess I’ll tell you. I know what the letters on the mask stand for.”

“You do? What?”

“The Ejército Zapatista de Liberación Nacional.”

“Which means?”

“It’s the name for an organization of freedom fighters operating in southern Mexico made up of Mexican Indians called the Zapatistas.”

“Who told you this, Drummond?”

“Teresa.” She filled him in on their conversation.

“Interesting.” Crandall scratched his jaw. “Look, Drummond, I need to talk to the girl. If you see her again, I expect you to hang onto her and touch base with me.”

“You’ll be the first one I call.”

After six hours of sleep and a quick shower, Lark pulled on a clean pair of shorts, a fuchsia-colored T-shirt, matching socks, and her hiking boots. Grabbing her birding gear and a jacket, she snagged a chocolate doughnut and a cup of coffee off the continental breakfast buffet on her way through the Drummond and scooted out the side door of the hotel, plopping down in a chair on the west end veranda.

“Are you our leader?” asked a bright-eyed woman in a mesh birding vest.

“That’s me.”

“I’ll go tell the others you’re here.” The woman scurried off toward a group of about fifteen birders gathered near a large white bus. A sign reading Endovalley was taped to the inside of the windshield glass.

Assignments for the birding field trips had been dished out on a first-come, first-served basis to leaders and participants alike, and Lark had switched hers to a half-day trip. Originally, she’d been scheduled to lead the Pawnee National Grassland tour. But like the other groups going to Arapaho National Wildlife Refuge and Tamarack Ranch, the Pawnee tour was a full-day trip. Lark needed to be back for the two-thirty memorial service.

“There you are,” Dorothy said, charging across the parking lot in a pink birding cap. She clutched white name badges and species cards in hand. “I brought you a new name tag. I figured you would misplace your other one.”

Lark reluctantly pinned the badge on her shirt pocket. Not quite as bad as the bright yellow bus tags with school name and phone number that she’d been forced to wear in third grade, but close. She took another bite of her doughnut. “Where are you going today?”

“I’m in charge of the alpine tundra trip. Ptarmigans and brown-capped rosy-finches.” Dorothy consulted her clipboard, flipping to a second set of pages. “You’re in charge of the Endovalley. Three-toed woodpeckers, preferably nesting.”

The area loosely called the Endovalley covered a relatively small section of the park just west of the Alluvial Fan. In actuality, it was a picnic area at the end of the Endovalley Road, approximately two miles off Highway 34.

The Alluvial Fan was all the evidence that remained of the Flood of 1982, when the earthen dam at Lawn Lake failed, pouring 674 acre-feet of water down the steep drainage of the Roaring River. A wall of water reached thirty-foot heights in the narrows, cutting a deep gash in the ground, dislodging hundreds of boulders, uprooting trees, and washing away the soil. The destructive force of the flood was immense. Three campers lost their lives. Millions of dollars in damage resulted. Horseshoe Park became a temporary lake, and Elk Park stood hip deep in muddy water. But the dead trees in the Fan area provided great habitat for viewing swallows, sapsuckers, flickers, and hairy woodpeckers.

Dorothy smoothed the pages on the clipboard. “You’ve been assigned bus number thirteen. You should have about forty birders. There’s a cooler of water in the back…” She glanced at Lark over the top of her reading glasses. “In case anyone forgot to bring a water bottle.”

“Mine’s in my backpack, Dorothy.”

“And there’s sunscreen, bug spray, and a first-aid kit. There are also several large cartons of boxed lunches in the cargo area.”

By now, ten or twelve of the gathered birders had crowded around, and Lark began assessing her group. There were a couple of novice birders, evidenced by the lack of equipment and preparedness, and several veterans, who she knew were probably better qualified to lead this trip than she was. The face in the crowd that intrigued her the most was that of Norberto Rincon.

“Gather round, folks,” Dorothy called out. “This is Lark Drummond, and she will be your leader today.” In a softer voice, she whispered, “Good luck. Sorry I couldn’t find anyone to take your spot. I’ll meet you back here at one-thirty.”

“Thanks, Dee.” Lark pushed herself up from the seat and smiled. “Good morning, everyone.”

Silence.

“Okay. First off, I see some of you don’t have jackets. This is Elk Park, and we are going to be climbing a bit in altitude, birding at elevations around 8,500 to 9,000 feet. I’d advise you to take the time to go back to your rooms and grab something. It’s been unseasonably warm, but you never know when a storm might roll in.”

No one made a move, so she continued.

“Okay, then general info time. The Endovalley covers multiple habitats. We can expect to see a lot of birds this morning, everything from western wood-pewee to rock wren. Is there anything in particular anyone’s dying to see?”

“It’s all new to me,” said a heavyset woman dressed in heavily pocketed camouflage. A pair of Leica binoculars were draped around her neck, indicating she’d bought the best of everything to embark on this new adventure. A brand-new guidebook protruded from one of her front pockets. A water bottle bulged from the other.

“I could use a western tanager for my life list,” responded a younger man wearing jeans and a Migration Alliance T-shirt. His name badge tagged him as Art.

“What’s a life list?” the woman in camouflage asked. She flashed her badge at Lark. Her name was Molly.

Art rolled his eyes.

“A life list is a list that a birder keeps of all the birds he or she ever spots,” Lark patiently explained. She handed the woman a species card, then passed one to each of the birders. “This card lists only the birds of our area, while a life list covers the world.”

“Don’t you think it’s about time to get going?” Art demanded.

Lark tarried long enough to make him antsy, then loaded the bird-watchers into the bus and instructed the driver to stop at Endovalley picnic area.

Passing Elk Lake on the ride up, they snagged a Canada goose and several mallards, as well as a red-tailed hawk hunting along the road.

“Listen up, folks,” Lark said when they crossed the bridge at Roaring River.

“American dipper on the left,” someone from the back of the bus called out.

“Where?” Molly cried, struggling to find her binoculars among her other paraphernalia.

“It’s gone now,” Art said. “It went under the bridge.”

Lark noted the disappointment on Molly’s face and stood up, addressing the group as a whole. “Everyone will have another chance at the dipper. We’re going to start at the end of the road, at the Endovalley picnic area, work our way back to this point, and eat lunch at the picnic area we’re passing on the right.”

Gazing out the window, Molly waved her hand in the air. “What happened here? Was there a fire?”

“Flood.” Lark filled them in on some of the history of the area as they drove along. “Up here on the left, you’ll see a historical marker. This is the Convicts’Cabin site, where convicts were housed to help build the Old Fall River Road in 1913.

“I’m sure you’ve all noticed how varied the habitat is in through here,” she continued. “Near the Alluvial Fan there are lots of dead trees and tree cavities, home to a population of birds: swallows, sapsuckers, flickers, and hairy woodpeckers. Along the lake, you can see spotted sandpipers. And, in the willows along Fall River, you find hummingbirds and warblers.”

The bus pulled into the Endovalley parking lot and circled around the one-way drive, stopping in front of the compost outhouses. Picnic tables were scattered beside willow-choked wetlands, and on either side of the river lay mixed forests of lodgepole pine, Engelmann spruce, Douglas fir, and aspen.

Lark consulted her watch. “Okay, folks, it’s six-thirty now. This is the place for a pit stop. We’ll bird this area for a while, so let’s plan to meet back at the bus at around eight o’clock. Then, if anyone’s spotted anything of interest that the others missed, we can all traipse off to see it.”

It was Lark’s job to spot and point out as many species as possible for the birdwatchers, so she added, “Any of you who want to stick with me are welcome. There are also a number of great birders with us today.” She pointed them out. “I’m sure any one of them would be happy to have you tag along with them.

“Just for your general information, the willow tangles are a great place to see MacGillivray’s warblers and Lincoln’s sparrows. You might find American dippers in the river. And, if you head west, you’ll find a small pond surrounded by forests and backed by cliffs. The Cordilleran flycatcher nests along the cliffs in there, and it’s the best spot to see northern water thrushes, Wilson’s warblers, western tanagers and, if you’re lucky, a three-toed woodpecker.”

A buzz rose from the birders.

“Is the three-toed woodpecker a good bird to see?” Molly asked.

Art groaned.

“Trust me,” Lark said. “It’s a very good bird. Anyway, if you follow the trail, you’ll come to a gate you can walk around. Keep on the path for several hundred yards until you cross the small footbridge.”

The birders scattered. Lark agreed to wait while Molly used the facilities, and she scanned the trees by the compost potties looking for birds. Her eyes lit on Norberto Rincon, who had gotten off the bus and stood alone near a stand of aspen on the west side of the road. Lark sauntered over.

Norberto, dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt, carried only a pair of beat-up binoculars. Tall and wiry, he hummed with energy and looked only slightly more relaxed today than he had at the reception when Jan had introduced him.

The loner type
, thought Lark. “Hi, glad you could join us.”

“Thank you.” He smiled, flashing white teeth against caramel-colored skin, and dipped his dark head.

“I hear you’re from Chiapas?”

“Yes.” He studied her with a measured gaze.

“Do much birding there?”

“No.”

The amusement in his eyes and his quiet scrutiny prompted her to walk away. Molly exited the toilets, and Lark called out, “Let’s head toward the pond.”

Norberto fell in step beside her. “I have a lot to learn.”

It was the first time he’d spoken more than a word or two, and she was surprised his voice carried no accent. He spoke like he’d been educated at American schools. “I guess your job doesn’t require you to have an interest in birds,” she said.

“No.”

“Yellow-rumped warbler, Audubon variety.” Lark pointed to a tree limb high in the pine tree in front of her. She stopped, focusing her binoculars on the bird. Charcoal gray, with a bright yellow crown, throat, side patches, and rump. “Does everyone see it?”

The crowd tagging along behind her nodded. All except for Molly, who still struggled to center the bird in her binoculars. Lark had started to fall back to help, when Art moved forward. “Here, you’re doing it all wrong.”

“She’s in good hands,” Lark said, moving on. “I noticed you had no trouble spotting the warbler. You must be a hunter or sailor.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you know how to use your binoculars too well for a nonbirder without any other spying avocation.”

“You’re very perceptive, Ms. Drummond.”

“Lark.” She moved onto the narrow path and led the way over the footbridge. “Dipper.”

She spent the next few minutes pointing out birds, then settled back into her conversation. “So, you haven’t worked for Jitters long.”

“No.”

“Don’t you ever elaborate?”

“No.” He grinned again. “What is it you want to know?”

Lark tipped her face, closing her eyes to the sun and basking in the warmth of the summer day. What did she want to know from him? All the things she couldn’t ask Teresa, especially now that she had disappeared. “Tell me about Chiapas.”

“Chiapas is the most resource-rich state in Mexico. It produces coffee, corn, and cocoa, and there’s been a lot of growth in cattle ranching and timbering. It also produces a lot of hydroelectric power. But most important are the oil reserves.” He dropped his head. “Yet, even with all the wealth, the poverty level is high. Very high.”

The subject seemed to distress him.

“Tell me about the people.”

“Most of the people in Chiapas are descended from the Mayan Indians. They speak dialects of Maya, Tzotzil, and Tzeltal. They are mostly agrarians, raising corn and coffee to support themselves. And it’s a patriarchal society. First there is the household, made up of the immediate family and their plots of land, over which the elder male rules.