Death of a Songbird (17 page)

Vic stroked his mustache. “Not necessarily, Bernie.”

“Why do you say that?” Crandall scootched forward. “What am I missing here?”

Lark’s legs felt weak, and she propped herself up against a nearby tree.

Vic reached out, and with one finger pushed Paul’s face to the side. “See this?” He pointed to a lump above Paul’s right ear. “He took a blow to the head.”

“Now hold on a minute, boys,” Buzz said. The older man looked flustered. “Who’s to say he didn’t fall? Maybe he bumped his head, then landed on the knife? There’s rocks all over the place.”

Vic shook his head. “There’s no way he could have sat up on his own after pumping out that much blood. Nope,” he dusted his hands against his knees, and stood. “It looks like our friend here was helped out of this world. I’ll put money on it.”

“Guess this sort of lets Vic and Teresa off the hook,” Lark said.

Crandall turned, raising his eyebrows. “How do you figure, Drummond?”

“Neither one of them could have killed Paul. They were stuck on the other side of the creek.”

“That’s true, Drummond, but it doesn’t let them off the hook for Esther’s murder.”

“You’re saying there are two killers? That someone else murdered Paul?”

“It’s possible. Maybe there’s two of them working together.” Crandall rose to his feet. “Of course, if you were to eliminate them, it sort of narrows down the suspect list, don’t it, Drummond?”

And now there were five.

Lark leaned against the
trunk of an aspen tree and tried spit-washing the sap off her face. Thirty feet away, the Search and Rescue team wrestled to transport the stretcher carrying Paul Owens’s body across the gorge.

First Esther, now Paul. If he had been right, Esther died because she planned to blow the lid on some illicit Mexican-based operation. Which meant he had died for the same reason. But why?

Lark figured it must have to do with the numbers in the ledger. He had said the numbers were too high.

“Lark, you’re next,” shouted Ian.

She walked to the edge of the washout, stepped into the harness, and allowed Ian to tighten the belt around her waist. Then he clipped the harness to the transport strap.

“Have you ever ridden a zip line?”

“Nope.”

“Are you afraid of heights?”

“A little.” More so since her climbing accident. Even climbing a tree had brought on a feeling of vertigo. It swept over her now in spite of the fact her feet were planted solidly on the ground. A déjà vu of sorts, or a sympathetic memory, like men who experience pregnancy with their wives.

“Then take my advice. Don’t look down.”

Lark cheated, sneaking a look at the washout and creek below. The ground dropped away. The world spun. She closed her eyes and gripped the rope with both hands, then Ian shoved her into the air.

Two hours later, snuggled down into a hot tub of water, Lark was grateful to be home. The soap bubbles stung her cuts and scrapes, but the water warmed her to the bone, and for the first time in over twenty-four hours, she felt human again.

“Let me get this straight,” Rachel said. She perched on the closed commode, having shown up within hours of the rescue for the official word on “the ordeal on Elk Mountain.” Dorothy and Cecilia had tendered their own versions, but both were prone to embellishment. “So you’re saying Vic and Teresa have been exonerated?”

“In my opinion, though technically, until the two murders are officially linked, they’re both still suspects in Esther’s murder.”

“For the sake of argument, let’s throw them out. That leaves five suspects.”

“Four,
please
. I swear, I didn’t do it.”

“Four, then.” Rachel ticked them off on her fingers. “Buzz, Katherine, Jan, and Norberto.”

“Bingo.”

She recounted. “Bing. There is no
O
unless you add yourself back in.”

Lark threw a shower sponge at Rachel, then slipped beneath the mounds of bubbles to wet her hair. She worked her fingers through the tresses, fanning them out until the long blond strands swayed like seaweed on the water.

Out of the four, Lark had whittled the field to three. Resurfacing, she used her hands to squeegee the water and soap from her face, then said, “For what it’s worth, I don’t think Katherine did it.”

“Why not?”

“No reason, just a gut feeling. You should have seen her reaction when she learned Paul was dead.”

“She might be a good actress. She’s had a lot of public speaking experience.”

“But what would have been her motive?”

“Didn’t you say she forced the breakup between Esther and Paul? Maybe she wanted Esther out of the picture for good.”

“Why? The affair happened over two years ago, and Paul chose the Alliance. If she’d wanted to kill her, why wait so long? Two years goes way beyond premeditation. And, besides, Esther was no longer a threat.” Lark tamped down a mound of bubbles. “Let’s abandon emotion as a motive and look at the facts. Both victims were connected to the Chipe Coffee Company. Let’s suppose the reason for the murders was financial, that it all had to do with business. Bad business.”

Silence blanketed the room.

Finally, when it grew uncomfortable, Rachel spoke. “Then you could be in danger.” She crossed her legs and leaned back against the toilet tank. “How much did you tell Bernie and Vic?”

“I told them everything.”

“Did you tell them about the letter from Paul?”

“No.” She had intended to tell Crandall about the letter she’d found, but had never gotten the chance. “Vic was there the whole time, and I didn’t want to upset him.” Groping for a towel, she dried her face. “You know something, Rae?”

“What?”

“I never fished the letter I kept out of the hamper.”

Rachel went in search of the envelope in the khaki shorts, while Lark climbed out of the bath, toweled dry, and assessed her injuries in the bathroom mirror. There wasn’t a square inch on her body that remained unbruised. Even her hair hurt. Pulling on clean blue jeans and a fresh T-shirt, she let her hair hang loose and padded barefoot to the kitchen.

The mess from last night was in remission. The books shoved haphazardly back in the bookcases, the drawers closed, the cereal swept up, and the counters wiped down. Lark guessed Rachel had been busy. She heard the washing machine click on and begin to fill, then Rachel emerged from the laundry room, letter in hand.

“Sit,” she said, handing Lark the envelope. “You read this, while I make some grilled cheese sandwiches.”

Too tired to argue, and glad to have someone taking care of her for a change, Lark obeyed. Pulling the letter out of the envelope, she skimmed the page.

“Well?”

“It doesn’t say much. Lots of mush. But he does apologize for the blowup with Katherine, so I guess that part of the story was true.” She read on. “Can you believe this, he actually asks her to wait for him.”

“Bastard.”

Lark glanced up. Whatever Rachel was thinking, Lark bet it involved her soon-to-be-ex-husband, Roger. She was slicing cheese with a vengeance, thin shoulders tensed, biceps taut. Tears had formed at the corners of her eyes, and she blotted them away with her sleeve.

“That crying stuff’s reserved for onions,” Lark said. She stuffed the letter back in the envelope and tossed it on the table. Time to change the subject. “Do you know what else is weird?”

“What?”

“Buzz Aldefer could not identify a golden eagle.”

Rachel slathered butter on the back sides of the bread and plopped them into a pan. “Sorry, Lark, but I don’t see what IDing birds has to do with the price of coffee in Mexico.”

“The guy’s billed as a big government birdwatcher. He’s been a Hawkwatch volunteer in Chiapas. So why couldn’t he
name that bird?
A golden eagle isn’t a hard identification to make. Not if you know eagles. Heck, even you could do that.”

Rachel flashed her a bright smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Trust me,” Lark said. “That man is no birdwatcher.”

Rachel grabbed a spatula and flipped the sandwiches. “I don’t mean to harp at you,” she said, cranking the heat on the stove, “but why haven’t you called your dad and asked him to check out Buzz Aldefer?”

The question caught her off guard. “Because.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Because, asking Senator Nathan Drummond, the senior senator from Connecticut, for a favor means owing him big time. Nothing ever comes free. The price varies, but there’s always a price.”

In the Drummond household, even love came on condition. It had been doled out for good grades and nice behavior, and it had taken her a long time to realize that she’d spent most of her life bartering for affection. “I already owe him for the phone call I made in June to find out about Forest Nettleman.”

The phone call had paid off. Through her father’s connections, they’d discovered that Nettleman, the soon-to-be ex-U.S. Representative from Colorado’s Fourth District, had been an ecowarrior in his younger days—information important to solving the murder of Donald Bursau. But it had come with a price.

“Believe me,” continued Lark. “One of these days my father will call in the chit.”

Rachel withheld comment, serving up lightly burned toasted cheese sandwiches. They munched in silence. Rachel drank water. Lark guzzled milk. Finally, Lark couldn’t take any more.

“Okay, if I call, Rae. Mind you, I said,
if
, what do I ask him?”

Rachel broke her sandwich in half and twirled oozing melted cheddar around her finger. “I’d ask him if he’s ever heard of Buzz Aldefer, or if he knows anyone in the top brass of the U.S. Air Force who can verify Buzz’s military presence in Mexico. Surely he’d check it out for you.”

“Even if he did, he’ll just come back and say he doesn’t know anything.” Lark wiped a milk mustache off on her napkin. “He’s not stupid. The U.S. can’t admit any knowledge of government activity in Mexico. They’re our allies. Besides, I’m sure his phones are tapped.”

“Then ask him to call you back from the pay phone on the corner. It’ll drive the surveillance team wild.”

Lark laughed. “You love this cloak and dagger stuff, don’t you?”

“No! It’s just how they do it in the movies.”

“Get real. Admit it. You love it.”

Rachel shook her head and started loading the dishwasher. “He’s your father, Lark. What’s the worst that can happen?”

Out of excuses, Lark placed the call. The conversation with her father was brief. He was headed out to a “function,” but he would check things out and call her back.

“Well, I’ve got to go,” Rachel said, wiping her hands on a dish towel as Lark hung up the phone. “There’s an EPOCH meeting at Bird Haven in an hour.”

Monday
. Lark had forgotten all about the meeting. “Maybe I should come—”

“Maybe you should take a nap.”

Rae had a point. Every muscle in her body ached. “I guess you’re right.”

“Of course, I’m right. You’re as bad as Katherine Saunders.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Dorothy told me that Katherine showed up at the conference headquarters this afternoon and announced that the show would go on. Apparently, she’s decided to give the workshops as planned because, ‘Paul would have wanted it that way.’ Gag.” Rachel pulled on her jacket and scooped up the keys to her car. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Meanwhile, get some rest.”

“Hey, Rae?” Lark out called following Rachel out onto the porch and watching her scamper to the bottom of the steps. She paused, one foot in the car.

“Hey, what?”

“Thanks.”

“
De nada.
”

Lark sat down on the porch steps and watched until the green Toyota disappeared from sight. Trusting people came hard, and most people she met didn’t care to fight through the veneer of self-sufficiency she threw in their path. Rachel, on the other hand, had leapt the hurdles.

Tipping her face toward the sun, Lark basked in the warmth of the rays and soaked in the scenery. Longs Peak and Elk Mountain rose in the distance beyond the Drummond like two giant siblings come out to play. They wore snowfield hats with pointy pompadours, and the afternoon sun shimmered off cliff faces positioned like well-aligned teeth. Idyllic and deadly.

But it wasn’t the mountain that had killed Paul Owens. A person of flesh and blood had ended his life. And now, two people, both of whom were connected to the Chipe Coffee Company, were dead. The question was, why? Because of what they knew?

Possibly
.

More likely, it was because of what they planned to tell.

It was still dark when Lark woke up.

Her heart pounded, and she lay still, barely breathing, trying to orient herself to her surroundings. Slivers of moonlight crept in around the edges of the curtains. She lay on top of a comforter, in her clothes.

She remembered moving from the deck to the bedroom and nothing more. Now, except for the person standing at the foot of her bed watching her sleep, she was completely alone.

A dark figure.

Her heart banged in her chest, and she feigned slumber, fighting off shivers of fear. Adrenaline pumped through her veins, and she willed herself to lie still.

Who was it? Who was standing there? The killer?

She didn’t dare open her eyes any further for fear the moonlight shimmering across her face would give her away. Her muscles twitched. Lark shifted positions and pretended to stretch in her sleep.

The figure remained rooted in place, like a mannequin posed at the foot of the bed.

Panic welled up inside her, and she stuffed it back down, trying to remember whether she’d locked the doors before lying down on the bed. The memory eluded her.

Stupid
. That was the first thing she should have done.

A warm hand touched her foot. Lark’s heart leaped to her throat, threatening to choke her.

“Lark. Wake up.” The voice belonged to Teresa Cruz.

Lark leaped out of bed, banging her ankle on the bedside table. “What in the hell are you doing in here?”

She flipped on the bedside lamp, bathing the room in a soft warm glow, then reached to massage her ankle bone. Teresa stepped back. Her dress—the same outfit she’d worn to sing in—hung in tatters on her tiny frame. One of her eyes was swollen black and blue. A green tinge radiated out from the center in painted streaks of yellow. She licked a cut on her swollen lower lip and drew a ragged breath.

“Oh my God, what happened to you?”

“He tried to rape me.”

“Who?” Lark searched her face. “Jacobs?”

Teresa nodded, ducking her head in shame.

Lark’s blood percolated. “Where is he now?”

“At the Manor House. He came back to get his paycheck, and…” She dropped her chin. “I had nowhere to go.”

“Sit,” ordered Lark, pointing to the bed. She reached for the phone. “I’m calling Bernie Crandall. He’ll pick Jacobs up and—”

“No! No police.”

“Look, he already knows everything, Teresa,” Lark said, dialing the number. “He knows about the green card. He knows about you and Jesus. He knows because a man named Paul Owens was murdered last night, and I had to tell him everything.”

“Paul Owens is dead?” Shock vibrated in the words. Teresa’s breath came in sharp spurts.

“You knew him?” Lark cradled the receiver after the first ring, before Crandall picked up. Gently, she eased herself down on the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

“I met him in Chiapas. He came to my father’s house with Esther once or twice. She was so excited that he was coming here.” Teresa’s hand groped for Lark’s. “Do you believe in heaven?”

Lark shied away from the question. With her aversion to bodies, she didn’t feel qualified to answer. “I don’t know.”