Death of a Songbird (18 page)

“I do,” Teresa said, pulling her hand away.

Not the answer she wanted to hear. “Teresa, do you know a man by the name of Norberto Rincon?”

The girl stiffened. “Why?”

“Because he was asking about you.”

Teresa’s face paled. “He’s a
ladino
that sells coffee for my father.” Teresa gathered her torn skirt, pulling it around her like a blanket. “Did you tell him where I was?”

“No.”

The girl doubled over as if in pain. “He’s the reason Esther threatened to send me home.”

Lark felt as if she’d been sucker-punched. Early on, Teresa had inferred that it was because of the visa. “How so?”

“He works for the PRI.”

“I thought your father sympathized with the Zapatistas.”

“He does, but the PRI doesn’t care about that. They are very pers… How do you say?”

“Persuasive?”

“
Sí
, that’s the word. Señor Rincon forced my father to mix the coffee.” Lines of anguish contorted her face. “The whole thing makes me sick.”

“What do you mean,
mix the coffee?
”

“My father grows organic beans, and also some for sun-grown harvest. The organic crop is worth so much more money, but it grows much slower, and there are fewer beans.” Teresa’s eyes pleaded for Lark to understand. “Norberto Rincon threatened my father. He said, if my father did not sell him some of the sun-grown beans with the tag of the organic, he would destroy our farm.”

“So your father complied, and did what Norberto wanted.”

“
Sí.
And Señor Rincon paid him the price for the organic, so, if anyone ever found out, it would look as though my father had cheated him.”

“What’s the difference in the value, the difference in the price between the types of coffee?”

“The sun-grown beans sell for eighty-five cents a kilo. The organic beans sell for over a dollar.” Teresa rubbed her arms against an imaginary chill. “When Señora Mills found out what my father had done, she was so angry. She said selling bad coffee is bad for her business.” Teresa cupped her knees to her chest. “If Norberto is in Elk Park, I’m in very bad danger.”

Lark stroked the girl’s back like she would a baby’s. “Don’t worry. You’re safe here with me.”

Teresa fluttered her fingers across her bruised eye and choked out a bitter laugh.

“Right,” Lark said, scooting off the end of the bed. “I’m not sure I’d believe me, either.”

She left the girl sitting in the bedroom and padded to the kitchen to get some ice for her eye. Bits of information swirled in her head, like pieces of a puzzle waiting to be connected. Find enough of the pieces, find the solution.

She pushed them away. The pieces were Crandall’s job, not that he seemed particularly interested in her theories.

She checked the doors, locking both the front and the kitchen, and made sure all the windows were locked up tight. Grabbing a set of towels from the linen closet, she hurried back to the bedroom and handed Teresa the cold compress. “Put this on your eye.”

Teresa complied, wincing as she pressed the ice to her bruise.

“I want you to stay here with me. Here’s a towel and washcloth. The guest room’s this way, down the hall.”

Teresa dropped the ice bag and clutched the bedpost with both hands. “No. I don’t want to sleep there alone. I want to sleep here, with you.”

The king-sized bed proved to be too small for the two of them. Teresa kicked and rolled, moaning in her sleep and consuming three-quarters of the giant bed. Lark felt like a kick-boxer fending off an attack. At five A.M., convinced she’d taken enough abuse, she crawled out from under the covers and crept to the kitchen for coffee.

It was early, but she placed a phone call to Bernie Crandall anyway. Time to unload.

“Bernie, it’s Lark. Teresa Cruz showed up.”

“When?”

“Two, maybe three o’clock this morning. It seems Jacobs offered to help her, until she didn’t come across, then he beat her up. She’s asleep in my bed.”

“I’ll be over in an hour.”

Out the kitchen window, the Drummond sputtered to life. The night shift departed. The day shift arrived. The breakfast crew smoked cigarettes outside the back door, while guest room lights blinked on in a random pattern.

Lark sipped her coffee. The one missing piece of the puzzle was the key, the one everything else was constructed around: the ledger. So where had it gone, and who had taken it?

The answer was obvious: one of Crandall’s four remaining suspects.

All of them were guests of the Drummond, people with lives that existed elsewhere. When the Migration Alliance ended, provided Crandall let them, they would all go home, leaving Elk Park mourning its dead.

So
, thought Lark,
suppose I were a guest in town, and I’d murdered two people and stolen something I wanted to hide. Where would I keep it?

Again, the answer was obvious.

In my hotel room
.

Aside from the maid, no one uninvited entered a room. A ledger or small ski mask could easily be shoved in a drawer, stuffed into a suitcase, or locked in the room safe with no one ever knowing.

Tomorrow was Tuesday. In two days, the conference would be over, and Esther’s killer would walk free.

Lark wondered what it would take to convince Crandall to conduct a search of the guest rooms at the Drummond. A search required a warrant—in this case four—and just cause. Given enough evidence linking a suspect to the crime, the judge might grant him one warrant, but asking for four only proved he was grasping at straws.

She, on the other hand, could gain entry by use of a housekeeping passkey. Shades of Velof. Funny how easy it was to justify bad behavior when it played to your own advantage.

Her phone rang at
five-thirty, while she was in the shower. Shutting off the water, she swaddled herself in a towel and, being careful not to wake Teresa, hurried to the kitchen to answer.

“Lark bunting,” cooed her father through the receiver, the childhood endearment sparking a weakness of tears.

“Daddy,” she replied in kind. “Did you find out anything?”

“What, no chitchat? No ’Hi, how are you?’ Just get down to business, aye? What’s happened to your manners?”

His harsh assessment jolted her back to reality, putting tearful sentiment to rest. “I’m sorry, Dad. I’m a little preoccupied.”

“You could at least ask about your mother.”

“How
is
Mom?”

“She’s fine. Thanks for asking.” He chuckled, then she heard him gulp some liquid. Coffee? Orange juice? It was way too early for anything else. “I did unearth some information for you. Seems you were right. Buzz Aldefer is not the birdwatcher he’s cracked up to be.”

From her father’s standpoint, the news was bad. Buzz Aldefer ran a covert operation on foreign soil without proper sanctioning. An Air Force officer working undercover for the CIA, his orders had been issued by a CIA underling by the name of Dean Munger. Aided and abetted by Katherine Saunders, a former grade school chum of Munger’s, Buzz had ventured into the heart of Chiapas under the guise of being a birder attached to the Migration Alliance board. His true mission was to gather intelligence for the CIA.

“He’s actually Special Ops. The Air Force knows that he’s been feeding Munger information for the past seven or eight years.”

“And you say Katherine knew also. Did her partner, Paul, know?” Fear of discovery might be enough of a reason for a Special Ops spy to kill someone.

“Munger didn’t say. By that point, he was too busy trying to deny everything.”

“Did you learn anything more about Katherine?”

“It seems her father, Preston Saunders, defined the term
patriot
. His birdwatching took him all over the world, and his prestige opened doors to trouble spots the State Department only dreamed of going. They recruited him as early as the 1930s to gather intel for the United States government in Europe.”

“Like father, like daughter.”

“I wish I could say the same.”

A crackle of static on the phone line broke the awkward silence. “I have to go, Dad. Thanks for your help.”

“Wait, there’s one more thing you should know. Munger thinks there’s a chance Aldefer’s gone rogue. It seems he’s been out of pocket for a while, and Munger thinks he’s on the take. Seems he’s been spending an inordinate amount of time lately with a known PRI sympathizer by the name of Norberto Rincon.”

The image fit: Norberto profited from buying coffee from the Indians for as little as possible, then selling it to Jitters at the top of the market. Not the work of someone who rallied to the cause. Yet he’d spoken softly when stating facts about the plight of the Chiapas Indians, and he seemed genuinely concerned about the plight of the average worker. An incongruity.

As she dressed, she tried assembling everything she knew into separate categories: motives for murder, means, and opportunity. In her mind, the pieces tangled and intermeshed.

The four suspects and two victims had all known each other. They were friends of a sort: partners, lovers, business associates, colleagues.

Means was apparent. The knife used to kill Esther had never been found. The knife used to kill Paul belonged to Lark.

Opportunity was a given. Crandall had already established the fact that nobody had alibis.

Motive was trickier. Possibilities included jealousy, hatred, revenge, self-preservation, and greed. Lark figured money topped the list.

Crandall showed up at six on the nose. Lark caught him up on the latest, then roused Teresa out of bed to answer his questions.

“Where were you at five
P.M
. the afternoon of August twelfth?”

“Driving.” She had taken the Big Thompson Road and ended up in Loveland.

“Can anyone verify that?”

“No.”

“What were you arguing with Esther about on the day she died?”

“Money. She owed me money that my father had given to her to keep safe for me.”

“How much money?”

“Ten thousand dollars.”

Crandall scratched his head. “So, why was she sending you home?”

Teresa looked down at her hands.

“Tell him, Teresa,” Lark said. She wondered if the girl’s answer would be something other than what she expected.

“My visa had expired. She’d found out that my father was cheating her by mixing shade-grown with sun-grown coffee. Esther said it put her business in jeopardy to let me stay.”

Crandall glanced at Lark. “Does INS know about the visa?”

“Not yet. Arquette’s working on a solution, but…”

He nodded, asked a few more questions, then stood. “Unfortunately, Teresa, I’m going to have to take you into custody. Under the circumstances, and with the flight risk so high…” He let the sentence dangle.

Teresa cowered on the corner of the living room couch.

“Come on, Bernie. She’s just a kid.” And possibly a murderer, though the more Lark learned the more convinced she was that Teresa hadn’t killed Esther. She knew for a fact Teresa hadn’t killed Paul. She couldn’t have. And Lark was convinced the two crimes were somehow connected. “Why not take Jacobs into custody and leave Teresa here with me?”

“You willing to take
full
responsibility for her, Drummond?”

“Sure.” Lark prayed her instincts were right.

Crandall hesitated, then turned to Teresa. “Do you understand that if you split, Drummond here goes to jail?”

Teresa looked at Lark. “You have my word of honor. I won’t run away.”

“Either you’re an idiot, Drummond, or I am.” He shrugged on his leather bomber jacket. “I’ll be in touch.”

Lark sent Teresa back to bed and followed Crandall out the front door. “Hey, Bernie, what are the odds you could get a warrant to search someone’s room in the Drummond?” She left the inference open as to whose room she was talking about.

“Nil.”

That’s what I thought
.

Crandall opened the patrol car door. “For what it’s worth, we did check out Paul Owens’ room and bag his belongings. All we found was a razor and a pile of clothes.”

After he left, Lark formulated a plan and checked on Teresa. The girl was sound asleep, exhausted from her ordeal the night before. She’d sleep long enough for Lark to spot-check a few rooms at the Drummond.

Donning a jacket, Lark slipped out the side door and followed the deer path around the back of the Drummond. Below her, Elk Park appeared to stretch as the rays of the sun snaked up the valley and bounced off the asphalt shingles of the buildings. Around her, dew sparkled on pine needles and shimmered on the sleepy faces of the day flowers. The early-morning air smelled of butterscotch pine and biscuits.

Overhead, the birds sang riotously, celebrating the morning, and Lark stopped to listen. Her eyes tracked the darting flight of a yellow-rumped warbler, then a flash of red in the trees overhead rooted her to the spot. Above and to her left, a small bird perched on a branch of a large ponderosa. The red-faced warbler!

The bird preened, ruffling then smoothing its feathers, making sure he was seen. A squirrel chattered nearby, shattering the moment. The bird looked up, then flew away, disappearing among the quaking aspen leaves. Too bad she didn’t believe in omens.

The path dead-ended at the edge of the Drummond lawn. Grass, trimmed to one hundred feet out from the hotel walls, maintained a fire buffer mandated by local authority. No trees or bushes were allowed to grow within reach of the building. No wood to fuel fire. No cover for a surreptitious dash to the back door.

Lark checked to make sure the coast was clear, then sprinted to the back door. If Velof caught her skulking around, her mission was over. Despite the fact that she owned the hotel and had every logical reason to be there, hiding became a necessity.

Muscles tense, senses alert, she scrambled down the back stairs and pushed through the door to the basement. Housekeeping was located in the bowels of the hotel. Pipes, painted gray to match the walls, lined the ceiling. Worn gray and burgundy carpet covered the floor.

Cleaning carts overflowing with toilet paper, tissue, complimentary shampoo and conditioner, towels, and sheets lined up back to back stretched down one side of the hallway. Doorways opened off the other side: the laundry room, the supply room, the office.

Inside the laundry, the rumble of the washers and dryers competed with women’s chatter. The air vibrated from the drone of the machines and smelled of fabric softener and bleach. Towels snapped in the air, and were folded on long tables in the center of the room. Two women appeared to dance as they folded sheets.

Lark slipped past without being noticed and hurried toward the main housekeeping office at the end of the hallway. Little more than a cubicle, it housed the housekeeping manual, a desk and computer, and Lydia Escabola, a short, plump Hispanic woman. Lydia managed the housekeeping operation, dishing out cleaning assignments, ordering supplies, and maintaining the schedules. If a guest wanted an extra pillow, more hangers, or clean washcloths, they called Lydia. If a maid fell sick, they called Lydia. If Lark wanted special attention paid to a guest’s hotel room, she called Lydia.

“Why Lark, what brings you over here this morning?” asked Lydia, glancing up from the computer screen. She offered a quick, friendly smile.

“I need you to do me a favor.”

Lydia’s eyes narrowed.

“We have a couple of special guests staying with us. I want to be sure everything in their rooms stays well stocked.”

“I gotcha.”

“Can you pull up the room numbers for Jan Halloway, Norberto Rincon, and Katherine Saunders?” Lark already knew Buzz was in room 420.

Lydia’s fingers flew over the keys. “Saunders is in 415, Halloway in 312, and Rincon in 314.”

Lark jotted the numbers on the palm of her hand. “Who covers those floors?”

“Brenda’s on four. Carlene’s on third.” Lydia looked up from the screen. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure they overstock the minibars and leave extra pillows.”

“Thanks, Lydia. That’ll be a big help.” Lark slipped the pen back onto the desk, waved her ink-free hand, and breezed from the room.

Now she had the room numbers. The next step was getting into the rooms. At the far end of the hall, women were loading carts into the elevators. Pushing, shoving, and grunting accompanied the task until eventually all the carts were loaded, and Lark was left alone in the hall. One cart remained, sitting unattended next to the wall.

Lark slunk toward the cart. She found the passkey clipped to the clipboard on top of the cart. Too easy to pilfer. She made a mental note to talk to Velof and Lydia about coming up with a new procedure to make getting hold of one more difficult. A little more rummaging produced a pair of latex gloves.

Now for the hard part. There was no way of knowing who of the targets might still be in their rooms. If she remembered correctly, there was a Migration Alliance breakfast starting in five minutes in the main dining room that Jan, Norberto, and Buzz were scheduled to attend. Katherine was still booked to speak, refusing to allow herself to be replaced, even in light of her partner’s murder. If breakfast lasted an hour, that gave Lark sixty-five minutes to check everyone’s rooms.

Brenda’s cart blocked the elevator exit on the fourth floor. Lark reached to push it aside, but the darn thing weighed a ton. Leaning her shoulder against the metal frame, she gave it a shove, moving it far enough to slip past. Busy cleaning the room across from the service elevator, Brenda never looked up.

Buzz’s room was at the far end of the hall on the right, and Katherine’s slightly this side on the left. Lark crow-hopped down to room 415, terrified of being caught.

Here goes
.

Slipping on the gloves, she tapped on the door, then listened for a rustle, a footstep, anything denoting life. Hearing nothing, Lark tapped again. Still, no answer.

The passkey slipped easily into the lock. The light flashed red, then blinked green. She glanced right, then left, then eased open the door and slipped inside. Clicking the door softly shut behind her, Lark flipped on the light.

The room was in a shambles. Clothes were strewn everywhere, mixed with the covers piled at the foot of the bed on the carpet, draped over the bedside tables. Towels littered the bathroom floor. A pizza box, Pepsi cans, and miniature whiskey bottles overflowed the trash cans.

Stepping over the clutter, Lark wondered if Katherine had thrown a party last night or had just been trying to drown her sorrows. To be charitable, she decided the later.

The rooms on the fourth floor came complete with an oversized desk, two bedside tables, a dresser, TV, and a king-sized bed. Between the door to the hall and the bathroom was a closet with an ironing board and iron. Between the bathroom and the bedroom was an alcove with a microwave, a Mr. Coffee, and a small, well-stocked—or, in Katherine’s case, severely depleted—minibar. The door that opened to Paul Owens’ adjoining room stood slightly ajar.

Lark started searching in the bathroom, combing Katherine’s suite with meticulous care. Cosmetics littered the bathroom counter. Tissues littered the floor. Lark lifted the mattress, checked behind the headboard and in the stored luggage in the closet. If Katherine had the ledger, she’d hidden it well.

Sneaking into the room was easier than sneaking out. Coming in, Lark had the luxury of knowing the room was empty and that no one had seen her enter. Now, she could only press her ear to the door and peer out a peephole broad enough to encompass the door across the hall. Straining her ears and seeing no one, she opened the door and stepped into the hall.

Two people hailed her from the elevator. “Hurry up. We’ll hold it for you.”

Lark held up her hand. “Oh darn, I forgot something.” She waved them off, turning back to Katherine’s room. “I’ll catch the next one.”

The elevator doors banged shut, and Lark sagged against the wall. She could see the headlines in the
Elk Park Gazette:
“Hotel Proprietor Caught Rifling Guests’ Rooms.”