Death of a Songbird (4 page)

“All I know is, she said Esther owed her some money. But she’s eighteen years old. Gas money would be important to her.” Lark realized she was minimizing the argument, but for some reason, she felt a need to protect Teresa, especially with Esther gone. But what if Teresa had killed her?

“Hey, Chief,” called out one of the officers combing the area.

Crandall looked up. “Yo.”

“Got any idea where we can find a set of keys for the store?” asked the officer, walking toward them.

“Did you check the deceased’s pockets or her handbag?” Crandall jerked his head in the direction of the coroner’s wagon. “Or try reaching Harvey. He owns the strip mall.”

The officer flashed Crandall a thumbs-up. Crandall turned back to Lark. “I have one more question. Do you have any idea who we should notify about Esther?”

Lark stared down at her shoes. “Did you ask Vic?”

“He claims she doesn’t have any next of kin. I thought, you being Esther’s friend and all… well, I figured you might know if she had any business associates.”

Gooseflesh prickled Lark’s skin. “I’m one of her partners.”

Crandall’s eyes widened. “Since when?”

“Since she started the company a few years ago. It’s a matter of public record.” Lark flipped her braid over her shoulder. “I’m not the only one.”

“Stay here a sec,” he ordered. The forensic team had packed up their gear. Crandall tramped toward them across the parking lot. After a brief conversation with the lead man, Crandall shook hands and returned to the car. “Okay, here’s what’s gonna happen. I’ll call Esther’s attorney in the morning. Meanwhile, I suggest you go home and take a look at your contracts. Figure out whether or not you have the authority to run her businesses, and call me.”

“Me? Run the businesses?”

“Hey, the way I’ve got it figured, we’re about through here. All that’s left is the mop-up. With Esther dead, somebody’s got to take over the operations. If Vic’s right and she doesn’t have any next of kin… Hey, even if he’s wrong and she does… you’re her partner. In my book, that makes you the person in charge.”

“How can you be so callous, Bernie? Esther’s been murdered.”

Crandall studied the ground. “If I let it be personal, I couldn’t do my job.” He paused for a beat, then lifted his head. “There’s just no telling how quick shutting down a business can affect the bottom line.”

“Pretty darn fast,” Lark admitted.

“That’s what I figured, especially seeing as how we’re at peak season. So unless you and all those other investors want to lose your shirts, I suggest you come up with a game plan and call me tomorrow.”

Lark didn’t know how to respond.

“Hey, Drummond, I’m tryin’to be nice here.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Shadows shrouded the parking lot, and Elk Park’s lights twinkled in the valley. In the background, one of Crandall’s men uncoiled a hose from a spigot on the wall. Whistling a tune from
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs
, he hosed the remnants of blood from the asphalt as casually as she might rinse bird droppings off a patio.
Mop-up
. Thank God Vic was gone.

Suddenly, Lark felt exhausted. “Am I free to go?”

“Sure,” Crandall said, rolling his hand and gesturing grandly. “Be my guest.” He waited until she’d walked around the patrol car, then called out, “Hey, don’t forget to give me a call if you have any great revelations.”

“I guarantee, you’ll be the first to know.”

As promised, Rachel was waiting to give her a ride up the hill. Lark found her parked around front, with the seat leaned back and jazz music drifting from the radio.

“Thanks for hanging around,” Lark said, sliding onto the passenger seat.

“No problem.” Rachel sat up and readjusted the seat. “How did it go?”

“Okay, I guess.” Lark heard the tears in her voice before feeling the sting in her eyes. She tried fighting them back, but images of Esther crumpled in Vic’s arms floated through her head. Images of pain, and blood, and death.

“Here.” Rachel reached across and handed her a wad of tissues. “I saved you some.”

Lark’s tears flowed unchecked.

The drive to the Drummond was short, and Lark had barely composed herself before Rachel pulled the car up to the carriage house door and stopped. Stephen Velof hailed her from the hotel’s porch. Lark cringed as he headed across the parking lot.

“I’ll call you tomorrow, Rae,” she said, climbing out of the Toyota. Shutting the door, she banged twice on the side. Rachel waved and pulled away.

“I was beginning to wonder if you ever planned to come back,” Velof said. “What did you find out?”

“Nothing you want to know, Stephen.” Lark started up the front steps. “Aren’t you supposed to be off by now?”

“I was waiting for you. I was hoping we could resolve the coffee issue.” He followed her toward the carriage house. “What don’t I want to know?”

“I didn’t have a chance to talk to Esther.”

“What?” He reached out and steadied himself on the porch railing. “Why not? You gave me your word.”

“Because Esther is dead, Stephen.”

“Dead?” His face turned fish-belly white. “As in deceased?”

“As in ‘as a doornail.’”

Velof hesitated for only a second. “Do they know who will be taking over her operation? Perhaps we could contact them?”

Pragmatic to the heart. Just like Crandall.

“Possibly me,” she said, noting a faint ripple of disbelief cross his face. “I’m supposed to call the attorney in the morning.” She reached for the screen door. “Right now, I’m taking a bath.”

“How will this affect the coffee delivery?” he persisted. “I did send someone to the grocery, as you suggested, but the coffee supply there is, well… rather limited, not to mention expensive and horrid tasting.”

“I won’t know anything until tomorrow, Stephen. Now, if that’s all…?”

Velof glanced down. “There is one more thing.”

Lark paused, her hand on the screen.

“Peter Jacobs hired a singer for the lounge.”

Based on Stephen’s critical tone, Lark guessed that he didn’t approve of the new hire. But hiring lounge entertainment was Jacobs’responsibility, and he was good at it. “That’s his job. What’s the problem?”

“We can’t afford to hire
this
girl.”

“Why not? What’s her fee?”

“It’s not that, it’s—”

“Just answer my question, Stephen,” she snapped, tired of the melodrama. “What’s her fee?”

Velof stiffened, balling his fists at his sides. “She wants fifty dollars a night and a place to live. Jacobs assigned her a vacant bed in the Manor House.”

Elk Park, like the majority of resort areas, suffered from a shortage of low-cost housing. Seasonal workers could no longer afford to pay the high rents. Hotels and lodges could no longer afford to pay salaries high enough to compensate. The stalemate called for creative measures.

Lark solved the problem by providing her own on-site housing. Maids, wait staff, kitchen staff, and front desk help were assigned rooms in the Manor House. Beds were allocated on a first-come, first-served basis. Even Velof lived on site in a small apartment designated as the manager’s quarters.

“I don’t see the problem. Two hundred fifty dollars a week isn’t out of line,” Lark said. “And, if there’s room in the Manor…”

“The woman doesn’t have a green card.”

Lark dropped her hand to her side, giving Velof her full attention. “Jacobs hired an illegal?”

Velof grinned a Cheshire smile. “A real songbird.”

Lark’s blood pressure rose a notch. “Is he insane?”

Colorado was notorious for harboring its share of illegal immigrants—mostly Mexican—by welcoming them into the minority segments of the communities spread up and down the Front Range. A business caught employing an illegal was subject to hefty fines and penalties, and, in some cases, the loss of a business license.

“We can’t hire someone who doesn’t hold a green card,” Lark protested.

“That’s what I said, but Jacobs considered it a special case.”

“Special case, my tush. It’s not worth the risk. I’ll tell him myself. He’ll just have to unhire the girl.” Lark headed for the hotel.

“That’s what I told him you’d say,” Stephen crowed, scampering behind her. “But he insisted I speak with you before I fired her.”

Something in Velof’s tone stopped Lark in her tracks. What wasn’t he telling her? “Does this singer have a name?”

Velof pivoted at the edge of the lawn. The glare from the streetlamp blotted out his features. He coughed.

“Her name, Stephen.”

Velof scuffed the toe of his loafer along the asphalt curb. “Teresa. Teresa Cruz.”

Harboring
had just taken
on new meaning.

“Where is she now?” demanded Lark, anger bubbling inside her. Whether it was directed at Velof, Jacobs, Teresa, or at Esther for dying, Lark couldn’t tell.

“She’s in the lounge,” Velof said, glancing at his watch. “Jacobs scheduled her on at eight.”

Teresa needed to be fired. And she needed to be told about Esther. Not a job for Velof. The man showed about as much compassion as a hungry mountain lion. Talk about leading a lamb to slaughter.

Then there was Crandall, but he wanted to question Teresa in connection with Esther’s murder. No compassion there, either.

Velof wet his lips. “I must point out, Lark, you’re not exactly dressed to make a hotel appearance.”

Lark glanced down at her clothes. By hotel policy—her policy—semiformal evening attire was required in the lobby areas after six o’clock. That meant coats and ties for men, and skirts or nice slacks for women. She was still wearing her shorts and flannel shirt, and both looked worse for wear.

“What time is it?”

“Ten till.”

“Then I have time to change.”

Velof nodded. “In the meantime, I’ll inform Jacobs of your decision and apologize to our guests.”

“That’s okay. You’ve done your duty, Stephen,” she said, smiling coldly. “I’ll take it from here.”

He stalked away, and she turned back toward the house.

Entering the bedroom, she peeled off her boots, heavy socks, flannel shirt, shorts, and T-shirt. After a quick swipe with a washcloth, she pulled on a pair of soft brown pants, a silk knit tank top, a cashmere sweater, and loafers. Then, yanking a brush through waist-length tangles, she braided her hair and secured the end with a soft black ponytail holder. By the time she crossed the parking lot to the Drummond, the temperature had dipped considerably.

There must be a front moving through
, she thought,
good on one hand, bad on the other
. Colorado needed rain, but tomorrow afternoon kicked off the tenth annual Migration Alliance conference. Rain would have a definite negative impact on all of the scheduled bird-watching activities.

Lark reached the patio as strains of “Amor Prohibido” wafted through the French doors. She glanced at her watch. Why had they started early?

Teresa’s clear, strong voice caressed the air, weaving a spell that wrapped itself around Lark. A number of others also seemed enthralled. The diners on the patio ceased talking, while patrons crowded the doors.

Lark shook off the spell and bounded up the steps to the main foyer. Peter Jacobs lounged against the doorjamb leading to the bar, watching Teresa’s performance. A short, skinny man, he sported a trim beard and displayed great, if somewhat wrinkled, taste in clothing: pink oxford shirttails tucked hastily into a pair of belted chinos, pink-socked feet crammed into brown leather loafers.

“We need to talk,” Lark said.

Peter started at her voice, his fingers moving nervously to his beard. “Lark!”

“My office.
Now
.”

“Can’t it wait until after the set?”

Lark poked her head inside the lounge. The tables and chairs were packed. “I guess it will have to.”

She noticed Paul Owens sitting near the stage with his business partner, Katherine Saunders, and the tall blond woman from the Warbler. They were accompanied by an older gentleman with graying sideburns, who watched Teresa intently. When the girl launched into a reggae-enhanced rendition of “Bidi Bidi Bom Bom,” a Latino chart topper, the gentleman danced in his seat.

Teresa gyrated onstage, bedecked in a high-waisted, short-skirted, bright pink sundress dotted with powder-blue flowers. The dress swirled as she shimmied, a look of rapture transforming her face. After three more songs, she ended the set with “God’s Child,” and the crowd demanded an encore. Teresa promised to return in twenty minutes.

Once she’d escaped the stage, Lark snagged her and marched her and Jacobs back to the office. Velof was waiting for them. Lark waved everyone to chairs. Teresa and Peter sat together. Velof declined, and posted himself sentinel-like beside the door.

First things first
. Lark scooted a chair next to Teresa’s. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

Teresa’s gaze darted from Jacobs to Velof, then cast about as though seeking an avenue of escape.

“Esther Mills is dead.”

Teresa’s head jerked back as if she’d been struck. Her dark eyes shone with pain, the type born from years of suffering. However, she showed no remorse, for the moment. “When? How?”

“Late this afternoon.” Lark drew a deep breath, then exhaled. “She was murdered.”

Teresa covered her face with her hands, but not before Lark spotted a glimmer of fear. What was she afraid of? Being in the United States alone, or that someone might accuse of her killing Esther?

Lark reached out and touched her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

Teresa jerked away. “I’m not.”

Not quite the reaction she expected. Lark tried a different tack. “Police Chief Crandall wants to talk to you.”

Teresa’s body trembled. “I won’t… I have nothing to say.”

“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice.” Lark glanced at Jacobs. He kept his attention focused on Teresa, concern etched in deep lines around his eyes. Behind him, vigilant at the door, Velof looked bored.

Teresa’s pink-tipped fingers picked at the edge of the wooden desk. “Mr. Velof must have told you.”

“That you don’t have a green card?”

“Yes.”

“He did.” Lark tried in vain to make eye contact with the girl. “Is that what you and Esther were arguing about? I overheard her threatening to send you home.”

Teresa raised her chin defiantly. “Everyone heard her.”

“Do you mind telling me what happened?”

The girl tossed her head like a headstrong filly. “My father arranged for my travel – we are a people at war. You must understand, he was frightened for me.”

“Frightened of what?” Lark asked.

Teresa fired off a rapid volley of Spanish.

“I’m sorry. English, please. I don’t speak your language that well.” Lark looked at the others. “Unless someone else can translate?”

Jacobs shook his head, crossing his arms and turning sideways in his chair.

“She said her father didn’t arrange the papers correctly,” Velof said. “In fact, he screwed them up royally.”

That it was Velof who spoke, Velof who understood her, surprised Lark. The Latin language seemed more suited to Jacobs than the straight-backed portrait she’d painted of the Drummond day manager.

“She says it was because he didn’t want certain people alerted to the fact she was leaving the country,” he continued.

“What
do
her papers say?” Lark asked.

Velof waited for Teresa’s response, then cleared his throat. “She says they give her permission to be in the United States for six months. After that, she’s forced to return to Mexico.”

“Only, let me guess, she doesn’t intend to go back.”

“Eventually, I will,” Teresa explained, “just not right away.”

“Did Esther know that?”

“Yes.” The girl spoke in Spanish again. This time, her words were barely audible.

“Esther promised Teresa’s father that once Teresa was in the United States, they would arrange for her to obtain a green card,” Velof said, pacing the narrow track of tile that separated the door from the chair, like a soldier on patrol paces the fence. “According to Teresa, Esther never followed through.”

“That’s right,” Teresa said, continuing in Spanish.

“Apparently, Teresa’s father paid Esther to help them, plus he supposedly gave Esther money that belonged to Teresa. Money she’d never received. She claims Esther lied to them from the beginning and used the money for the business, but that her father believes she’s safe here.”

“Safe from what?”
An unsuitable romance? A childhood indiscretion?

It wasn’t the idea of a father sending his daughter away that Lark found unfathomable. That sort of thing happened all the time, and for any number of reasons. When Lark turned fourteen, her father had shipped her off to boarding school, justifying his parental abdication by convincing himself—and anyone else who would listen—that it was for Lark’s own good.

No, what Lark found unfathomable was the fear inherent in Mr. Cruz’s decision to send Teresa away with Esther. He must have been seriously frightened to entrust his daughter to a stranger with no official credentials backing her up.

“I don’t understand the danger.”

“How much do you know about the revolution in Mexico?” Velof asked.

“I know there’s been some civil unrest in the southern states, but—”

“Civil unrest?” Velof snorted. “More like civil war.”

The vehemence in his voice unsettled Lark. “What do you know about it?”

“Enough.” Velof stopped marching and sat down on the windowsill, arms stiff at his sides. “In 1994, a band of Indian farmers calling themselves the Zapatistas led an uprising against the Mexican government. They cited problems such as work, land distribution, housing, food, health care, education, etc. And they timed the rebellion to coincide with the ceremonies marking the first day of the North American Free Trade Agreement.” He gripped the edge of the windowsill so hard his knuckles turned white. “One hundred forty-five Zapatistas and civilians died during that twelve-day siege. After that, the rebellion moved underground, and there’s been only sporadic fighting between the guerrilla forces, the forces of the government, and the larger landholders. Still, war is war.”

Jacobs, who hadn’t said anything up to then, reached for Teresa’s hand, “Teresa is a Tzotzil Mayan. Her father is an Indian coffee grower sympathetic to the Zapatista rebels. All the Indians want is the right to work and some land to grow their crops on.”

“My people are very poor,” Teresa explained.

Velof snorted. “And whose fault is that? All your people need to do is tap into the resources. Yet every time the government tries to help, the Zapatistas contend the government’s offer to control of the land. The government is not all bad.”

“They are,” Teresa insisted.

Lark turned to face Velof. “There must be some reason the people believe it is.”

Velof cupped his hands, slapping them against his sleeves with a popping noise. “Just before NAFTA, the PRI repealed an article of the constitution that protected the communal land holdings of the Indian people.”

“Who’s the PRI?” Lark interrupted, curious how Velof knew so much about the political climate of southern Mexico.

“The Institutional Revolutionary Party,” Teresa answered. “The ruling party.”

“All the repeal did was open the door to privatization of the Indian communal property,” Velof continued, “and most of the Indians already work their own plots of land.”

Jacobs slid forward in his chair. “Don’t you get it? It’s the same thing that happened in the 1700s in the Scottish Highlands. The English government forced the Scots to privatize, pitting clan against clan. It destroyed their cultural base.”

“No one in Chiapas is being forced to do anything,” Velof said.

“No? What about La Mascara Roja?” Teresa shivered, and Jacobs draped a protective arm around her shoulders.

“Who?” Lark asked.

“La Mascara Roja,” Velof scoffed. “The so-called ‘red guard.’ A group of opportunists, if you ask me.”

Teresa straightened her carriage. “They are PRI gunmen.”

“How are they any different than the masked rebels? Or the large landholders with their ‘white guard,’ for that matter? I wonder if you’ve ever considered that your people might benefit from a little civilizing.”

“Stop,” Lark ordered. “This is getting us nowhere.”

Teresa mumbled something in Spanish.

Lark looked at Velof. “Care to translate?”

Velof shook his head.

Teresa flashed a haughty smile, then spoke directly to Lark. “In December of 1997, the PRI stole the coffee harvests of Las Abejas. Just before Christmas, they came back and killed forty-five women and children in Acteal. I was there. I got away, but my mother was killed.”

Lark stared at Teresa. The girl had lost a parent and witnessed a massacre. Was that the reason her father had sent her to the United States, the reason he distrusted the Mexican government so much? “Does your father think you’re in danger?”

Teresa bowed her head. “He made me leave because of what I saw.”

Things were starting to make sense. It’s natural to feel afraid with the Mexican army on your tail. “It’s time we called your father, Teresa.”

“No!” The girl squeezed Lark’s hand tightly, making her wince. “The town’s telephone… it is listened to by the government. It is not safe.”

“Are you saying there’s no way to reach your dad?”

“Sometimes he calls me.” Teresa pulled her hand back and studied her nails.

Velof pushed away from the windowsill. “Let’s get back to addressing the green card, shall we?”

Lark bristled. “Back off, Stephen.” She stood and walked around the desk. While Jacobs nervously finger-combed his beard and Teresa fidgeted, Velof dusted his lapels. “How is it you know so much about what’s happening in Chiapas, Stephen?”

Velof shrugged. “I worked a resort in Veracruz, a place called Fortin de las Flores.”

“Yes, I know it,” Teresa said.

Velof ignored her. “It’s a beautiful little town, a former Spanish outpost.”

“It has beautiful gardens there, and very sweet fruit,” Teresa said.

Velof turned his back and faced the small window, looking out over the Drummond lawns. “A lot of wealthy Mexican families own private homes there or visit the area on vacation. I worked at the Palacio, the largest resort club in town.”

That explained how he understood Spanish.

“While I was there, guerrillas attacked a small military post near the city. They had heard that the president of Mexico was staying at the Palacio, and they stormed the club. I was held hostage. One of my friends died.”

“
Lo siento,”
Teresa whispered.

Velof glared at the girl. “The Zapatistas, the PRD as they’re called, claim they’re fighting for freedom, for a better government, for more democracy. I think they just want more for themselves.”