Death of a Songbird (5 page)

“That’s not true.” Teresa leaned toward him, hatred marring her face. “They fight for the people, for the women and children.”

Lark recognized a Mexican standoff when she saw one. Velof and his biases versus Teresa and hers. Lark found herself poised in the middle with no idea which side to take.

A knock at the door shattered the strained silence. Lark breathed a sigh of relief at the interruption. “Yes? Come in.”

The bartender stuck his head in the door and flashed a fistful of fingers. “Teresa’s on in five.”

“Her encore has been canceled,” Velof told him.

Lark blasted him with a frosty stare, then spoke to the stunned barkeep. “Tell the crowd she’s not feeling well. I’ll explain it to you later.”

“What’s there to explain?” Velof said. “She can’t perform. We’d be in direct violation of—”

Lark slammed her hand against the desk, causing the others to jump and the bartender to slam the door. “Need I remind you that
I
run the Drummond, and
you
work for
me
?”

Jacobs and Teresa shook their heads. Velof’s ears turned pink.

To break the tension, Lark tried tapping Crandall’s dirge on the desktop. It came out “Here Comes the Bride.” Lark stilled her fingers. “Look, all of you, I’ve had a long day. And, as much as I hate to admit it, Teresa, Stephen’s right. I know about the green card. I can’t let you work.”

“But I have no money.”

“I understand that, but…” Lark smiled sympathetically. “You have to look at this from my point of view. Technically, I should be calling immigration.”

“No!” Teresa’s eyes took on a sheen. “Please, you can’t!”

Lark raised both hands to calm the girl. “I won’t. I promise.” She shot a glance at Velof. “And neither will anyone else in this room. But you’ve got to help me. You’ve got to give me some time to straighten things out.”

First there was the issue of immigration; then there was the issue of Crandall to settle. She would have to call him eventually.

“She can stay in the Manor House,” Jacobs said. “I’ve already assigned her a room.”

Teresa pouted. “But what about money?”

“You have fifty dollars coming from tonight. That should cover you for a day or two.”

“But I want to work.”

“Well, you can’t. Not right now.” Lark sat back in her chair. “Peter, show Teresa to her room and pay her the money we owe her
in cash
. Meanwhile, I’ll do some checking tomorrow on the status of your immigration visa.”

Teresa rose without another word and swiveled her hips to the door. Jacobs followed her out. Lark glanced at Velof. “She can be quite the prima donna.”

“Hmpf,” he replied.

Lark sighed. Somehow she had to mend the fence. She needed his help right now. “Look, I’m sorry if I offended you. You know how much I rely on your judgment.”

When he still didn’t respond, she headed for the door. There was only so much sucking up she could do.

“Frankly, she’s what I’d call a
chipe.”

Lark frowned and turned back. “As in Chipe Coffee? Isn’t that Spanish for warbler?”

“Yes, but I’m choosing to apply the slang definition.”

“Which is?”

“A major-league spoiled brat.”

After a soak in
the tub, Lark gratefully climbed into bed, waking the next morning to sunshine warming her face. The sunlight dappled the quilt in dalmatian spots, and she stretched, basking in the warm rays before remembering that Esther Mills was dead.

The realization hit her full force. Her friend and partner was gone—murdered—in a senseless act of violence. And for what? A few measly dollars?

Death always surprised Lark. Even when she saw it coming, it broadsided her with its callous disregard; how it took only a moment to forever change the lives of those left behind to mourn.

When William Tanager had died, she had stood vigil with Miriam. Then, at the last possible moment, in fear of her own mortality, Lark had bolted, leaving Miriam in the clutches of her wicked stepdaughters.

This summer, when she’d stumbled upon the reporter’s body in The Thicket, Lark had screamed. Bottom line, she didn’t handle death well.

Thank heavens she’d found the strength to keep it together yesterday. Somehow she’d managed to keep her lunch down and stick by Rachel, who has charged in where only braver women dared go.

Lark rolled over and gazed out the bedroom window. By now, everyone in Elk Park knew about the murder. Bad news traveled fast in a small town. And by now, the old guard would have started the telephone tree and stocked Vic Garcia’s refrigerator with enough frozen casseroles to feed Denver’s transient population for a week. Since Esther had no known heirs, it would fall to Vic to plan the memorial service.

On the other hand, the Chipe Coffee Company, the Warbler Café, and Teresa were her problems. Lark glanced at the bedside clock. It was still too early to call the attorney Crandall had told her to contact.

Stumbling out of bed, Lark stripped off her pajamas and made the requisite pit stop. Then, donning a pair of soft blue jeans, a white T-shirt, and tennis shoes, she headed to the kitchen. In the hoopla, she’d forgotten to shore up her personal coffee supply. A quick tour of the cupboards proved them bare of any other caffeine-laced substance.

Well, there’s coffee at the Drummond
. She stared out the kitchen window.
And there’s Velof at the Drummond. Nix that idea.

Lark weighed the other options. With the Warbler closed, she was left with the diner, the grocery store, or Bird Haven. Lark opted for Bird Haven.

Grabbing a jacket—more out of habit than necessity—she made a dash for the truck. The name of the game was Avoiding Velof. Sure enough, as she pulled the truck into the driveway, he tried flagging her down from the patio. Unwilling to scrub toilets, she pretended not to see him, peeling out of the parking lot in a spurt of sand. Whatever he wanted would keep.

The drive to Bird Haven took five minutes. A quick burst up Devil’s Gulch, then a left under the overhead sign on to Raptor House Road. The private drive, fenced on both sides, meandered through a meadow sprinkled with tansy, aster, and fireweed. A cluster of buildings squatted in the distance.

The entire ranch encompassed twenty-five hundred acres of prime real estate situated at the base of Lumpy Ridge, a popular rock-climbing and recreational area that belonged to Rocky Mountain National Park. Climbing was restricted on the buttresses during the peregrine breeding season, but today the cliff area swarmed with climbers. Lark’s ankle throbbed at the sight.

The ranch house perched on top of a small knoll. Large and sprawling, it had been built in the late 1800s by an enterprising cattle rancher, who later sold it to Miriam and Will. Behind the house sprawled the Raptor House, a seven-building rehabilitation center for injured birds. The structures and the land were part of Bird Haven, but the Park Service handled the daily operations.

Lark parked the truck beside the green Toyota, jumped out, and wandered around the house to the back door. “Hello?” she called. “Anybody home?”

Rachel hailed her from the kitchen. “Come in, come in. How are you today?”

“I could use a cup of coffee.”

“I just made some, fresh-brewed.”

Lark filled an oversized mug and splashed in a dollop of cream. Cupping the mug in her hands, she savored the smell, allowing the steam to penetrate her sinuses before taking a sip.

Rachel popped four slices of bread into the toaster, grabbed the jam and butter, and offered Lark a small plate and butter knife. “Here.”

Lark helped herself to toast, then settled in at the breakfast nook table. “You’ll never guess what happened last night.”

“Nothing bad, I hope.”

“It depends on how you look at it.” Slathering the toast with strawberry jam, she told Rachel about the scene with Teresa. “Velof was downright Gestapo-like.”

Rachel looked thunderstruck. “Teresa’s an illegal immigrant?” She shook her head. “Lark, you’re taking a huge risk letting her stay at the Manor.”

Setting her knife on the edge of her plate, Lark reached for a napkin. “What else could I do? I couldn’t just throw her out. She’s practically a kid.”

“Have you called the attorney like Crandall told you to?”

“He’s not in until nine.”

A ruckus from the dining room drew their attention. The adjoining door banged open, and a streak of white swooped toward them. Perky, Miriam’s cinnamon teal parakeet, made a beeline for Rachel’s hair.

Rachel covered her head. “Get away!”

The bird landed on the curtain rod above the table, tipped his head, and said,
“Perky wants a hair.”

“Who let you in?” Rachel shrieked and draped a napkin over her head, knotting it under her chin like a scarf.

The bird dived. Rachel swatted the air. Perky buzzed around for another pass. Stooping like a miniature bird of prey, he dove at Rachel’s head and came up triumphant with a long strand of auburn hair.

“Ouch,” Rachel said, yanking off the napkin and rubbing her head. “Are you satisfied now?”

Lark burst out laughing.

Rachel glared at her. “I hate that bird.”

“Oh my,” Cecilia Meyer said, bustling into the room. She shooed Perky to a perch above the kitchen stove. “I’m afraid it was all my fault that he got in. Will you ever forgive me, Rachel? I’m just so flustered. I wasn’t paying attention.”

Her sister, Dorothy MacBean, who had followed her in, bobbed her head in joint apology. The two women looked nearly identical: midsixties, permed hair, gray eyes, pale skin. Today they wore matching pedal pushers and two-toned shirts in opposite patterns of pink and blue.

“Gertie’s coming behind us,” Dorothy added. “We’ve been looking for you, Lark.”

Lark tapped her fingers against the side of her coffee mug. “I take it you heard about Esther.”

“Then, you do know. I told you so, Cecilia.”

“
Know?
” Rachel blurted, obviously prepared to fill them in on yesterday’s happenings. Lark flapped her arms, signaling her not to say anything more. Rachel ignored her. “We were there.”

“Oh my,” Cecilia said, her eyes growing rounder. “You mean you witnessed the murder?”

Rachel shook her head. “Not me, but Lark did.”

Lark groaned.

“Really?” Dorothy asked, crossing to the table. “You saw the killer?”

“Yes and no. I saw him through the scope.” Lark drew her knees up and propped them against the edge of the breakfast bar.

“Well, are you going to tell us the story or not?” Gertie asked, storming into the room, black hair bobbing around her face. She’d managed to squeeze herself into a tight, knit short set that made her look like a human corn dog.

Rachel choked on her coffee.

Lark pursed her lips and toyed with the edge of her napkin.

“Well? Spill the beans.”

“There isn’t much to spill,” Lark told them.

“At least cough up what you know.”

The women clustered around the table, like chickens waiting for crumbs. There was no escape. Lark searched for where to start. “I was teaching Rae how to use a spotting scope, when we saw this unusual-looking bird… some kind of warbler, I think… and—”

“What were its markings?” Cecilia interrupted.

“Oh please,” Gertie said, dragging up a kitchen stool. “You can ask her that later. Let’s try and stay focused here.”

Lark sipped her coffee. “Actually, I’ve never seen a warbler like this one before. It—”

“Forget the bird,” Gertie said. “What about the murder?”

Cecilia slipped onto the bench seat beside Lark and patted her arm. “You can come back to the warbler later, dear.”

Lark smiled. “So, where was I?”

“You saw the bird,” Cecilia prompted.

Dorothy swatted her sister’s arm.

“Well, she did.”

“And it flew,” Lark said, “so I tried tracking it with the scope. Unfortunately, the height was set for Rachel, and I swung the dam thing too far to the left. That’s when I saw the killer stab Esther.”

“Oh my!”

“Were you able to identify him?” Gertie asked.

Lark rubbed the edge of the table. “I didn’t get that good a look. He was wearing a mask, with some lettering on it—”

Gertie leaned forward. “What kind of lettering?”

“You’re beginning to sound like Crandall.” Lark closed her eyes and tried visualizing the scene. “There was an E and a Z… that’s all I’m sure of.”

Dorothy raised her hand for permission to speak. “Do you remember how many letters there were?”

“Four. I’m sure there were four.”

“Absolutely positive?” Cecilia asked.

Lark made a face. “I’m fairly certain. There may have been five, but—”

“No,” Rachel said. “You were right the first time. There were four.”

“How would you know?” Gertie asked. “Lark was the one looking through the scope.”

“Because, I wrote the letters down.”

Lark’s stomach flip-flopped. She uncurled her legs and sat up. “You did?”

“Yes, don’t you remember? You told me to take notes while you called out the markings on the bird we spotted. I thought it was sort of odd when you blurted out those letters, but I jotted them down in your field book anyway.”

Lark grabbed Rachel’s arm. “Where’s the book now?”

“Upstairs,” Rachel said, disengaging her arm and scooting out from behind the breakfast nook table. “I carried it up from the peninsula. I must have shoved it in my pocket when I checked Esther’s pulse, because I found it after I got home. I’ll get it.”

While she went to retrieve the notebook, Dorothy claimed possession of her seat. “So what happened next?”

“Dorothy,” Cecilia said. “Don’t be such a vulture.”

“Well, it’s not fair to stop in the middle of a story.”

“Nothing happened,” Lark said. “I yelled for Rachel to call nine-one-one, then we ran up from the lake and found Vic holding Esther in the parking lot.” Lark hugged herself, rocking back and forth in her seat. “Rachel checked to see if Esther was breathing, but she was already dead. Then Crandall arrived.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” Dorothy said.

Cecilia draped an arm across Lark’s shoulders and patted her arm.

Rachel rejoined them, cracking open the notebook. “E, Z, L, N. Does that mean anything to anyone?”

They all looked at each other, then shook their heads.

“Elk something or other,” Dorothy suggested.

“What could the Z stand for?” Rachel reached for a sheet of scratch paper. “Zoo, Zebra—”

Cecilia perked up. “How about Zen?”

“Oh, please,” Gertie huffed. “We could spend all day trying to decode those letters.”

She had a point, thought Lark. Decoding the Z limited their choices, but, if the letters were initials, they could still stand for anything.

“Poor Esther,” Dorothy murmured.

Gertie snorted. “She’s not the only
poor
person in this room.”

A shocked silence followed. Everyone stared at Gertie.

“I’m only stating the truth.” Gertie tugged at the cuffs on her shorts. “I just don’t know what we’re going to do.”

A shrill note had crept into Gertie’s voice, and she ended on a wail that jolted Lark up out of her seat. Gertie was worried about money.

Lark tapped her watch face. “I don’t know about
we
, but I’m going to call the attorney, then Crandall. He’ll want to know about the letters, and he told me the Warbler could be reopened in the next couple of days. Whose job that will be depends on what the partnership agreements say.”

The women followed her into the family room en masse, crowding around while she looked up the attorney’s phone number. Lark backed them off a respectable distance before placing the actual call, then armed herself with Miriam’s ski pole, which doubled as a walking stick and had been leaning against the wall next to the phone table, to keep them at bay.

The attorney’s secretary answered on the second ring. “Mr. Arquette’s office.”

Gil Arquette specialized in corporate law. After practicing for twenty years in a downtown Denver firm, he’d semiretired to the peaceful surroundings of Elk Park. Nowadays, local businesses represented the lion’s share of his clientele. Esther Mills is—had been—his premier client.

“Good morning, Ms. Drummond. What can I do for you?”

“Call me Lark, Mr. Arquette – and I need some help.”

“I heard. Bernie Crandall called me this morning.”

Lark gestured to the others, indicating he knew about the murder.

“Horrible thing. Just horrible,” he continued. “What I can’t figure out is, who would have wanted her dead?”

“Probably someone after the bank receipts,” Lark ventured.

“Except that she wasn’t robbed.”

“Excuse me?”

Rachel, Dorothy, Cecilia, and Gertie leaned forward at the note of surprise. Lark waved them off with the ski pole.

“How do you know that, Mr. Arquette?” He hadn’t given her permission to call him Gil.

“Well, according to Bernie, they found the bank deposit lying on the ground a few feet away from her body. He thinks someone wanted her dead.”

“What’s going on?” Gertie whispered. “What’s he saying?”

Lark cupped her hand over the mouthpiece. “He says it wasn’t a robbery. That someone intentionally killed Esther without taking her bank deposit.”

A buzz rose from the women. Lark plugged her free ear and hunched over the receiver. “Do the police have any suspects?”