Death of a Songbird (7 page)

Dorothy glanced at her watch. “Is it that late already? Oh goodness, conference registration opens in an hour. We have to go.”

Cecilia sprang to her feet and smoothed the front of her pedal pushers. “I must say, I do feel better now that we have a plan.”

Four hours later, Lark surveyed the Drummond patio with satisfaction. The cash bars were in place, the hors d’oeuvre table set, and chairs scattered strategically about. Even Velof appeared calm. Earlier, he’d been a mess.

Lark had returned from Bird Haven, changed into a pair of khaki pants, and devoted the afternoon to putting out fires. The coffee supply was dangerously low, so she’d ordered an overnight delivery of Song Bird Coffee from the American Birding Association in Colorado Springs. Expensive, but organic.

Two maids were still out with the flu, and three of the kitchen staff had called in sick. Velof triggered a mild panic with talk about an outbreak of Legionnaires’disease, and Lark had spent over an hour convincing staff members it was safe to stay and work.

The most recent problem cropped up at three, when four departing guests didn’t check out, leaving four incoming guests without rooms for the night. She was still working on that one.

“Everything looks perfect,” Dorothy said, coming up behind her. “Did you remember to order lights for the podium?”

“Yes, Dee. Maintenance set them up an hour ago. Stop worrying.”

Dorothy had changed from her pedal pushers into a sleek black pants suit. From underneath the sleeveless jacket peeked a short-sleeved pink shirt with a wide ruffled collar. A name tag in a plastic holder dangled against her chest at a rakish angle.

“You look terrific.” Lark gave her two thumbs-up. “Everything’s going to go fine.”

“We can only pray.” Dorothy glanced skyward.

Lark eyed the clouds. Earlier in the day, the sky had threatened rain. Dark thunderheads had rolled over the mountain peaks, bringing jagged flashes of lightning that speared toward the earth. Not a drop had fallen, and the storm had moved past. Now, only a wake of puffy white clouds remained to gather the sunset.

“Even the heavens fear Paul Owens,” Dorothy said.

Lark cocked her head. “What do you mean by that?”

“He’s very demanding.”

That informational tidbit didn’t bode well for the Chipe Coffee Company partnership. Lark had only met him once, at a promotional fund-raiser in McAllen, Texas. He’d seemed nice enough then. “What else do you know about him?”

“For one thing, he writes his speeches days in advance and practices them incessantly. I must have heard tonight’s comments and set of introductions six times—once or twice yesterday, and at least four times today already.” Dorothy glanced around to see if anyone was listening, then leaned in closer to Lark. “And, I can tell you something else, Lark. Paul Owens is only a figurehead. It’s Katherine who holds the reins, and that woman makes the devil quake.”

“She can’t be that bad.”

“With God as my witness,” Dorothy said, raising her right hand and pretending to place her left on a Bible. “She’s a witch with a capital
B
.”

Lark added the information to what she already knew. Katherine, the only daughter of a prominent birder, shared her father’s passion for all things avian. It was he who had provided the seed money to found the Migration Alliance, and she who had placed Paul in the organizational driver’s seat.

“Don’t look now,” Dorothy said. “But here comes Stephen. What do you suppose the problem is?”

Velof’s loafers clicked a staccato on the flagstones, hailing his arrival. Lark spun around. “What’s up, Stephen?”

Dashing in a black Armani knockoff, he ruined the effect by sputtering, “People are starting to show up in the lobby, and, if I may say so, some of them are quite inappropriately dressed.”

Lark could imagine. Most of the people she had seen were dressed in bright green MA T-shirts emblazoned with a white ptarmigan. “How so?”

“We have men in shorts, women in tank—” Velof stopped short, his eyes scanning Lark’s attire.

She tugged at the straps of her silk knit top and brushed nonexistent dirt from the seat of her khaki pants. “These are birders, Stephen. They’ve come here to walk the mountain trails and look at the fauna. I think we can relax the rules for a couple of days.”

“What about our other guests? The ones who aren’t interested in birds, but in the more civilized customs of humanity?”

“They can dress up and eat in the dining room.”

“You’re setting a dangerous precedent.”

“Sometimes you have to bend the rules.”

At five o’clock sharp
, with the sun drooping in the summer sky, Dorothy MacBean opened the doors and five hundred people flooded the patio. A small quartet played valiantly in one corner, fighting to be heard above the chatter. From experience, Lark knew that many of the attendees only saw each other once a year at the MA convention or another birding event, and stories of spotting a bird, field trips, and hitting a landmark number abounded. In search of downtime, she clustered near the bar with a group of Elk Park Ornithological Chapter members.

Harry Eckles, one of her better friends and a longtime EPOCH member, lounged against the stone railing, stretching out his long legs. “I, for one, don’t want to hear any more about Esther. I want to hear about the bird you saw.”

“Ja, me, too,” Eric Linenger said, joining them with a cold beer in hand. Having shed his park ranger uniform for chinos and a short-sleeved shirt, the tall Norwegian looked like he'd stepped out fo an Abercrombie & Fitch advertisement. A light breeze ruffled his brown hair, molding a thin cotton shirt against his well-formed pecs. Blue eyes gazed at her down a long, thin nose.

His gaze traveled her length. Lark’s heart pounded beneath her silk blouse. Self-consciously, she raised her hand to her throat. It had been a while since a man had looked at her that way.

An elbow jab to the ribs nearly doubled her over and jolted her back to reality. What had she been thinking? Eric Linenger was the most eligible, most sought-after bachelor in Elk Park. Why would he be interested in her?

“Go ahead, dear,” Cecilia said, tucking her arm back to her side. “Tell us.”

“Well,” Lark coughed and patted her chest. “I’ve never seen a bird like it. It was some kind of warbler, small, with a red throat, a red face, and a black cap.” She expounded on the details, recalling the markings as best she could without her field notebook. She’d left it at Bird Haven. She made a mental note to retrieve it later. Bernie Crandall needed to see it.

“You’ve just described a red-faced warbler,” Harry said.

“That’s impossible,” Andrew Henderson scoffed, popping a miniature egg roll into his mouth and tugging at the belt around his extra-wide girth. “There’s never been a sighting in Colorado.”

“You’re wrong,” Harry said. “Schottler and Stachowiak spotted one in Wheat Ridge in 1993. Schottler even got a picture.”

Lark felt vindicated. Leave it to a biology professor to collect that kind of data.

“Okay, one sighting,” Henderson conceded. “One.” He held up a pudgy finger. “Elk Park’s just too far out of the red-faced warbler’s northern range to make it feasible.”

“What is the range?” Cecilia asked. Lark was wondering the same thing.

“Southwestern New Mexico,” Harry answered, uncrossing and recrossing his ankles. “However, it seems obvious Schottler’s bird didn’t know that.”

Cecilia dug inside the heavy black leather purse she kept draped over her arm. “Wait. I have a guide book.” She ran a finger down the index and flipped the book open to the photo plates. “Is this your bird?”

She held up the picture for Lark to see.

“That’s it!”

“I’m telling you, it can’t be,” said Henderson, cramming another egg roll into his mouth. “Did anyone besides you and Rachel see this bird?”

Lark winced. She knew where this was going. Rachel was a novice birder. Her corroboration wouldn’t satisfy anyone. “No.”

He flung open his arms. “There you have it.”

Lark ignored him. “I still want to know what the book says.”

Cecilia skipped to the next page and scanned the text. “Found in Mexico and Central America in pine-oak forests. Reaches northern limit of range in Arizona and New Mexico.” She glanced up, said, “Not exactly true,” then glanced back down. “Usually seen in mountain canyons at six thousand five hundred to nine thousand feet elevation. It prefers yellow pine, spruce, or Douglas fir and is often sighted near streams.”

“Where did you say you spotted it?” Eric asked.

“On the peninsula.”

“There are lots of pine trees on the peninsula, and it’s near the stream’s inlet,” Cecilia said. “Plus Elk Park falls within the right zone, just a
skosh
north.”

“Wishful thinking, if I ever heard it.” Andrew spoke around a mouthful of egg rolls.

“It’s been so hot, maybe the bird thought he was in New Mexico,” countered Lark. “All I know is, I saw it, and it looked like that.” She jabbed a finger at the guide book picture.

“You know,” Harry said, straightening up. “Lark may be onto something.”

“What? With the weather theory?” Eric asked, taking a swig of beer and winking at Lark.

Harry nodded. “With global warming, ecosystems change, and the creatures inhabiting those ecosystems change. Sometimes it happens over long periods of time; sometimes it occurs overnight.”

Lark perked up. “You mean like what happened after the Mount Saint Helens eruption.”

“Sure, that would be an example of a rapid occurrence.”

Cecilia looked confused.

“I read about it in
Audubon
,” explained Lark. “During the volcanic eruption, the pyroclastic flow sterilized the land around a place called Spirit Lake. It created an area called the Pumice Plain. Ten years after the blast, Forest Service ecologists started observing strange combinations of birds showing up in the area—birds associated, with more desert-like conditions. Like what you’d find in the Great Basin, rather than somewhere like the Cascade Range.”

Lark glanced at Harry. He was nodding in agreement.

“Within five years,” she continued, “the Plain was luring homed larks, American pipits, rock wrens, sparrows, meadowlarks, et cetera. And closer to the lake, where owls and osprey used to hunt, they were spotting red-winged blackbirds and spotted sandpipers.”

Andrew snorted. “That said, we haven’t had any drastic changes around here. Not since the Big Thompson flooded.”

“Are you going to deny that it’s been getting drier and drier every year?” Harry asked.

“No, but we’re in a drought period.”

“What about average temperatures? Don’t you see them rising year after year?”

“Maybe in minute increments,” conceded Andrew. “But, without a study, there’s no way to know for sure.”

“But there was a study done,” Harry said. “It was published in the
Journal of the Colorado Field Ornithologists
. If I remember correctly, the author concluded that even a relatively small change in average temperature could impact bird distribution and affect ranges.”

“Paraphrased nicely, but I’d have to read the article before—”

Several sharp taps on the podium microphone interrupted their conversation.

“—I could accept the theory,” finished Andrew in a loud whisper.

“Try the July 2000 issue.”

Paul Owens stepped up to the microphone, pulling Katherine with him. Dressed in matching khakis and ptarmigan-logoed T-shirts, they still managed to look mismatched. Next to Katherine, Paul looked tall. He was blond, boyishly handsome, and sparkled with energy and enthusiasm. Dark-haired and petite, Katherine’s aloof manner increased her stature. And she looked out of place in silk-screened cotton.

“Hello, everyone,” Paul said. “May I have your attention for just a few minutes. I’d like to make some introductions, then I’ll let you go back to your conversations.” He cleared his throat and leaned into the microphone. “First, I’d like to thank you all for being here. This is the best turnout ever.”

The crowd applauded. Owens bobbed his head like a water duck.

“Second, I’d like to introduce you to my partner, Katherine Saunders.”

There was another burst of applause, but this time Owens raised his hands for quiet.

“Katherine is a remarkable lady. An outstanding birder, a founding member, and a large financial supporter of the Migration Alliance. Without Katherine, MA wouldn’t exist as we know it today.”

“He could have trimmed that statement,” murmured Dorothy, slipping up beside Lark.

“And ended with
exist?”
Lark asked.

Dorothy nodded.

Several others shushed them, as Katherine waved her hand side-to-side in the air. “Thank you, Paul. Everyone. It’s so nice to be here.”

Owens waited for the clapping to die down, basking in his partner’s glory. “There are several other people I’d like to introduce, so if you could please hold your applause until the end…?” He consulted a stack of three-by-five cards he held in his hand, then looked up and smiled. “We’re quite fortunate to have with us Buzz Aldefer, a major in the United States Air Force. Where are you, Buzz?”

A large man with graying sideburns and a buzz cut stepped out of the crowd and strode to the podium. Lark remembered seeing him the night before in the Drummond lounge.

“It’s an honor to be here,” Buzz said, his voice low and gravelly. He bent toward the microphone, stiffly from the waist.

“Buzz is but one of three military officers assigned to the Migration Alliance board, all of whom work primarily in a research capacity. By virtue of the fact that all three branches of the U.S. military participate in Migration Alliance, it becomes imminently clear the U.S. military understands the importance of defining the patterns of migratory birds.”

“That’s right, Paul. We feel that the greater our knowledge, the greater the assurance that neither our pilots nor the migrating birds shall meet with disaster during Air Force maneuvers or training exercises. Through our participation with MA, we clearly demonstrate our concern with the welfare of our nation and the welfare of the global environment.”

Aldefer stepped away from the podium to a halfhearted round of applause, clearly in violation of Paul’s earlier instructions and clearly criticized by the majority of MA members.

“Thank you, Buzz.” Paul clapped his hands near the mic, adding to the noise. Consulting his notes again, he said, “Next, I’d like to introduce someone who’s here representing the coffee industry. Please welcome Jan Halloway.”

Lark had seen her before, at the Warbler Café and in the lounge the night before. Dressed in blue jeans and a cardigan, she appeared altered from the image of power suits portrayed in the trade journals. Lark had been following her rise to power. She’d gone from steno pool to chief executive officer in under four years, becoming one of the country’s youngest and highest-paid corporate CEOs. Her accomplishments elevated her in Lark’s eyes, but in reality, it was a pair of two-inch platform heels that made her appear so tall. And she looked nervous, which didn’t make sense. Halloway must have spoken in front of this many people hundreds of times.

“Good evening,” said Halloway, stepping up to the podium. “Paul asked me to tell you about myself.” She flashed a Pearl Drops smile and pushed back her streaked blond bangs. “I’m the CEO of Jitters Coffee Company. Have all of you heard of us?”

A hum rose from the crowd. A sea of heads bobbed.

“Then you know we are a franchise corporation that donates hundreds of thousands of dollars to the less-fortunate countries where we purchase our coffee supplies. The money is primarily used to educate farmers on the benefits of growing bird-supportive coffee, toward child education programs, and toward social development programs in a number of underdeveloped countries.”

“Big whoopee,” whispered Dorothy. She’d joined them after the speeches began and now stood with a sour look and her arms crossed. “Jitters’ profits topped fourteen million per quarter last year. Their total revenue topped one billion. A few hundred thousand dollars…” She shook her head. “It’s a drop in the bucket to them.”

Lark calculated the amount in her head and came up with a number around 1 percent.

“Our interest,” continued Halloway, “is in insuring our coffees are organically produced. That requires coffee be grown in shade, which, in turn, provides more and more treed habitat for birds. A win-win situation.” She flashed another smile and waited for a spontaneous burst of applause to die down before gesturing toward a young Hispanic man hanging in the shadows. “Now, I’d like to introduce you to another member of our team. Someone who’s worked for us for a while, but someone I’ve only met here, for the first time: Norberto Rincon. Step out here, Norberto.” She stretched out a hand. A young man stepped out of the shadows and inched forward. Thin and wiry, he stood eye to eye with Jan and looked more wary than nervous.

A crash near the door caused him to spring backward and fade from sight. Lark stood on her tiptoes, straining to see what had happened. Buzz Aldefer was bent over, plucking splinters of glass off the patio floor.

Jan cleared her throat. “Norberto is Jitters’new middleman in Chiapas, Mexico, and a little shy. But he knows his business. Norberto serves as the go-between for the coffee bean growers and the Jitters Coffee Company. It’s his job to arrange for the sale and delivery of all of our Mexican coffees.”

“That’s the canned version,” whispered Dorothy, as Halloway stepped down.

Lark glanced at her sharply.

“All right, hold on, everyone,” said Owens, applauding as he reclaimed the mic. “I have one more announcement to make.” He bowed his head, then lifted his face slowly, his smile gone. “As some of you may have heard, Esther Mills, a longtime friend and expert birder, was murdered last night outside the Warbler Café.”

A gasp tore through the crowd.

“Oh great,” mumbled Lark. “That should do wonders for business.”

One on either side of her, Cecilia and Dorothy both elbowed her in the ribs. “Shhh.”

“Esther’s death is a great loss to the birding community,” continued Owens. “Dedicated to the preservation of bird habitat, she had devoted the last several years of her life to developing the Chipe Coffee Company, a company that purchased only hand-selected, organic coffees directly from Mexican coffee growers. The coffee beans, grown in pesticide-free, shade environments, were hand-delivered to warehouses in Denver, then resold and distributed through outlets up and down the Front Range. She was even looking into expanding her operation.”

Really?
thought Lark.
If that was the case, why had Esther recently canceled all coffee deliveries until further notice?