Death of a Songbird Read online

  “Don’t know. Maybe she’s tired?” Rachel offered. “Have you ever seen it this packed in here? This is absurd.”

  Lark allowed her gaze to sweep the crowd. There did seem to be a lot of tourists in town. Last year, Elk Park had hosted over three million visitors: old people, young people, families, people of all nationalities. They thronged to “the gateway to Rocky Mountain National Park,” and a fair percentage drank coffee at the Warbler. But for late August, this crowd was heavy.

  “A lot of these people must be here for the Migration Alliance convention,” Lark said. The MA was a co-op of government agencies, organizations, and individuals banded together by issues involving migratory birds and their habitats. Every summer, their annual convention drew over twelve hundred participants. Much to Lark’s satisfaction, they’d designated Elk Park as this year’s site.

  “Do you see anyone you know?”

  “Paul Owens is sitting over there.” Lark leaned in closer and pointed. “Do you see the guy with the tall blond woman? They’re sitting at a table near the counter, two tables this side of the cash register.”

  “You mean the guy who looks like Robert Redford?”

  Lark cocked her head and squinted. “Which movie?”

  “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid”

  Lark studied Owens for a moment. Medium height, blond hair, and bad skin, hard to see at a distance yet noticeable. “He does sort of resemble Bob, doesn’t he?”

  Rachel nodded. “So why should I recognize his name?”

  “Paul Owens is MA’s new executive director. He sets the Alliance agenda. He decides which projects get attention, which ones flounder, that sort of thing. In other words, he has all the power, and he wields it with a deft hand.”

  “What you’re saying is, he’s the boss, and he knows it.”

  Lark grinned. “Something like that.”

  Teresa reappeared and deposited two steaming cups of espresso on the table. “Dos. To go. Sorry, but we’re all out of glasses. You need anything more?”

  “Just the check.” Lark dug in her pocket for money.

  “Gracias.” Teresa ripped the top sheet off her notepad, slapped it down on the table, and waited for Lark to pay. “By the way, Esther told me to tell you that she doesn’t have time for talking right now. She wants to know if you can come back after the rush.”

  Lark frowned. Based on the number of customers, Esther’s request seemed reasonable. But when it came to issues involving the Drummond, Lark liked things resolved.

  “Hey, don’t look mad at me. I’m just the delivery boy.”

  “Girl,” Lark corrected. “Delivery girl.” She handed Teresa a ten. “Keep the change.” Then, forcing a smile, she jerked her head toward the coffee bar. “Tell Esther I’ll be back.”

  “Did I miss something?” Rachel asked, after Teresa had stepped away. “Is there something going on between you and Esther?”

  “Nope,” Lark said, snatching up her scope and backpack. “Not a thing.”

  “Right, which is why you’re practically fuming.”

  “I am not fuming.” Lark rolled the tension from her shoulders. She was concerned, not angry. And she wanted to know why Esther was avoiding her.

  “You could have fooled me.”

  “Look, it’s nothing,” Lark said, as much in an attempt to convince herself as to convince Rachel. “Esther canceled the Drummond coffee shipment last night and never rescheduled it. That’s all. I just need to know when to expect it.”

  “Right.” Rachel looked skeptical.

  “It’s just… Don’t you get the feeling Esther’s avoiding me? I mean…” Lark held up her thumb. “First she cancels the Drummond’s coffee delivery without rescheduling.” Another finger went up. “Then she refuses to take Stephen’s phone call. Now she claims she doesn’t have time to talk.”

  “Well… she’s busy,” Rachel said, gesturing at the crowd. “Besides, you’re talking about one canceled order.”

  “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one trying to run a business.” Lark snatched up her espresso, sloshing coffee over the sides of the cup. Grabbing up a napkin, she blotted up the mess, then moved toward the exit before Rachel could respond.

  It wasn’t so much the cancellation that bothered her, Lark realized. It was the other things. Of all the EPOCH members investing in the Chipe Coffee Company, Lark had been the most enthusiastic. She’d pitched in to the tune of two hundred fifty thousand dollars, knowing full well the first three years of a new operation were the most critical. She’d signed the general partnership agreement with her eyes wide open, knowing her total investment was at risk. And she’d even agreed to take a silent role in the business. The bottom line was, she had a lot riding on Esther’s business acumen.

  And up to now, she had no reason to doubt it, she reminded herself. Truth be told, the Chipe Coffee Company was doing remarkably well.

  A resounding crash cut her thoughts short and brought her to a halt two feet from the front door.

  The room fell dead silent.

  Behind the counter, Esther and Teresa stood nose to nose, equal in stature, their eyes locked, their faces flushed. One fair, one dark. One middle-aged, one young. One angry, one scared.

  “Why you stupid, stupid little—”

  “Don’t call me names!” Teresa’s hair had come loose, and she swept it away from her face with a flourish before jutting a finger at Esther. “I’ve worked hard for you. And for what, huh? For the measly minimum wage? You promised me the money.”

  “I don’t have it.” Esther retreated a step. “Besides, after what’s happened, you’re crazy to think that you’ll ever see another penny out of me.”

  “But you owe it to me. It’s mine.”

  Esther drew herself up, squaring thin shoulders. “I don’t owe you a damn thing. The truth is, I’m sending you home.”

  Teresa’s face blanched.

  “I have already called your father.”

  “You can’t do this.”

  Esther’s lips curled in a tight smile. “Sure I can.”

  Teresa’s gaze flitted over the riveted crowd, darting from face to face. “Please, Señora Mills, don’t send me back there.”

  “The fact is, Teresa, I’ve booked a reservation on the next plane. You leave for Chiapas first thing tomorrow morning.”

  Teresa balled her hands into fists. “I won’t go. You can’t make me leave.” Her eyes glistened. “I won’t let you send me back there.”

  Esther crossed her arms. “And pray tell, how do you intend to stop me?”

  Teresa’s chin quivered, then her face hardened into an angry mask. “I will do whatever I must.”

  CHAPTER 2

  The declaration hung in the air. Time and movement froze, then Teresa, red-faced and trembling, slammed out the back door and disappeared.

  Esther puffed out a breath, turning to the startled patrons. “Everyone, go back to your coffee,” she said, wafting her hands through the air as though clearing a foul smell. “I apologize for any disturbance. Please, everything’s fine now.” Her blue gaze lighted on Lark. “There’s nothing to worry about. Really.”

  Lark’s stomach muscles tightened. She wished she believed her.

  Turning away, Esther rang up orders at the cash register, her fingers alternating between punching in numbers and tucking errant strands of tinted blond hair behind her ears. Between smiles, her teeth worked at peeling layers of skin from her lower lip. And every so often, she glanced nervously over her shoulder.

  “Now I’m sure something odd is going on,” declared Rachel, jarring Lark from her trancelike observation.

  Lark didn’t respond. Instead, she pushed through the front door in time to see Teresa speed away in a dented Volkswagen. The car, a two-toned bug complete with mag wheels and a sunroof, belonged to Esther. It was a relic from bygone days – passed down to a younger generation. The type of car that required contortionist moves to make out in the backseat. The type daddies loved to give
to their little girls.

  “I wonder what that was all about?” Rachel asked. She had trailed after Lark into the parking lot and stood with her hands shoved deep into her back pockets.

  “I haven’t a clue.” Lark watched the bug skid around the corner, amazed it remained on all four wheels. “Do you consider that car theft?”

  “Esther might.”

  Lark nodded. Esther would. Lark shouldered her backpack and scope. “Ready?”

  “You mean we’re still going?” Rachel slipped her hands free. “I assumed the birdwatching was canceled. I figured you would want to stick around and talk to Esther.”

  Rae had pegged that right, thought Lark, but she didn’t see the point in sticking around. There were too many people inside the store right now to carry on a private conversation, and business woes weren’t something she wanted to publicize. “I’ll stick with the game plan and catch her at closing.”

  “Great, then I’ll grab my things.” Rachel crossed the parking lot and retrieved a leather backpack from her aunt’s green Toyota. She paused before shutting the door. “Do you want to drive over?”

  Lark shook her head. “We’re just crossing the street.”

  “I know, but…” Rachel’s gaze darted to Lark’s ankle.

  Two months ago, Lark had broken it taking a header off a cliff on Twin Owls. Search and Rescue had been called out, and they’d hauled her fanny off the mountain on a stretcher. Not one of her better moments. “I think I can make it.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  To make her point, Lark struck off down the deer path, ignoring the twinge of pain brought on by memory. After spending the first six weeks of the summer in a cast and the next four limping, she intended to enjoy every nanosecond left of the summer season. The fact was, the ankle only really bothered her in damp weather, and Colorado had been dry. Unusually dry.

  Overhead, the sun burned brightly, emphasizing the point, igniting pangs of guilt deep in her consciousness. While Lark paid homage to the sun god, Colorado needed rain. With the snowpack long since melted, every ray of sunshine beating down escalated the drought conditions that plagued the Front Range and elevated fire danger in the high country.

  “I hate to belabor a point,” Rachel said, crunching behind her through the dry, brown grass. “But why are you so upset?”

  “Let it go, Rae.”

  “No.” Rachel stopped crunching. “I want to know what’s bothering you.”

  Lark took several more strides, then turned back. “It’s the fact she won’t communicate.”

  Without any more prodding, she told Rachel about her first meeting with Esther, about the business idea, about the investment. “Then, for no reason, she up and cancels the coffee deliveries.”

  “One delivery,” Rachel pointed out.

  “All deliveries. Until further notice,” countered Lark.

  “So, let me get this straight, you and Esther are partners in the Warbler Café?”

  “In the Chipe Coffee Company, to be exact.” Lark moved on, scampering down the embankment that edged Highway 34. The baked earth crumbled easily beneath her feet, and she rode the rivulets to the ditch. “Chipe serves as an umbrella company,” she continued, once Rachel had surfed the road cut. “The Warbler was annexed into the agreement when we formed the new partnership.”

  “So, are there additional investors?”

  “Three. Dorothy and Cecilia, and…” Lark paused, unsure how Rachel would react to the next name. “Gertie.”

  Gertrude Tanager was Rachel’s cousin by virtue of marriage. Her father, William, had married Rachel’s aunt, Miriam. At best, the cousins tolerated each other. At worst, Gertie publicly flogged Rachel for being the niece of “a gold digger,” while Rachel dismissed Gertie as being crass and unimaginative.

  “You’re not serious?” Rachel exclaimed.

  “Deadly.” Lark inched her way along the shoulder, waiting for a break in the traffic. “Personally, I never thought she’d come up with the cash.”

  That had surprised all of them, except perhaps Esther. But then, she didn’t know Gertie like the rest of them did. Gertie was the type who asked you to lunch, ordered the most expensive item on the menu, then never had any money when it came time to pay the bill. By Lark’s guess, Gertie banked on her inheritance in order to raise the needed capital.

  On the other hand, Dorothy and Cecilia had money to burn. Besides being well-heeled by birth, both sisters received a monthly pension—Dorothy MacBean as a retired schoolteacher, and Cecilia Meyer as an army widow.

  “How much money did Gertie invest?”

  Lark, having been raised to believe it was in bad taste to discuss one’s—anyone’s—finances, skirted Rachel’s question. “The start-up costs totaled six hundred fifty thousand dollars. I put up some, Esther threw in the Warbler, and the others put up a combined total of around one hundred fifty thousand dollars. Esther used the new capital to order coffee supplies, rent a warehouse, that sort of stuff.”

  “So exactly how much came from Gertie? Fifty thousand?”

  “Does it really matter?”

  Before she could answer, Lark spotted an opening in the traffic. Signaling for Rachel to follow, Lark sprinted onto the highway. Her feet slapped the pavement, then a sharp stab of pain shot up her right ankle. Her foot buckled. She lurched, then fell into the path of an oncoming Winnebago.

  Lark scrambled to regain her footing. The driver braked, squealing his tires against the warm asphalt. Lark crabwalked sideways, recovered her balance, and hopped to the other side.

  “Are you okay?” Rachel yelled, scooting across the road behind the motor home.

  “Fine.” Lark bent over and exhaled hard. “That was close.”

  “That’s an understatement.” Rachel jostled Lark’s shoulder. “So, were you trying to get out of answering my question?”

  Lark straightened, squinting through the bright sunshine. “About Gertie’s investment?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why is it so important?”

  Lark turned and limped up the knoll, trying to convince herself the pain in her ankle would dissipate with use. They walked in silence for a moment, then Rachel asked, “How much do you know about Aunt Miriam’s financial situation?”

  “Practically nothing.” She and Miriam were friends, not family, and separated in age by decades. “I know that after William died, Miriam inherited Bird Haven.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. Uncle Will left his share of the estate to his three daughters. Aunt Miriam retains the right to live at Bird Haven, but only if she doesn’t remarry or sell any portion of the ranch. Any deviation from the terms, and she’s forced to sell out to pay off the Tanager sisters.”

  That explained some of the animosity between Gertie and Rachel, thought Lark. And between Gertie and her stepmother. “What does any of that have to do with Gertie’s investment in Chipe Coffee?”

  “The sisters claim they need the money from Uncle William’s estate. They’ve asked Aunt Miriam to sell Bird Haven. She refused, of course, so now the girls are threatening to petition her through the courts. What I want to know is, if they’re all so strapped for funds, where did Gertie get the money to invest?”

  “Good question.”

  Lark thought for a moment. Gertie worked at the bank. She might have taken out a loan. Or maybe the sisters weren’t as strapped for funds as they wanted Miriam to believe they were. If that were the case, in spite of a possible legal obligation to keep the terms of the partnership agreement confidential, friendship overrode rules. “Gertie put up fifty thousand.”

  “Dollars?”

  “As in U.S. currency. We put up the cash; Esther runs the show.”

  “Surely you have a say in how things operate?”

  “None. Zip. As in, we don’t speak unless spoken to.”

  “Even you? Didn’t you say you put up the bulk of the money?”

  “Yeah, but it was part of the arrangemen
t.”

  “And you don’t have a problem with that?”

  “I didn’t until today. I considered the business an investment, and with Esther at the helm, I knew I’d see a return on my money. Heck, Esther drew cash out of the Warbler Café the first year she opened it.”

  “That’s pretty good.”

  “That’s darn good. It usually takes a new business three years to turn profit. Anyway, after seeing how well she did with the café, I figured I could trust her. At least, until she canceled our coffee and made no attempt at rebooking the delivery.” Lark stopped at the top of the knoll and sat down to rest her ankle in the short grass along the golf course. Gently, she massaged the sore joint, soaking in the view of the lake and golf course and gulping deep breaths of the fresh mountain air. “So tell me, Rae. Why am I making mountains out of molehills?”

  Rachel tugged at a tall stalk of grass, then twisted it around her finger. “Maybe because you have a small fortune on the line?”

  “Yeah, maybe.” Though, in reality, Lark’s fortune was tied up in the Drummond Hotel, perched majestically on the hillside behind them.

  The lavish, five-story Victorian building had been built in the early 1900s by James Drummond, Lark’s great-grandfather. Like others of his time, he had moved to the area for his health, fallen in love with Elk Park, and stayed. Forced to live in rustic accommodations, he’d spotted the potential for building a luxury resort hotel amidst the beautiful surroundings, and the Drummond—complete with ballroom, music room, billiard room, dining room, and bar, and adjoined by a carriage house, concert hall, eighteen-hole golf course and Manor House—opened for business in 1909. James and his wife played hosts to the rich and famous, and the Drummond Hotel had quickly flourished, becoming one of the country’s most popular resort destinations. Then, in the 1920s, they sold out, vesting a large number of trust funds, several of which still lived on in perpetuity.

  Not Lark’s. Three years ago, she had signed hers away for ownership of the Drummond, spending all but the two hundred fifty thousand dollars she invested in the Chipe Coffee Company.

  “Lark, do you think Esther’s argument with Teresa had something to do with the canceled deliveries?” Rachel asked, still toying with the thin blade of grass.