Death of a Songbird Read online

  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?”

  “The usual. Business associates, family, and heirs. You are aware she left a will.”

  Lark’s chest tightened. “No, I didn’t know that.”

  “According to the partnership agreements, you and Esther are, or should I say, were equal partners. There is no survivorship clause in the contracts. You still own approximately forty percent of the Chipe Coffee Company, which encompasses the Warbler Café. The other investors, Dorothy MacBean, Cecilia Meyer, and Gertie Tanager, own a combined twenty percent share. Esther’s heir receives the other forty percent.”

  “What are you saying, Mr. Arquette?”

  “I’m saying that, for the moment, you and the others are free to reopen the business.”

  “That’s great news.” Lark flashed an okay sign to the others.

  “But, hold on there, missy. It’s imperative you hear me out. I said ‘for the moment.’ Right now it requires that three of you swing a majority—you and two of the others. However, once the will is probated, it may be a totally different story.”

  Lark flailed the ski pole in the air, trying to shush the others. “What do you mean, Mr. Arquette?”

  “Esther’s heir can choose to petition the courts for company control.”

  “How will that affect us?”

  “If he loses? Not at all. If he wins? You’ll be knocked back to silent partner status.”

  Lark banged the ski pole on the floor. The others stopped talking.

  “It’s a remote possibility,” said Arquette, rustling more papers, “but all of you did grant Esther stewardship of the businesses, thereby opening the front door for her heir to petition. Whether or not he does remains to be seen, as does whether or not he could triumph in such an action.”

  As far as Lark knew, there was only one likely candidate for heir. “Are you telling me this because you’ve already talked to Vic and he told you he planned to sue?”

  Arquette cleared his throat. “I know as well as you that Vic and Esther were living together, but, in spite of that fact, she didn’t leave him a dime.”

  “Then who’s the heir?”

  “Paul Owens, at the Migration Alliance.”

  CHAPTER 6

  “Paul Owens?” Lark could have understood Esther’s leaving her worldly possessions to the Alliance. She loved birds, especially migratory birds. But why Owens instead of the organization? “Did he know?”

  Arquette chuckled. “Bernie Crandall asked me the same question. To be honest, I don’t know if he knew anything before I called him this morning. Do I think your new partner killed Esther for her money? Not a chance.”

  There was a long silence, punctuated by the shak shak shak of a Steller’s jay and the hum of the kitchen refrigerator. Rachel, Gertie, Dorothy, and Cecilia seemed to be holding their breath.

  “I guess that about wraps things up,” Lark said finally.

  “Feel free to call back if you need anything.”

  “Wait, there is one more thing, Mr. Arquette. What do you know about immigration law?” Lark explained the situation with Teresa. “Is there anything that can be done, any way we can help her?”

  Arquette made a clicking noise. “For the record, I’m not an expert in the field.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  “She might be able to apply to INS for an ‘unskilled worker’ permit, but the waiting list for obtaining one runs into the years. There’s a slim chance she could qualify as a ‘skilled worker,’ provided you have a job tailor-made to her qualifications. Does she have any special job skills?”

  “She’s a superior waitress, and she can sing.”

  “Unfortunately, neither one qualifies.”

  Lark racked her brain. Was she overlooking something? Teresa had worked on her father’s coffee farm for years. Maybe she knew something about import or exportation. “What constitutes special?”

  “Let’s just say, sports stars don’t have a problem obtaining permits. Neither do engineers, computer specialists, scientists… you get the drift. And understand, of course, that either option hinges on the current state of her visa.”

  “How so?”

  “If her visa’s current, we can make application and ask for an extension of her visitor papers. It would mean she couldn’t work, but she could remain in the U.S., at least until an immigration permit is granted or until she reapplies for an extension.”

  “What if her visa’s already expired?” A distinct possibility. This was August. Esther’s last buying trip to Chiapas had been in December.

  “According to the new laws, she’d be forced to return to Mexico and live outside the U.S. for several years. After that, she can reapply.”

  It was a moot point. Teresa would never agree to go back to Chiapas. She’d disappear first.

  “What happens if we do nothing?”

  “She may never get caught. And, even if you employ her, you may never get fined.”

  Lark felt a surge of hope. “Why’s that?”

  “INS has their hands full. The state of Colorado hosts approximately forty-five thousand illegal immigrants versus seventeen assigned INS agents. Immigration’s fighting an uphill battle.”

  “Thanks for the help, Mr. Arquette.” Lark signed off and immediately dialed Bernie Crandall. He answered his own phone on the third ring. “Yo?”

  “Bernie, it’s Lark. I just finished talking with Arquette. He told me that once you gave the go-ahead, we could reopen the Warbler.”

  “Consider it done, Drummond. The boys didn’t need long inside.”

  “Great.” Images of powder-covered counters flashed through her head. “I’ll need Esther’s set of keys.”

  “Sure thing. You can pick ’em up at the station.”

  “When?”

  “How ’bout tomorrow? Say around nine? If I’m not here, I’ll leave them with the sergeant at the front desk.”

  “Great,” she said again. “And, hey, I know what the letters on the ski cap were.” She explained how Rachel had written them down in the field book. “E, Z, L, N. None of us have a clue what they stand for.”

  “Thanks, Drummond, that’s a big help. Who’s us?”

  Lark hesitated. “Gertie, Dorothy, Cecilia, Rachel, and me.”

  “Geez, so how long before all of Elk Park knows?”

  Lark glanced at the others. “We’ll keep it to ourselves.”

  “You might, but there’s no way Dorothy’s keeping her trap shut.”

  He had a point. “Look, bear with me, I have something else for you, too.”

  “Shoot.” He sounded bored.

  “I know where Teresa is.” She filled him in on coming home and finding Teresa singi
ng in the lounge. “It was late by the time we were done talking, so I sent her to bed in the Manor House.”

  “What’s the room number?”

  “Twelve.”

  “You should have called me last night.”

  “I didn’t think—”

  “Guess not. Is that everything, Drummond, or can you name the killer, too?”

  “Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Bernie.” This was not shaping up to be the best time to ask him about the case, but it was now or never. “I just have a question. Arquette said you’d eliminated robbery as a motive in Esther’s murder. Is that true?”

  “He told you that, did he?”

  “Yeah. Is it true?”

  Crandall tapped a rhythm on his desk that carried across the phone line. “What’s it to you, Drummond?”

  “I’m curious, okay?” It was the truth. “Maybe I want to know because I witnessed her murder. She was my friend, my business partner. I just want some information.”

  “You’re sure you’re not just paranoid?”

  Lark stiffened. “On a fishing expedition, Bernie?”

  “Touché.”

  “En garde.”

  Crandall laughed. “Let’s call a truce. You know I can’t tell you anything.”

  She knew, but it didn’t stop her from wondering if their suspect lists matched. After her conversation with Arquette, Paul Owens topped her list. Teresa came next, with Vic a distant possibility. She wondered if her own name appeared anywhere on Crandall’s list. “Why not give me the media version?”

  “I’m not talkin’ to them either.” He paused. “Look, before I forget, Vic called. He wants to hold a memorial service for Esther at the café on Saturday afternoon. You got any problems with that?”

  Lark placed her hand over the mouthpiece and conferred with the others.

  “I think it’s all right,” Dorothy said.

  Gertie came back with a question. “How much revenue would be lost?”

  Always the bottom line, Lark thought.

  “I can see I’m going to have to discuss this with my partners. Can I get back to you, Bernie?”

  “Not a problem. Just let me know.”

  Lark hung up the phone. “Forget the money, Gertie. This is about doing the right thing.” She turned to Cecilia. “How do you feel about it?”