Death of a Songbird (12 page)

“You can’t possibly think of Chipe as competition.”

Jan arched an eyebrow and shrugged her shoulder to her chin. “Our rival, then.”

Lark glanced at Paul and Norberto. It was obvious Paul wasn’t going to touch Jan’s remark with a ten-foot pole. Norberto hadn’t said a word yet.

“Chipe Coffee Company hardly vies for a share of the Jitters market,” Lark said. “Jitters grossed over one billion dollars last year.”

“You’ve been doing your homework.” Jan took a sip of her vodka martini and stirred the olives around. “And you are wrong about Chipe Coffee. It’s definitely competition. We bank on our reputation for being an environmentally and socially friendly company, and, from my vantage point, Chipe works to capitalize on that same market—a market Jitters Coffee Company cultivated.”

Lark’s Pepsi arrived, along with another round of drinks.

After a flurry of activity, Jan raised her glass in salute. “Here’s to Chipe.”

Lark clinked glasses with Jan, then sipped her soda. “I’ll concede, we are competition, but only to a point. We do, what? One percent of the business you do? We can hardly be perceived as a serious threat.”

She thought of the numbers in the ledger. Some of them were high volume. Was Esther tracking the competition? Was that what the records were about?

Jan smiled. “You’re absolutely right. Jitters could squash you flatter than a tick. But, then, what’s the point?” She raised her glass. “Which is why, provided you get me drunk enough over dinner, I’m going to share all my trade secrets with you.”

“You won’t mind if we take notes?” Paul asked.

Lark twirled the ice in her glass and waited for the laughter to abate. Jan was nothing like she had expected. The news articles depicted a young executive, maternal in her attitude toward her company and employees, yet savvy enough to grow a single storefront operation into a major, worldwide corporation. In person, she came off as a middle-aged lush with an attitude.

Lark recognized the type. They were the women of her mother’s world. Women with clout, who wore their skirts short in spite of their age, craved attention, and worshiped power. Women who smiled with one side of their mouth, listened to your secrets, then used them against you at the country club. It took years to penetrate the upper circles and, once you did, you never really knew who your friends were, which kept you alone in spite of belonging.

That’s what Lark had escaped by coming to Elk Park from East Haddam. Here, women brought over pie when someone died. They didn’t send the hired help.

“Seriously, Lark, I’m happy to assist you in any way,” Jan said. The smile. “That is, if you need help?” The fishing for secrets.

But was she fishing for information about Lark or the company? Lark steered the conversation away from Chipe Coffee and back to Jan. Two could play this game.

“Thank you. I’m just so impressed with what you’ve accomplished.” The smile. “I know nothing. I don’t know the laws of importation, testing procedures, resale packaging. But then, Jitters started out small, too, didn’t they?” The jig line.

“Yes.” Jan studied her momentarily, nibbling on the edge of an olive as though testing the bait. “The importing is the easy part. You follow the rules and get the coffee into the States. The important part is the resale packaging. The presentation to the buyer. Which is why Jitters is the number-one-selling specialty coffee in the U.S. today.”

“Exactly how big is the Jitters Coffee Company?”

Pride filled out her voice. “At present we have approximately two thousand stores worldwide, with more opening every year. Last year, Jitters profits topped fourteen million dollars per quarter. Yet it amounts to only one-half percent of the world market share.” She twirled the toothpick between her fingers, spinning the olive like a globe.

“Coffee is big business,” said Norberto, speaking up for the first time. “It’s a five billion dollar industry in the United States and brings in one trillion dollars’ worth of gross revenue for my country every year.”

Lark looked at Paul.

Wow
, he mouthed.

“How much coffee is that?” Lark asked.

“Annually?” Norberto moved his hands up and down, as though weighing his words. “Give or take, Mexico exports nearly five million sixty-kilo bags a year.” He let the numbers sink in, then added, “And that’s only nine percent of the world market.”

Jan reached over and patted his sleeve. “Norberto represents the Jitters coffee growers,” she explained. “We purchase all of our Mexican coffee from Chiapas-based growers, and everything comes directly through him. It’s a big responsibility. Last year alone, we purchased approximately thirty percent of our coffee from Mexico. The earnings potential is high for us because the Mexican market prices are lower than almost everywhere else.”

“Why? Because of the war?” Lark realized her question sounded antagonistic, but she didn’t care.

“We prefer to think of it as civil unrest.”

The official version
.

Paul jumped in before Lark could respond. “I want to hear what you do, young man. What exactly is your job?”

Norberto seemed startled by the question, almost as though he didn’t know the answer. He groped for words, glancing at Jan for help. “I… we… it’s my job to insure the money I’m paid reaches the growers.”

Paul leaned in for the kill. “Whoa. Wait a minute. If I’m understanding this right, you’re saying you get paid on commission?”

Norberto looked momentarily confused, then recovered his composure and nodded his head.

“Which means, based on the number Ms. Halloway gave us, you made a hefty sum last year.” Paul turned to Jan. “Why don’t you purchase your coffee direct from the growers, like Esther did? It eliminates the middleman and increases your profits.”

Jan’s harsh laugh drew attention from as far away as the bar. “You have to consider how much coffee Esther purchased. Maybe five hundred bags a year, at the most. Jitters purchased just under one hundred thousand bags last year. We’re feeding a worldwide market with a humongous appetite.”

Lark’s annoyance meter exploded. “Are you putting down Esther’s attempts to preserve bird habitat?”

“No, you’re misreading what I said.”

Lark knew she should hold her tongue, but, what the heck, she was on a roll. “Esther traveled to Mexico and paid the growers directly because she believed they were being ripped off by the large corporations and the middlemen.” She warmed to her subject, and her voice grew louder. “She insured that she purchased only shade-grown, bird-supportive coffee. And, in order to make a difference, paid out more per kilo for the product, direct to the grower.”

Jan brushed Lark’s comment aside with the flick of her hand. “The coffee industry is not a cause, Lark. It’s business. If you remember to think in a businesslike manner, you’ll survive.” The subtext:
If you don’t, you’ll die, and I’ll dance on your grave
. “I’m sure you’ll do fine.” The smile. “And, now you have me curious. Exactly how much did Esther pay per kilo?” Fishing.

Lark moved away from the bait. “I’m not sure. I’d have to look at the records.”

“Ballpark figure.”

“Esther claimed she paid seventy percent over market,” Paul said. “What would that amount to?”

“I’m not drunk enough to tell you that yet.” Jan sipped her martini. “Not that it matters. What matters is, it’s not the growers who need the money, it’s the workers. It’s the growers who pay the field hands poverty wages.”

“Do you even know what the average coffee picker makes per day?” asked Norberto.

“No,” admitted Lark, forcing herself to cool down.

“Three dollars a day.”

“That may be true, but most of the farm workers are family members who benefit from the mere existence of the crop. Even the larger farms are family-run operations.” Lark was glad she remembered parts of Esther’s spiel. “Jitters pays
you
less per bag than Esther pays her growers. Then you take a percentage off the top. Tell me how you think that’s fair.”

Norberto’s expression changed. Where sorrow had been written just moments before, anger now reigned. His eyes glittered with the self-righteousness of someone falsely accused.

“I’ll tell you what,” Jan said. “You tell me what Esther pays her growers per kilo, and I’ll tell you what percentage of that lines the grower’s pockets.”

“Better his than the middleman’s,” countered Lark, unable to resist getting in one last dig. The comment crossed the proverbial line, and she clamped her mouth shut.

Norberto’s face flushed. Jan glared. Lark met the stare, refusing to break eye contact. The air crackled between them. Finally, Jan looked away.

Lark tugged at the hem of her skirt and tried changing her tone. “Look, all I’m saying is that the organic grower is a small businessman. Just like me. He needs the profits in order to sustain his business. Without the extra money, he can’t continue to grow coffee in a shade tree environment. He’ll be forced to convert his land, destroying shade environment and valuable bird habitat.”

Jan took a swig of her martini and banged the glass down on the cocktail table. “Listen, bird girl, there is no possible way Jitters can insist that its suppliers pay more than they already are to the farmers. We pay fair market value for our products. We do everything possible to help combat the poverty and sustain the environment. I’ll have you know, last year we contributed over one million dollars to social and environmental programs around the world. Why? Because that’s the type of company we are.”

Which was what percentage? Multiplying the quarterly profits by four, and factoring in the one million dollars in contributions, Lark quickly calculated that Jitters annually donated around one and a half percent of their profits. Without knowing the exact numbers, she couldn’t factor what Chipe’s percentage would be. She could only hope it was higher.

“Our table’s ready,” announced
Katherine. “I’ve left Buzz to arrange the seating.”

Jan pulled her hand from Norberto’s sleeve. “Saved by the dinner bell.”

Lark forced a smile and stood, smoothing the wrinkles from the front of her skirt. The gesture brushed away some of her anger. Business was business, and Jan’s job was to make money for Jitters. Jan was limited in how much she could do, just like Lark was. For the second time that night, her thoughts ran to Teresa.

Katherine led the way to the dining room. Paul brought up the rear. Old guard, old manners, old money, at least in Katherine’s case. They followed customs culled over generations by the upper classes, emulated by the middle classes, and often disdained or disregarded by the lower classes. Customs that dictated who went first, who came last. Lark fell in behind Jan.

“Lark, you sit here by me,” Buzz said, pulling out a chair.

Her seat touched the chair, and instantly a waiter appeared to spread a napkin across her lap. A busboy stepped forward and filled her glass with water.

A pair of pale yellow candles burned in silver candlesticks at either end of the table. Translucent china in delicate patterns of a similar color adorned the iris-blue tablecloth. Crystal glasses sparkled in the candlelight.

Katherine sat down at one end of the table, Paul at the other. Jan and Norberto sat across from Buzz and Lark. Boy, girl, boy, girl.

“Isn’t this lovely?” Katherine said. “I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of ordering appetizers while I was checking on our table.”

On cue, a silver tray of crackers and pâté arrived. Lark took some, then passed them to Buzz. If Katherine had been ordering hors d’oeuvres, where had he been?

Lark busied herself with a butter knife. “Major,” she said, hoping to turn the conversation in a new direction. “Tell me again, what is your connection to the Migration Alliance?”

“I’m just here to keep the United States Air Force apprised of what’s happening with our fine feathered friends.” Buzz popped a cracker into his mouth and reached for another. “Most of my time is spent in Houston, reading reports.”

For a desk jockey he looked remarkably fit. Tall and graying, broad shoulders stretched the seams of his dinner jacket. Strong cords bulged in his neck, threatening to pop the collar button off his white shirt.

“Now, don’t be modest,” said Owens. “Buzz spends a lot of his time in Mexico, volunteering at the Hawkwatch site, helping Pronatura out with tours, that sort of thing.”

“So the government pays you to birdwatch?” Lark pretended not to notice him choke on his food. “Sign me up.” She noticed that Norberto watched him intently.

Buzz wiped his mouth on his napkin. “Excuse me, but I can’t say anyone’s ever asked me that question before.”

“You don’t have to answer,” Katherine told him. She turned to Lark. “Suffice it to say, he works with our national security in mind.”

Was Katherine protecting him? “Forgive me,” Lark said. “I didn’t mean it like—”

“No, no. Not to worry,” interrupted Buzz, brushing a hand across his flattop. “The Air Force’s interest is in the migratory patterns of birds. We need to learn more about their migration in order to understand how their flights might impact military maneuvers. And how our operations impact their flights.” He slathered pâté on a cracker. “I’ve only been observing in Mexico for the past several years. I’m still learning. But I can tell you one thing: Be careful flying a plane in or out of Chiapas in March, or you might eat a hawk for lunch.”

“I’ll heed the advice.”

“Are you satisfied?” Katherine asked coldly.

Lark toyed with the drips of condensation forming on her crystal water glass. “I just have one more question.”

“You don’t know when to stop, do you?” snapped Jan.

Katherine glared at all of them. Norberto hid a smile behind his napkin. Paul craned his neck and tugged at his shirt collar.

“Have any of you ever seen a red-faced warbler?”

The rest of dinner passed with talk of birds and adventures, then about nine o’clock, Lark excused herself.

“No, don’t go, yet,” Paul protested. “We’re just about to order after-dinner drinks.”

“I really have to go. I’m leading the hike to Paris Pond in the morning, and we start out at five o’clock.”

After another polite volley of protest, Owens decided to leave, too, and walked her out to the truck. The moon rode high in the sky, bathing the parking lot in shades of dawn and dusk. Trees stood like sentinels of the forest, dark against the whitewashed ground.

Boop
.

“Did you hear that?” Lark turned toward the pine trees that lined the road leading out of the parking lot. She cocked her head. “Listen.”

Another hollow
boop
came from high in the trees.

“Your call,” Paul said.

“A flammulated owl.”

Paul nodded.

Lark squinted, trying to spot the bird among the trees. “Do you see it?” she asked.

Paul moved right, then pointed. “There, on the branch. In this moonlight, you can even see its dark eyes and mottled plumage.”

“What are you two looking at?” Jan asked, stumbling down the porch steps. “Oops.”

“Careful there, Jan.” Buzz scooped her up before she hit the ground, setting her on her feet. “Whew, boy. Which one of us is driving?”

Lark raised a finger to her lips.

“Ohhh,” Buzz opened his eyes wide, then, contorting his face, mimicked Lark. “Shhhh, everybody.” He looked around, swiveling his head from side to side, then let out a deep, booming laugh. “Why are we being so quiet?”

“Because there’s an owl in the trees,” whispered Lark. She pointed, but the creature was gone.

Buzz craned his neck. “I don’t see him.”

That’s because you frightened him away
.

Jan let out a peal of laughter. “Did someone say we’re going hiking tomorrow? I’m going to need an Advil. Better yet, a bottle of Advil.”

Lark climbed into her truck.

She waited for Owens to wheel out of the parking lot ahead of her. Following at a slow pace, she maintained a safe distance, content to bring up the rear. His car lurched in the potholes, weaving from side to side. Lark could see Jan, wedged in the backseat between Norberto and Buzz, her head lolling back and forth.

What were Paul and Katherine thinking, bringing those three to Migration Alliance? It was clear none of them gave a hoot about birds. To Jan and Norberto, shade-grown, organic coffee spelled money. Plain and simple, everything perched on the bottom line. The increased consciousness among Americans might force them to tout the environmental message, but the facts remained: Profit ruled the day.

But what was Buzz’s interest? It wasn’t money. There was no financial gain for him. And it wasn’t the birds. Drunk or sober, a serious birder would have shown more interest in a flammulated owl. So, what was he watching? The people? She’d read stories about spies who used bird-watching as a cover. Maybe Major Buzz Aldefer was in Mexico ferreting out intel?

Ahead of her, Owens flipped on his blinker and turned left onto Raptor House Road. Lark stopped her truck at the junction and watched him drive away. Several things about the past couple of days had been bothering her: the odd numbers in Esther’s ledger, the letter written by Paul, and tonight’s conversation about business.

Lights shone from the windows at Bird Haven. Rachel was still up. Time to pay her a visit.

Rachel came to the door in her pj’s, red hair tumbling around her shoulders. “Lark, what are you doing here?” Rachel peered past her into the moonlit night.

“Got a minute?”

“Is everything all right?” She stepped aside to let Lark enter, eyeing her outfit.

“Peachy, except I just came from the weirdest dinner party.” Lark brushed past her, and Rachel closed and locked the door.

“What do you mean?” She gestured for Lark to follow and padded ahead of her down the hall toward the family room. Irish folk music, piped through a central stereo system, played softly in the background.

Lark plopped down in the easy chair and briefed Rachel on the highlights: who was there, the conversation, the nuances. “Things just seemed out of kilter. Like Jan. She kept trying to find out how much Esther paid per kilo for the coffee she purchased.”

“She’s in that business.” Rachel shrugged. “Did you tell her?”

“No, but Paul divulged the fact that Esther paid seventy percent above market price. If Jan can add and multiply, she can figure it out.” Lark kicked her shoes off and wiggled her toes in the plush carpeting. “What I want to know is why it mattered to her so much.”

“Chipe Coffee
is
her competition. It’s good business to know.”

“Maybe, though I’d hardly classify Chipe as her toughest competitor.” Lark studied the rug. “Maybe she thinks Norberto is ripping her off.”

“You’re smart enough to do the math in reverse. What’s he getting paid per kilo?”

“Nobody would say. Paul even Jan asked point blank, and she replied that she wasn’t drunk enough to give away trade secrets.”

Rachel repositioned a cushion behind her back. “So she wouldn’t give you any information, but she kept asking how much Esther paid for coffee.”

“That’s about the size of it. The only stats she offered were on the number of sixty-kilo bags Jitters purchased every year and the number of dollars they donated for social and bird habitat-related programs.” Lark toyed with the hem of her skirt. “It got me to thinking. Did I tell you about Esther’s ledger?”

“No.”

Lark described the book. “I have no idea what the numbers mean. She wrote dates in there, too, so I think she was keeping track of someone else’s shipments.”

Rachel pulled her hair back and looped it into a knot. “It’s easy enough to find out the market price of coffee using the Internet.” She uncurled herself off the sofa. “Want to try?”

“I’m game.”

Lark followed Rachel back to the bedroom suite situated in a wing off the front hallway. It consisted of a bedroom, an up-to-the-minute bathroom, and a small office. Rachel commandeered the desk chair and booted up the computer, swirling the mouse on the mouse pad. “Let’s try searching ‘Mexican Coffee.’”

The computer whirred, and the search engine located a cookie recipe, several sites for a New Mexican gift packaging firm, and twenty-five companies selling roasted organic coffee from Chiapas but featuring no additional information on the country or its political troubles.

“Jitters is listed here. Let’s check it out.” Rachel clicked on the connect bar, and the Jitters site popped onto the screen. A coffee plant dominated the screen, with bean buttons labeled to lead you through the pages. The home page carried information on the company, with links to worldwide store locations, franchise information, and purchasing information on bulk coffee and merchandise. The pricing was competitive, but there was still no specific information on the coffee coming out of Chiapas, Mexico.

“Try ‘organic coffee,’” suggested Lark, pulling up a straight-backed chair. The results were similar: recipes and companies, like Jitters and Chipe, selling beans.

Inputting “Mexico+coffee,” they discovered a site with information on the struggle between the Zapatistas and the government over coffee production, but nothing about coffee exportation.

Finally, after half an hour of trial and error, they stumbled upon the site of the Mexican Coffee Council. Rachel downloaded the information, and Lark pored over the printouts. “It says here, Mexico exports approximately four point five million sixty-kilo bags of coffee a year. Of that, only about sixty thousand bags are classified organic. Chiapas is the largest producer.”

“I have a question,” Rachel said. “Can coffee that’s not organic be considered shade-grown?”

“Not by my definition.”

“I’m serious, Lark.”

Lark lowered the pages, and stared at Rachel, who was still hunched over the computer. “Technically, I suppose so. There are some shade-grown farmers that still use pesticides to help control insect damage.”

“Okay, here we go,” Rachel said, scrolling down the screen. “It says here that coffee prices range from eighty-five cents per pound to one dollar twenty-four cents per pound.”

Lark doodled the numbers on the back of the printouts. “Did you know that most people pay more for a cappuccino than the average Mexican coffee picker makes in a day?”

“No.”

The matter-of-factness in Rachel’s reply, the acceptance, fit with the relative opulence of their surroundings. They lived in luxury, while out there people struggled to survive.

Rachel reached for the mouse and logged off, shattering the profundity of the moment. “Want some ice cream? I need a bedtime snack.”

Lark dogged her heels down the hallway. “What if Norberto was ripping Jan off, and Esther figured it out? What if she threatened to tell Jan?”

“Then that might be a reason to murder her,” Rachel said, pulling a carton of ice cream out of the freezer. She scooped heaping mounds of chocolate into two clear glass bowls. “Provided, of course, we’re talking about a lot of money?”

“I’m guessing, but say Norberto sells thirty thousand bags of coffee to Jitters a year…” Lark calculated the math in her head. “If you take sixty kilos times two point two…” She chewed her lip. “That gives you one hundred thirty-two pounds. Times that by around a dollar ten per pound, and… He’s pulling in gross around one hundred forty-five dollars a bag. That amounts to—”

“Try this.” Rachel tossed her the calculator from beside the phone.

Lark ran the numbers again. “If the numbers are right, after paying off the farmers, Norberto would be banking around four hundred thousand dollars a year.”

“That’s a lot of money. But, maybe he’s not the one profiting.”

Lark sucked on a bite of chocolate ice cream. “Then who?”

“What about Jan Halloway?”

Lark rolled the idea in her mind. “I don’t think she’d take those kinds of risks, not with her business. Jitters Coffee Company means everything to her. Besides, she already makes great money.”

“Hmumm.” Rachel clinked her spoon in her bowl. “Do they still consider Vic a suspect?”