Death of a Songbird (3 page)

If she would even be around that long. Miriam was due back from her birding trip to the Middle East in a couple of weeks; Rachel planned to go back to New York after her return. Lark would be sorry to see her go.

“How about setting up here?” Rachel asked, pointing to a flat area with a view of the water and the Warbler Café. From this vantage point, even without a scope, Lark could easily spot several species of duck paddling the lake.

“Looks good.” She swung the equipment off her shoulder, dropping the pack at the foot of a large ponderosa pine. “Now, the first thing we have to do is set up and adjust the tripod.” Extending the tripod’s legs, she pointed to the liquid bubble. “Mine has a leveling device, so perfection becomes an option, if you’re into that. All I care about is close and comfortable. Eyepiece height is the most important thing.”

Since they were both using her setup, Lark adjusted the height slightly higher than usual, then pointed out the scope’s features: the eighty-millimeter lens, the fifteen to forty-five-power zoom eyepiece. “I like the angled eyepiece, because I don’t have to crane my neck as much. Just look down into it.”

“What’s this?” Rachel asked, pointing to a bright pink cap at the end of the scope.

“The bottom of a large plastic yogurt container.” Lark pulled it off and stuffed the makeshift lens cap into her backpack, where it wouldn’t get dusty. Next she focused on a large mallard drake, then stepped aside to give Rachel a look. “Do you see how clearly he comes in? Now try zooming the eyepiece.”

Rachel practiced focusing and zooming for a while, then Lark showed her how to pan by releasing the tripod lock and swiveling the scope.

“Oh, look, there’s one with a moon on its face,” Rachel said. She fiddled with the eyepiece.

“Crescent-shaped?”

“Here, you look.”

Lark ducked her head and peered through the eyepiece. The duck, brownish gray and mottled, had a black tail and a prominent white crescent behind its bill. “It’s called a blue-winged teal.”

Rachel stretched to look again. “I don’t see any blue.”

“Trust me, it’s there. The duck has a powder-blue wing patch. Sometimes it’s hard to see, unless the bird’s flying. Then you can’t miss it.”

Lark kept a list of the ducks they identified: the mallard, the blue-winged teal, the ring-necked duck, and the common merganser. Then she challenged Rachel to try and get close-ups of the bird species in the trees.

The afternoon drifted lazily. Squirrels chattered in the pines, answered occasionally by the scolding call of a raven. Violet-green swallows and tree swallows darted in and out of the branches overhead. A yellow warbler flitted from willow to birch. Lark dozed with her back propped against the warm bark of a tall ponderosa.

“This one’s different.”

Rachel’s excitement-tinged voice yanked Lark from dreams of Tidy Bowl and sparkling toilets, and she rubbed her eyes. “Describe it.”

“It has a red head.”

Reluctantly, Lark pushed up from her seat under the pine. “And?”

The lens pointed across the water toward the aspens and pine rimming the north side of the lake. Using her naked eye, she spotted from the end of the scope, catching a glimpse of red and yellow in the branches. A western tanager? “I saw the red. Does it have a yellow body, with black wings and a black tail?”

“No. It’s more gray, with a black headband.”

“Let me look,” Lark said, pushing Rachel aside.

Rachel rubbed her shoulder. “It’s dead center.”

While Lark refocused, the bird took flight
Darn
. “Do you see it, Rae? Where did it go?”

Rachel pointed left. “There. Up in the tree.”

“Which tree?” There were hundreds to choose from. Lark panned the scope, zooming in on the bird as it perched on a small limb. Excitement hummed through her veins. She’d never seen a bird like this one before. “Can you find my notebook and pen?”

“Where are they?”

“Try in my backpack.” Lark heard Rachel rummaging in the pack and resisted hurrying her. “Did you find them?”

“Got ’em.”

“Take notes,” Lark ordered. “The bird is warbler-sized, with a red face, throat, and chest. It has a black cap that extends down its neck, with gray wings, back, and tail. Its underparts look white, and it has a white patch on the back of its neck.”

The bird flew again.

“Shoot,” Lark said, swinging the scope left. Too far left! The parking lot behind the Warbler Café loomed into view.

In the lens, a black-hooded figure raised an arm. Sunlight glinted off something silver.

Blinded, Lark swung the scope right in search of the bird. In her mind’s eye, the glint of silver coalesced into a knife. Breathing hard, she jerked the scope back left.

“What are you doing?” Rachel asked, pointing in the opposite direction. “The bird’s over there.”

Lark squinted through the lens. The arm dropped. Silver flashed. Esther Mills screamed in silent pain.

Lark gripped the handle
of the scope and zoomed the lens tighter. This time, when the black-hooded figure raised his arm, silver dripped red.

“No! Oh, no!” Lark screamed as the arm dropped again. Swallows flushed overhead, darting chaotically in flashes of white, violet green, and rust. The red-faced bird streaked away.

“What is it?” Rachel asked. “What’s wrong?”

Lark’s heart banged in her chest. “He’s wearing a black mask with letters. E, Z, L, N. And gloves.”

The figure turned. Angry eyes stared in their direction, seeming to burn across the distance, though reality said the eyes were too far away to see. The figure turned and disappeared as quickly as a startled chickadee. Lark tilted the scope down. Esther Mills’s body lay in a crumpled heap on the asphalt.

“Do you have your phone?” she demanded, hoping that today wouldn’t be an exception to the fact that Rachel always carried her phone.

“Why?”

Lark raised her voice. “Do you have it?”

“Yes.” Rachel rooted inside her backpack. “It’s here somewhere.”

“Find it and call nine-one-one.” Lark sprinted toward the trail, yelling at Rachel over her shoulder, “Tell them Esther Mills has just been stabbed.”

“What?” Rachel cried, scrambling after her.

“Call them! I saw it happening, just now.” Lark crashed through the underbrush, startling birds and squirrels, and outrunning a frightened cottontail to reach the trail. Her heart banged against her rib cage. Pain tore at her side. Rachel scrambled behind her, yelling into the phone.

It didn’t take long to reach the highway, but took forever to cross. Carloads, busloads, and motor homes full of people streamed past on the four lanes, a rushing river of humanity pouring into town for the weekend. In the distance, sirens blared. Traffic slowed to a crawl.

Unable to wait any longer, Lark flung her arms above her head and stepped into the road. “Stop! Emergency! Let me pass.”

Tires squealed, and a middle-aged man in a car with Texas license plates laid on his horn. The scenario played out three times, until a cowboy in a Dodge pickup read her intent and waved her through. With Rachel dogging her heels and crawling behind her up the steep embankment, Lark raced along the deer path, rounding the corner into the parking lot. When they reached the back entrance to the Warbler, Victor Garcia, the Elk Park County sheriff, was already on scene. He sat in the middle of the parking lot on the hot asphalt, cradling Esther Mills’s head in his lap. Blood spread across the front of his khaki uniform, and tears streaked his face, dripping from the ends of his moustache.

“She’s gone,” he keened. He squeezed Esther’s body tighter and buried his face in the crook of her neck. “She’s dead.”

Lark knew from experience that she didn’t handle situations like this one well. Rachel, on the other hand, handled them like a pro. Glancing at her friend, Lark whispered, “What do we do?”

Rachel bolted into action, dropping to her knees beside Vic. “Are you positive she’s dead? Did you check for a pulse?”

Lark shuddered as Rachel pressed her fingers against Esther’s neck, then suppressed a scream when Vic let Esther’s body fall away from his chest – Esther’s lime-green shirt was torn and drenched with blood. Her throat was gashed. Her head hung limp. Half-opened eyes stared at nothing.

Lark prayed for the police to arrive. “Do you feel a pulse, Rae?”

“No. She’s dead. She’s definitely dead.”

The sight of Rachel’s fingers pressed against Esther’s cooling flesh caused Lark’s stomach to roil. It was time to throw up in the bushes.

Blaring sirens forced her to pull herself together, saving her from the embarrassment. Three police cars wheeled into the parking lot, officers pouring out of the doors.

Bernie Crandall, Elk Park’s police chief, clambered out of the nearest cruiser and lumbered toward them. “What’s going on here?”

“It’s about time you showed up,” Lark said.

A good old boy from the get-go, Crandall was blond and burly and possessed a boyish charm that won over the ladies and made men feel like they’d just found a new best friend. It took him less than a second to assess the situation. “Did
you
kill her, Garcia?”

Anger contorted Vic’s features. His dark eyes narrowed into slivers of rage.

“No, he didn’t,” blurted Lark, turning to face Crandall, glad for an excuse not to look at Esther’s body.

“How do you know, Drummond? Did you kill her?”

“No, I saw it happen.” A chill scooted along Lark’s spine. “I witnessed it through the scope.”

Crandall arched his eyebrows and rubbed one cheek as though assessing his need for a shave. Finally, he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

“Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do,” he said, pointing at Lark. “Drummond, I want you in my police car. Rachel, you go with Officer Klipp. Vic, you and I will take over there. You need to step away from the body.”

Vic continued rocking Esther in his lap.

“Now,” Crandall ordered.

Vic glanced up. He hesitated momentarily, then gently lowered Esther’s body to the pavement. Stroking her hair back from her face, he mumbled something in Spanish.

“I said now.” Crandall steered Vic toward the far curb, then singled out an officer to go down to the lake and collect Lark’s abandoned gear. The rest of his men were given the arduous task of gathering evidence.

On the job, Crandall had a reputation for being thorough. Conscientious to the point of fastidiousness, he was a hard worker and identified well with the locals. Like most officers, he took advantage of the perks: free coffee and doughnuts at the Mountain Top Bakery, free papers at the
Elk Park Gazette
. But, all in all, he was the sort of cop you wanted investigating your case. A stand-up kind of guy.

Off duty was another story. On his own time, he used his position to impress the seasonal coeds, and, from what Lark could see, he rarely lacked for company. She had yet to figure out what women saw in him. To her, he looked like an aging high school football star whose muscles were turning to flab.

“If they’re done with me first, I’ll wait for you in the Toyota,” Rachel said, passing Lark en route to Officer Klipp’s car. “Otherwise, I’ll leave it unlocked.”

Lark nodded, then sauntered over to Bernie Crandall’s cruiser. Rather than climbing inside, she leaned against the front fender, eavesdropping on his interrogation of Vic Garcia.

Technically, the Warbler Café rested inside the city limits. That put Crandall and the Elk Park Police Department in charge. But Vic Garcia had been first on the scene, and, as Elk Park County sheriff, he could commandeer jurisdiction. It wasn’t likely he’d exercise the option, though. Not considering his relationship to the deceased.

“So, Vic,” Crandall said in a voice designed to carry. “How’d you beat us here? I was standing in dispatch when the call came in, three minutes away.”

Then why did it take you ten to get here?
Lark strained to hear Vic’s response. He spoke softly, his head down.

“Esther and I had a date.”

“Where were you taking her?”

“Milo’s.”

“Fancy Italian. Flowers, wine, and romance.”

Milo’s required reservations. Crandall would check
.

Vic crushed the palms of his hands to his eyes. “I got here too late.”

Crandall laid a hand on Vic’s shoulder. “God knows, this is hard, but you must’ve seen something.”

Vic shook his head.

“Nothing? No car speeding away from the parking lot? No person fleeing the scene? I mean, you were here within minutes of the crime being committed.”

“I didn’t see anyone, anything.” His voice broke. “Just Esther.”

“Not a soul?” Crandall clucked again. “How about sounds? Did you hear anything? Voices? Running?”

“Nothing.” Vic shook his head again. “Sorry.”

Crandall scratched his scalp along his part line, then stretched, cupping his hands at the back of his neck. “So, tell me something, Vic. How were you and Esther getting along?”

Vic’s head snapped up. His eyes narrowed. “What kind of question is that, Bernie?”

“Just routine.”

“We’re getting along fine.” Vic stroked his mustache, twice.

Lark noticed his use of the present tense, and she shuddered. It took time to get used to using the past tense. Maybe longer when it was someone you loved who had died. She wondered how long Vic would think of Esther as part of the present and not part of the past.

“You hadn’t had any recent arguments? Any disagreements?”

“None.”

It was obvious where Bernie was headed with this line of questioning. The majority of murders were committed by someone the victim knew: crimes of passion, acts of rage, committed in the heat of the moment. It was logical to suspect the boyfriend.

But Vic?
He had worked in law enforcement for nearly thirty years. He was a model citizen, well-liked in the community, and he dedicated most of his spare time to working with troubled youth, a calling that by most people’s estimation required infinite patience.

Lark’s thoughts wandered back to the scene in the parking lot: Vic cradling Esther’s body, his tears mingling with her blood. In Lark’s mind’s eye, she had witnessed a display of grief. Was he actually expressing remorse?

And who could hold to the “someone you know” theory? It hadn’t held true seven weeks ago, when Donald Bursau, a reporter for
Birds of a Feather
magazine, had been found shot to death in The Thicket. While his murder might have been considered a crime of passion, Bursau barely knew his killer.

So, why else did a person murder someone?

Self-defense?

Revenge?

Power?

Greed? Money. More than likely, that was it. Just a robbery gone south.

Crandall signaled to one of his men. “Take Vic home. Keep an eye on him.” He spoke softly to another officer, then swaggered across the parking lot toward the cruiser and Lark.

“Okay, tell me what you know, Drummond,” he ordered, leaning against the fender beside her. By now, the warm, sunny day had faded to dusk, and Lark shivered as a cool breeze swept over the lake and up the hillside. Pink-tinged clouds crowned the mountain peaks to the west. Behind her, Esther Mills’s body lay cooling on the black asphalt.

“I saw the guy stab her,” she said, then filled Crandall in on the details—how she’d been teaching Rachel to use the scope, how they’d spotted an unusual bird, and how she’d happened to focus on the parking lot behind the Warbler.

“What did the perp look like?”

“I don’t know. He was wearing a black ski mask.”

“He?” Crandall scooted his butt onto the fender, allowing his feet to dangle by the front tire. “You’re sure it was a he?”

She thought about that, trying to picture the figure in her mind. “No. I’m not sure.” She pulled the braid off her neck and toyed with its end. “I guess it could have been a woman.” She’d just assumed it was a man because of the brutality of the crime. “His
or her
ski mask covered everything. It was one of those hats with the eye holes and mouth opening.”

“You say it was all black?”

“Yeah. Well, wait, not exactly
all
black.”

Crandall pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled loudly.

“It was mostly black. It had some lettering on it.”

“What type of lettering? A logo?”

Lark shook her head. “No. I think there were four letters, but they didn’t spell anything.” She closed her eyes and tried re-creating the scene. She remembered the figure, the raised arm, then snapped her eyes open. “E, Z, something, something.”

“Probably personal initial, or maybe some sort of organizational logo.” Crandall rubbed his chin. “I thought you said you got a good look at this guy.”

“A look, not a
good
one.” Lark rubbed her forehead where a dull pain was beginning to throb. “Give me a break, Bernie. I was at least a quarter mile away.”

Crandall rolled his eyes. “So how big was he?”

“Bigger than Esther.” But then, who wasn’t? Besides, she was cowering.

“Do you think they were close enough to the building that the guy was standing on the curb back there?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Lark said. “But maybe. I just don’t think the angle was right for that.”

Crandall drummed his hands on the fender. “So when you got up here, was Vic already holding the body?”

Lark hugged her arms around herself. An hour ago, Esther lived and breathed. Now, she was
the body, the deceased.
“Yeah.”

Absently, Crandall swung his feet, bouncing them off the front tire of the car. “Do you remember anything else? Did you see what the suspect was wearing, besides the mask? Did he have on gloves? Any jewelry?”

“I remember he was wearing gloves.” She reached up, massaging the muscles behind her ears. “Everything happened so fast. I remember seeing the guy raise his arm, a flash of silver, and then the blood.”

A vision of Esther’s face, her mouth opened in terror, flashed through Lark’s memory as Crandall pounded a dirge on the fender. Behind them, two Elk Park PD officers stuffed Esther’s body into a bag, then carried it to the coroner’s station wagon. The forensic team had picked up and moved to an area near the back door of the Warbler Café.

“Did you see anyone else?” Crandall asked. “What about employees? Did you see any sign of Teresa or Scott?”

“No, only the killer and Esther.” Lark turned away as the coroner slammed the station wagon’s tailgate. “Besides, Teresa left early.”

“How do
you
know?”

“I saw her leave.”

“When?”

“About one o’clock. I was in the café with Rachel. I don’t think Teresa planned to come back.”
Ever
.

“Why? Why’d she leave?”

Lark swallowed, calming the queasiness in her stomach. The sight of the body bag and the questions about Teresa had caused Lark’s stomach to roil again. She didn’t know whether to barf on Bernie’s shoes or answer him. Heck, he was bound to hear the story from someone eventually. “She had an argument with Esther.”

Crandall cocked his eyebrows. “About what?”

“Money.”

“What, she wanted a raise?”