Death of a Songbird (6 page)

“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.”

“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 singing 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?”

“It’s fine with me, as long as he doesn’t plan on scattering her ashes there.”

Gertie made a face. “Get real.”

“I’m dead serious. When Bob, my father-in-law, died, God rest his soul, Mrs. Meyer, that’s my mother-in-law, wanted his ashes scattered along the shores of Whitmore Lake. Well, you can imagine how the local homeowners reacted, not to mention his Methodist relatives. But Mrs. Meyer was dead set on the idea, and argued her way to city hall. Thank heavens, she eventually lost.”

“So, did they force interment?” Lark asked.

Cecilia’s face pinked up, and she shuddered. “It was truly the most embarrassing thing. You see, after her request was denied, Mrs. Meyer held a funeral, complete with urn and urn bearers and flowers. Everyone thought she’d buried Bob at the Whitmore Lake cemetery. Then, several years later, Dorothy and I paid her a visit. You remember, don’t you, Dorothy?”

“How could I forget?”

“Mrs. Meyers showed us in, and for once seemed happy to see me. You see, I don’t think she ever really approved of my marriage to her Jimmy.”

“What happened next?” Rachel asked.

“She served tea in the living room. It was a massive space, with a fireplace and two large windows that looked out over the lake. I remember her standing in a pool of light, gesturing with flourish toward the windows, and announcing, ‘And there’s Bob.’”

“She’s scattered him anyway?” Lark asked.

“Oh no, dear.”

“That’s what she’d always intended to do,” Dorothy said.

“But she hadn’t.” Cecilia waved a finger at Dorothy. “Instead, she’d kept him, propping his ashes beside the mantel in a taped-up white cardboard box.”

“And she’d printed Bob in bright blue calligraphy across the front,” added Dorothy.

Gertie paled. “You’re kidding, right?”

“I wouldn’t joke about something like that. My father-in-law was a wonderful man.”

“And your mother-in-law was a fruitcake.”

“Dorothy!”

“Face it, Cecilia. She was nuttier than a peanut roll.”

“Whatever happened to Bob?” Lark asked, morbid curiosity getting the better of her.

“When Mrs. Meyer died, we buried them together. Bob would have wanted it that way.”

“Well, Esther deserves a proper send off” Lark said. “And with a stipulation that Vic doesn't scatter her ashes among the bird feeders, the Warbler would be the appropriate place.”

They all agreed.

“What comes next?” Cecilia asked.

Four pairs of eyes turned to Lark.

“We make a to-do list.”

Listing was a legacy from her mother. Elizabeth Drummond made lists of groceries to buy, phone calls to make, appointments to keep, and errands to run. She made lists for the gardener, the chef, and Lark’s nanny. She made lists because—as a mother, the wife of Senator Nathan Drummond, and the president of the East Haddam, Connecticut, Junior League—Elizabeth relished organization.

Lark had refined the technique. She listed rarely, mostly birds. But, when she did, rather than making multiple lists, she used a column system, grouping items of importance in outline form on a single page.

At the top of a sheet of paper, she scribbled “Warbler Café,” then jotted down the number one and wrote “personnel” beside it. Not counting Teresa, the Warbler Café had three part-time employees—Matt, Scott, and Lisa—all college students home on summer break. According to the posted schedule, Matt and Lisa worked Fridays and weekends. Scott worked weekdays, except Mondays, when the Warbler was closed. Teresa worked every shift, or had until today. Lark wrote their names in the “personnel” column, then drew a line through Teresa’s name.

“We need someone to oversee general operations: bookkeeping, payroll, ordering, that sort of thing. And someone will need to cover daily ops: roasting, grinding, brewing coffee, etc. Anyone willing to volunteer?”

Rachel pushed herself up from the couch. “You can count me out of this discussion, so I’ll go make some sandwiches.”

“Scratch Rae.” Lark hadn’t figured she’d volunteer. Rachel was leaving in a couple of weeks, going back to her job as a top designer for the New York City-based marketing firm, Images Plus. Besides, even if she stayed, she telecommuted to work on a daily basis, sometimes seven days a week. She wasn’t a partner. And she didn’t have time to help out much, anyway. “Anyone else?”

Gertie raised both hands in the universal sign for surrender. A dental hygienist for Elk Park’s lone DDS, her weekdays were spent cleaning coffee stains off other people’s teeth. “I can’t do it, either.”

“But you could help on weekends,” Lark said, jotting Gertie’s name down and writing “Sat/Sun” beside it.

Lark scribbled her own name next. Better to volunteer for a job than get stuck with one she would hate. She was tied up at the Drummond Hotel on most days, but her hours were flexible, and she did have business experience. “I don’t mind overseeing the general ops.”

“Which leaves us with the day-to-day operation?” Dorothy crooked a finger at her sister, and the women huddled together in whispered conversation. Lark prayed they were equal to the task.

“We’ll do it,” announced Cecilia. “But this week poses a problem. The Migration Alliance convention kicks off this evening.”

Which meant all four of them had additional obligations.

Dorothy served as MA’s local program director. Cecilia pinch-hit backup. The Drummond, designated MA headquarters, was hosting tonight’s kickoff party, Friday night’s banquet, and next Thursday’s wrap-up barbeque. In addition, Lark was slated to lead several birding field trips during the week, and there was an all-day volunteers hike on Sunday which was mandatory for everyone.

“Why don’t we just wait until next weekend to reopen the store?” suggested Dorothy. “It will give us more time to prepare, and—”

“No,” interrupted Gertie. “Think of the revenues. Think of how much money we’d lose.”

“How much?” Dorothy looked to Lark for the answer.

Lark fingered her braid. “The only way to really know is to look at the books. Barring that…” She shrugged. “Do you want my educated guess?”

Dorothy nodded.

“It’s the busy season, so… I’d say the store could gross several thousand.”

“See?” Gertie said. “I was right. We can’t afford to stay closed, or, for that matter, to host Esther’s memorial.”

Everyone ignored Gertie’s last comment.

“Can we hire someone to supervise?” Cecilia asked, as Rachel carried a large tray in from the kitchen. Everyone looked at her.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Cecilia said.

“How do you feel about helping out family?” Gertie asked.

Rachel glanced at Lark. “Is this a trick question?”

Lark nodded. “We need someone to supervise at the Warbler on Sunday.”

“It’s only one day,” Dorothy said.

Rachel bobbled the tray. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Oh, please reconsider,” Cecilia implored. “We’re desperate.”

Lark leaned back in her chair and watched Rachel cave.

“I know I’m going to regret this,” she mumbled. More loudly she said, “Okay, since there’s no other way, I’ll cover Sunday. How—”

Cecilia clapped her hands.

“
However
—”

Gertie sneered. “I knew there’d be a catch.”

Rachel banged the tray down on the coffee table, bouncing half-sandwiches off their plates. “As I was saying, someone else will have to come in and close out the register. I don’t want to be responsible for the money.”

“Done,” Lark said.

“And you’ll need to find someone else to cover any scheduling conflicts or crises.”

“Understood.” Lark added a note to her list. “Consider yourself a token supervisor.”

Rachel rolled her eyes. “What’s everyone want to drink?”