Death of a Songbird (8 page)

Owens tossed his head, flipping back a lock of gold hair. “Esther was scheduled to speak during this year’s conference. I’ve been informed that her business partner, Lark Drummond, one of Elk Park’s local experts, has graciously offered to fill her place.”

Lark felt the color drain from her face.
She
, give a speech? Lark turned to Dorothy, figuring that’s who’d “graciously” volunteered her. Dorothy had disappeared. Smart woman.

“It came up suddenly,” explained Cecilia nervously. “She was forced to make a command decision. She didn’t think you’d mind.”

“Well she should think again.”

Owens craned his neck. “If you’re here, Lark, raise your hand.”

Dorothy had reappeared next to Owens and whispered in his ear, pointing in her direction.

“Oh, yes, I see her. She’s way in the back, folks, close to the bar. Come on, Lark, put it up there so everyone can see who you are.”

Lark forced a smile, made a silent promise to kill Dorothy, then slowly lifted her arm. The birders cheered.

Owens waited for the crowd to quiet. “For those of you who knew Esther, there will be a memorial service held in her honor Saturday afternoon. The time and location are posted on the bulletin board near the registration table.”

A murmur swept the crowd as birders consulted their field trip schedules and conferred with one another.

Owens rapped his knuckles against the podium and consulted his notes. “Hold onto your binoculars, I’m almost finished.”

The crowd tittered.

“This next piece of news is a tad premature to announce, but I wanted all of you to be among the first to hear it. A little bird told me that Migration Alliance has been named the beneficiary of Esther’s estate.”

Lark frowned. Gil Arquette had told her Owens was the beneficiary and, therefore, one of her new partners. So why had Owens just announced the Migration Alliance as the beneficiary? Had she gotten the facts wrong? Had Arquette meant the Alliance, and mentioned Owens’s name because he was MA’s executive director? Or did Owens for some reason want people to think that the Alliance was the beneficiary and not him?

Situated on the east
end of town, the municipal building housed the mayor’s offices, local planning and zoning offices, and the Elk Park Police Department. A nondescript gray, the two-story building, comprised of brick and mortar, stood back from the street and shared its parking lot with the public library. Parking spaces unoccupied by town personnel were generally occupied by tourists choosing to ignore the
Municipal Building and Library Parking Only—All Other Vehicles Will Be Towed
signs. Today was no exception.

Lark weaved through the parking lot twice, then jimmied her truck into a one-hour parking slot on the street. Cracking her windows against the heat, she snatched the field notebook she’d picked up at Bird Haven off the seat, and sprinted for the building.

The sergeant at the desk waved her through, pointing her to an office in the corner. Bernie sat behind a gray desk, feet propped up, reading the
Elk Park Gazette
.

“Anything interesting?”

“Speculation about Esther’s murder.” He set the paper down on his desk and tapped the front page. “They’re reporting it as a robbery run amok.” He gestured to a gray chair the color of the building, the walls, and the carpet. The only color in the room was on Bernie. He wore a bright blue T-shirt tucked into gray regulation trousers. “Have a seat.”

Lark sidled into the room. “I came for the keys and to give you this.” She waved the field notebook.

Bernie leaned over the desk and dangled a ring of keys on the tip of his index finger. “I’ll trade ya.”

Lark hesitated, then took the keys and handed over the notebook. “I’d like it back.”

Bernie shrugged. “First, let’s have a look-see.”

“Check out the last page.” Lark pocketed the keys. “Like I think I told you, I was calling out marks on the bird, when I sighted the murder taking place. I guess I just kept calling out things, because Rachel wrote down the letters, ‘black mask’ and ‘gloves.’”

“EZLN.” Crandall scrunched up his face and scratched his head. “Any idea what it means?”

Lark shook her head. “Not a clue.”

“Okay. I’ll look into it.” He snapped the notebook shut. Lark reached for it, but Bernie held it away. “I think I’ll hang onto this for a while.”

“Of course you will.”

Bernie grinned. “You look like hell, Drummond.”

Lark made a face. “Thanks. Just what a girl likes to hear in the morning.”

It didn’t help that he was right. Last night’s lack of sleep fretting over her new partnership with Owens had taken its toll. She’d tried washing away the telltale bags, but to no avail. Leave it to Bernie to point it out. “Take it back or I won’t tell you what else I know.”

“Spill it.”

“For some reason, Paul Owens is trying to cover up the fact that
he
, not the Alliance, inherited Esther’s money.”

That seemed to get Bernie’s attention. He pinned her with his sharp blue gaze.

Lark filled him in on Owens’announcement at the kick-off bash. “Gil Arquette told me he had called Paul, so Paul knew the money was left to him. Instead, he announced that it was bequeathed to the Migration Alliance.”

“So?”

“So, obviously he wants everyone to think Esther left the money to the Alliance, not him. Why? Unless he’s trying to cover up something.”

Bernie leaned back, draped his arms over his head, and stared thoughtfully into space. “You know, Drummond. You may actually have something there.”

Lark’s next stop was the Warbler Café. Out of morbid curiosity, she parked in the back lot and crossed the pavement. Halfway to the back door, she found the dark stain. In spite of the officer’s hosing, blood remained. The sun beat down, baking it into the hot asphalt. She hurried to the back door and turned the key.

By contrast, the Warbler was dark and cool. Lark shivered, rubbing her arms. She’d come to believe that the spirits of those who died violently sometimes lingered, either out of disbelief and shock or to insure that justice be done before the spirit moved on.

Esther clung to the Warbler. In the furnishings, in the paintings, in the very essence of the building, she remained. Lark whispered a promise to help find her killer and then, with a flick of the light switch, dispelled the shadows and made a beeline for the office.

She spent the morning poring over the books, perusing work schedules, payroll information, and accessory supply sheets. In a ledger detailing shipments and purchases, Lark found some odd numbers scribbled on several pages. From what she could decipher, it seemed Esther tracked all shipments out of Chiapas, not just the ones she made. And the numbers were staggering.

Toward the back of the ledger, Lark found what she was looking for: an inventory record. According to the numbers, coffee on site posed no problem, but warehouse supplies appeared to be running low.

Lark dialed the number on the warehouse inventory list and spoke with someone in the billing department of Commercial Storage.

“I don’t know anything about any coffee supply,” explained the woman in nasal tones. “The way we work things, you pay us for warehouse space, and we give you a password to the main gate and keys to the warehouse at one of our five locations. But, honey, unless you can prove you’re the person who signed the contracts, that’s all the information you get.”

Lark thanked her, then hung up and rummaged through the filing cabinets for a folder containing the code to the warehouse. The key had to be one of those dangling from the key ring Bernie had given her, but it would be totally useless without the password to the main gate.

The code turned up in a file marked “Storage.” The warehouse address was listed as Lyons, somewhere off of Highway 7 and U.S. 36. Lark started a new to-do list: “Check warehouse.”

On a hunch, she picked up the phone and dialed the Drummond.

“Stephen?”

“Lark, thank heavens.”

“Stephen, I need to know who distributes coffee for the Chipe Coffee Company.”

“Where are you?”

None of your business
. “I’m at the Warbler, and I need to know who delivers Chipe’s coffee to the Drummond.” She spoke slowly, enunciating each word, hoping he would take the hint and just answer her question. “Off the top of your head, do you remember the name of the delivery company? Or can you look it up in the orders for me?” She paused, then added “please” as an afterthought.

“When are you coming back?”

She heard the rustling of papers. “Are you searching through the invoices?”

“You haven’t forgotten we have the Migration Alliance banquet this evening?”

“No, I haven’t forgotten, Stephen.” Lark sucked in a breath, annoyed by his persistence. “I’m sure you’re dealing with things just fine. Now, did you find the information?”

Velof sighed. “The company is Talley Distributing.”

“Do you have a phone number?”

He rattled off ten digits, and she hung up before he could harangue her anymore. Knowing Velof, he’d still have plenty to say later this afternoon.

The clerk at Talley Distributing connected her with the shipping manager, who connected her with the supervisor, who connected her with Mr. Talley.

“What exactly do you want?” he demanded.

“I’m looking for an explanation as to why Esther Mills canceled Chipe Coffee Company’s Wednesday-afternoon deliveries. From the inventory sheets, it appears that the coffee supply, though dwindling, is still adequate for filling orders.”

“Why don’t you ask her?” he replied. “I can’t hardly wait to talk to her myself.”

Didn’t he know? “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Mr. Talley, but Esther Mills is dead.”

He choked and sputtered into the phone. “Come again?”

“She was murdered two days ago. Shortly after she canceled the deliveries.”

“You’re shittin’me.”

“No.”

Talley let out a long, low whistle. “Hey, you’re not accusing me of doin’nothing, are you?”

“No, I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on with Chipe Coffee Company.”

There was a long silence, then Talley said, “According to my boys, Mills had no good reason to cancel out. Not unless she was looking for a way to stick it to me.”

“Is there a reason she’d want to do that?”

“None that I know of, but she was a strange bird.” Talley cleared his throat. “How’bout I offer you a proposition?”

Business or personal?
“I’m listening.”

“Esther owes a twenty-five percent cancellation fee for Wednesday. It’s legal-like, all part of the contract. But how’bout, I’ll waive the fee if you go ahead and authorize me and the boys to deliver the goods as scheduled. We can fill the orders this coming Wednesday, one week late. What do you say?”

Lark scrunched her eyes closed and let out a sigh. What could she say? “That’s a generous offer, Mr. Talley.”

“Darn tootin’. Of course, it isn’t every day somebody kicks the bucket. Consider it a favor to you.”

Lark weighed the options. She could sit on the delivery, which forced Chipe Coffee Company customers up and down the Front Range to find another distributor, or she could accept the man’s offer.

“Mr. Talley, you have a deal.”

Lark hung up, pushing the phone away, hoping she’d made the right decision and that there wasn’t some special reason Esther’d postponed delivery of the coffee supply. If so, it was too late now.

The next order of business was finding Esther’s speech. Replacing the file on the warehouse, she thumbed through the remaining folders. Knowing Esther, she’d made handwritten notes. So where were they stashed?

Lark searched the desk, then the credenza, and turned up nothing. At that point, she checked the computer. There were no files that indicated Esther’d been working on anything, and the disks in the disk holder were all clearly marked with what was on them. Esther must have been working on the speech at home.

Esther’s house was located twelve miles outside of town. The cabin—a small, two-bedroom log home, chinked together with white grout—had belonged to Esther’s grandmother, Paris. The house looked the same as it always had, but Esther had added her own unique touches to the surrounding acreage. In back, she’d built a giant labyrinth bordered in wildflowers. A pair of bronzed lions flanked the driveway entrance. Sundials and bluebird houses dotted the yard. Beneath the windows, fresh herbs cascaded from whitewashed window boxes.

Lark climbed out of the truck. Visiting Esther’s was like stepping back in time to the sixties or forward into a New Age Mecca. She found it hard to see how Victor Garcia, a thirty-year law enforcement veteran and straight-nosed cop, fit in.

“Vic?” Lark tapped on the front door. She heard the scrape of a chair.

“What do you want?” He came to the door in wrinkled clothes, with a three-day’s growth of beard on his face. His eyes looked bloodshot, and Lark smelled whiskey on his breath.

“Not doing so good?”

He rolled his eyes and stumbled back inside. Lark followed him into the kitchen. A half-full glass sat in the middle of a small wooden table beside a half-empty bottle of whiskey. Another empty bottle lay on the floor beside the chair. A thin layer of dust coated the counters, making it clear no one had used the kitchen in days.

“Have you eaten anything, Vic?”

“Nah. I’m not hungry. This is all I need.” He held up the bottle and took a deep swig.

“Yeah? Well, I don’t agree.” Lark snatched up the rag draped over the faucet, wet it, and wiped down the counter. Crossing to the refrigerator, she pulled out a carton of eggs and flipped the stove on. “You have to eat something, Vic. You have a funeral to plan.”

He snapped back in the chair as though she’d stuck him, then buried his head in his arms on the table. “I can’t bury her.”

“So we’ll have a memorial service and you can scatter the ashes.”

“I can’t scatter the ashes, either.”

Lark thought of Cecilia’s story and shuddered. “What are you planning to do, then? Keep the ashes on the mantel?”

“I don’t even have a mantel,” he said with a bitter edge to his voice. “Didn’t you hear? She left everything to that Migration Alliance dude.”

“I heard.”

“Even the frickin’house.”

She hadn’t realized that Owens got the property, too. That didn’t seem fair. And it didn’t seem like something Esther would do. “Who told you Owens got everything?”

“Bernie Crandall. He said he was convinced I killed her, except he was having trouble finding a motive.”

“Maybe there’s been a mistake.”

“Hah. Fat chance.” Vic took another swig from the bottle.

“You can’t be sure of that. You two were living together like husband and wife. Maybe that makes you her common law husband?”

Vic’s head came up. “It might, huh?”

“Yeah.” Lark nodded, pleased that she might have found a solution to Vic’s problem. “If so, you’re entitled to some of the estate. If I were you, I’d check with Gil Arquette.”

“I’ll do just that,” said Vic, scraping back his chair and staggering to his feet.

“Later,” ordered Lark, pushing him back down on the seat. “Right now, you’re going to eat something. And give me that.” She took the bottle away from him and, against his protests, poured the contents down the sink.

Two eggs, some bacon, and several stiff cups of coffee restored Vic to some semblance of the man Lark knew. After she explained what she was looking for, he pointed her to a rolltop desk in the living room.

“How about I take a look while you go shower?” she suggested, clearing the dishes to the sink. “Then we can talk about what we’re doing on Saturday.”

A shadow crossed his face at the thought. “I can’t let go.”

Feeling helpless, Lark patted his shoulder. “We’ll work on it together.”

She waited until he’d disappeared into the bedroom before rolling up the desk’s top and rifling the contents of Esther’s desk. The sight might have been more than he could handle.

The pigeonholes were full of treasures: old fountain pens, wax and wax stamps, tissue writing paper. In one cubbyhole on the right, she found a stack of letters. Most of the postmarks were old, dated from the 1920s, and showed Paris Mills’address on the return. One or two were more recent.