Death of a Songbird (9 page)

Curiosity prompted Lark to open one postmarked two years ago from Mexico. It read:

My dearest Esther
,

Though it’s been only one day since you’ve been gone, in my heart it feels like months, years, an eternity. Knowing we may never be together again makes it all the harder
.

Katherine returns today…

Katherine? Lark flipped to the last page and looked for the signature.

Yours forever and ever, Paul

Paul Owens. It had to be. The stamp was Mexican, and the postmark read San Cristóbal de las Casas. That was one of the places Esther bought coffee in Chiapas.

Esther Mills had been having an affair with Paul Owens. So that’s what he had been covering up. Lark wondered if Vic knew. Esther was the love of his life. If he had discovered she carried a torch for another man, might he have been jealous enough to kill her? More likely, he’d have killed Owens.

And what about Katherine? Even though she and Paul weren’t married, she seemed very possessive of her partner.

The sound of the closet door clicking into place prompted Lark to put the letter back in its envelope. But instead of sticking it back into its pigeonhole, she crammed it into her pocket

“Find what you were looking for?”

Lark glanced up. Vic stood in the doorway, shaved and wearing clean clothes. His eyes looked tired but alert. “Not yet,” she said.

“What are these?” He walked over and reached toward the letters. Lark held up a hand, but he plucked a stack of three-by-five cards from the next pigeonhole.

Lark’s heart pounded as she flipped through the stack. “Blank index cards.” She shoved them back in the desk. “It must not be here.”

“I saw her working on it.”

At Vic’s insistence, Lark searched the desk again. Nothing turned up.

“Do you have a computer?”

“Not at home. We don’t even have a TV out here at the house. Esther thought the radiation off the screens was dangerous. She even avoided using the computer she had at work.”

That fit with the earth mother image, thought Lark. Then another idea flickered through her mind. The speech was obviously missing. Vic had seen her working on it Maybe it had been stolen. Maybe Esther was killed not for money as they initially thought but for something she knew. Something she had planned to reveal.

Teresa Cruz was waiting
on the front steps of the carriage house when Lark returned, and she followed Lark into the house.

“I need to talk to you,” she said.

“About what?” Lark tossed the truck keys onto the counter, along with the ledger she’d brought home from the Warbler. She wanted to look more closely at the figures posted inside that didn’t make sense. Dates and numbers—large numbers—reflecting purchases and sales too large for Esther to have made.

“I want to know what is happening with my immigration.” The expression on Teresa’s face read trouble.

Lark puffed her bangs back, picked up the Migration Alliance schedule, and turned to face the girl. “Bottom line? It doesn’t look good, Teresa.”

“What do you mean?” The girl’s eyes widened in fear. Dressed in a T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops, she looked small and vulnerable. Lark felt sorry for her, but facts were facts.

“I spoke with the attorney,” she said. “He’s looking into alternatives, but there isn’t much hope. He expects you’ll be sent back to Mexico and that you’ll have to resubmit an application for a permanent visa. The odds aren’t in your favor.”

“I can’t go back. I won’t.”

Where had she heard that before? “I don’t think you’ll have a choice. Unless you have a special skill of some kind that you’re keeping secret.”

“Like what?” Hope resonated in Teresa’s voice.

Lark rolled the program schedule and slapped it against her thigh. “Like you can play pro baseball or can rid the world of cancer.”

“I can sing.”

“It doesn’t qualify. I asked.” Lark started past her into the living room, but Teresa grabbed her arm. Her fingers bit into Lark’s flesh.

“You don’t have to turn me in,” she cried. “If they don’t catch me, then they don’t know I’m not supposed to be here.”

Hadn’t Arquette suggested the same alternative? The consequences scared her, though. “And what happens if they do catch you? Then both our butts are in a sling.”

Teresa shook her head, black hair flying. “No, because you don’t know for sure that my visa’s no good.”

Lark gestured for the girl to sit down on the couch, then pulled up the easy chair opposite. “Teresa, I’d like to help you, but I don’t know what I can do. If I hire you without a green card, I put my business in jeopardy. Same deal if I know your visa’s expired and don’t turn you in. But for the sake of argument, let’s say I look the other way because I’m not sure. How are you going to live? Where are you going to get the money to support yourself?”

Teresa wet her lips. “If you give me a job, Peter says he’ll take the blame if INS finds out.”

“Great. Why doesn’t he just marry you?” she mumbled.

“He offered.” Teresa met Lark’s gaze, then looked away, worrying her hands in her lap. “I can’t. I don’t want to.”

Lark asked herself whether she really wanted to know the reason, then curiosity got the better of her. “Why?”

“Because I’m already married.” Teresa’s chin jutted up defiantly.

Lark stared at the girl, then leaned back in her chair, stunned. “Married?”

Teresa nodded.

You’re just a baby
. “Where is your husband?”

“He’s still in Mexico.”

Lark closed her eyes and rested her head against the chair. This whole thing was getting more and more convoluted. “Care to tell me what happened?”

Teresa stuck out her lip. “No.”

Spoiled didn’t begin to define this girl. “Then,” Lark said, scooting to the edge of her chair, “I guess this conversation is over.”

“Wait!” Teresa reached out her hand, preventing Lark from rising. A teardrop etched its way down her cheek. “I was sixteen when I met Jesus. We fell very much in love, and I married him… against my father’s wishes.”

Why didn’t that surprise her?

“My father, he told me Jesus was trouble, but I didn’t believe him.”

“Did your father say why he thought he was trouble?”

“I knew why. It’s because he cares so much for the cause of the Zapatistas.”

Lark frowned. “Jesus or your father?”

“Jesus.” Teresa smiled, tears fell in glossy lines down her cheeks. “My father is a coffee farmer. He wants only to grow his crop and make the money to feed his family. He would do anything to take care of us. But not Jesus. He is a rebel, a freedom fighter. He wears the mask of the Zapatista with pride.” She brushed the tears away with the back of her hand. “Do you remember what I told you about the PRI invading Las Abejas?”

“You spoke of women and children, of your mother, dying.”

“
Sí
, murdered at the hands of the PRI and their La Mascara Roja. Jesus lost two sisters that day. He was very angry.”

Lark drew a ragged breath. “I can understand why.”

“He was determined to… how do you say?”

“Retaliate?”

“
Sí
. He and several of his friends sneaked in and attacked La Mascara Roja still guarding the area. One of the
presidente’s
sons was assigned to the squad. He was killed in the attack, and my Jesus was blamed.”

“So now he’s wanted for murder,” Lark said.
An eye for an eye, until the last one dies
.

“If they catch him, he will be executed.”

Seeing the anguish on Teresa’s face, Lark felt her own eyes tear. “I’m sorry.”

Teresa pursed her lips. “The PRI knows I am married to Jesus. They came to my father’s house looking for him the day Esther was there to buy coffee. They demanded to question me, but I was not home. My father, in fear for my life, found me and sent me away with Esther.”

“And Jesus?” Lark almost hated to ask.

“He is safe, hiding in the mountains of Chiapas. Without me to give away his hiding place, he will never be caught. Until there is peace, he must wear his mask.”

The image of someone in a black ski mask flashed through Lark’s mind. “Teresa, what does a Zapatista mask look like? What color is it?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Black.”

“Plain black?”

“Except for the signature of the Ejército Zapatista de Liberación Nacional.”

“Spelled out like that?”

“No, spelled only in letters.”

Ejèrcito Zapatista de Liberación Nacional. EZLN
.

The Migration Alliance banquet was scheduled to start in the ballroom at seven. Cocktails were served on the Drummond patio beforehand, and there was a full crowd.

Shortly after Teresa’s revelation, Velof had shown up demanding attention to last-minute details. Lark had promised to be there shortly, then sent Teresa back to the Manor House. The girl left grudgingly, but not before extracting a promise from Lark to consider her request to remain at the Drummond.

Once they were both gone, Lark tried calling Bernie and was forced to leave a message on his voicemail. Now, having refixed her hair in a French braid and decked herself out in a multicolored broomstick skirt with a lavender T-shirt and silver jewelry, Lark wanted a drink.

Before leaving the house, she browsed through the ledger again, trying to figure out what bothered her. Something in the numbers didn’t fit. She started to set the ledger back on the counter, then changed her mind. Too easy to spill something on it. Crossing to the bookshelf, she slipped the ledger into a space between the
Joy of Cooking
and
The Guide to Colorado Birds
. That ought to keep it safe.

“You look nice,” Eric Linenger said, squeezing in behind her at the bar. Lark had seen him come in and was secretly pleased when he’d made a beeline across the patio, past Nora Frank, his fellow ranger and wanna-be girlfriend, to find her. Nora didn’t look happy. Lark smiled at him and ordered two beers.

“Flattery buys you a drink.”

“Then I’ll have to do it more often.” He raised his bottle in a silent toast. “Though,” he paused, looking at her seriously, “I did mean what I said.”

Lark felt the blood rise to her cheeks. “Thanks.”
You don’t look too bad yourself
. Tipping her head back, she studied him. Tonight he was in uniform—khaki shorts, a short-sleeve shirt, and hiking boots—and he looked almost James Bond-ish in a pair of aviator sunglasses. His wind-tousled brown hair reached his collar, adding to the rakish look. She was about to say something, when she noticed Officer Klipp slip out through the patio doors. Stepping to one side, he pressed his back to the wall and scanned the crowd.

“You seem sort of distracted. Is something wrong?”

Klipp left, and Lark turned her attention back to Eric. “Have you got an hour?”

“That bad?”

“You don’t know the half of it.” Lark took a swig of beer.

“Try me.”

“The question is, where to begin? Can you keep a secret?”

“On Scout’s honor,” he said, flashing the Boy Scout’s salute.

First she told him about Teresa, about Teresa’s connection to the Zapatistas, and about the emblem on the hat belonging to the masked killer, leaving out the part about the expired visa. Then she told him about her visit to Vic’s, about the letter she found, and about the strange notes in the ledger. “Were you here when Paul Owens announced that the Migration Alliance may have been named in Esther’s will?”

Eric nodded.

“It isn’t the MA that inherited her percentage in Chipe Coffee Company. It was Owens himself.”

Eric whistled. “So everything fits with the letter.”

“That was my take on it.” Lark held out the MA schedule of events. “Now, top things off with the fact that I have staff out with the flu. I’m scheduled to lead a half-day hike in the morning with no one available to replace me; Dorothy tried. Esther’s memorial service is set for tomorrow afternoon. I lead an all-day hike on Sunday. Plus, I have to deliver Esther’s speech on Thursday. With no notes, I might add. You might say it’s been a hell of a week already.”

Eric draped his arm affectionately across her shoulders. “Whine, whine, whine. Be honest. You love the hikes.”

“Oh, and I almost forgot,” she said. “We’re reopening the Warbler. Tomorrow, after the service.”

“So soon?” Eric pulled his arm away. Lark masked her disappointment.

“We can’t afford to keep it closed.”

The call sounded for everyone to enter the ballroom, and the two of them moved in that direction. Eric pocketed his sunglasses, and they found two seats at one of the EPOCH tables. Andrew and Opal Henderson staked claim to another two chairs, and Gertie plopped down to save places for Harry, Dorothy, and Cecilia.

“What’s on the menu tonight?” Andrew asked, folding his napkin into his lap.

“That depends on what you checked off on your registration,” Lark replied. “I’m having the beef.”

A variety of dishes were served, starting with salad and ending with chocolate mousse. As the last dessert was served, Paul Owens stood up and banged his spoon against his glass.

“Good evening. May I have everyone’s attention? I think everyone has their desserts by now, so we’d like to get started with our program this evening.”

The room quieted. Lark glanced around at the other guests. Some leaned forward with interest, while others dabbed at their mouths with their napkins and cast about for an avenue of escape. Lark’s desire fell somewhere in between.

“So, let’s get right to it.” Owens smiled. “Tonight’s speaker, Katherine Saunders, is someone I know quite well.

“An avid birder from the time she can remember. Her father, Preston Saunders, instilled in Katherine a love for all things avian. He became a birder when taxonomy was still considered a valid method for identifying birds, so Katherine grew up in a home filled with stuffed rarities. She learned quickly how to identify the species and took to photographing our feathered friends. It was the Saunders money that helped found the Migration Alliance, and that helps fund a variety of programs throughout the world geared toward the preservation and conservation of birds.

“So, without further ado, may I introduce my partner and colleague, Katherine Saunders.”

The room thundered with applause. Katherine approached the podium and adjusted the mic. Short, with dark hair that flipped up on her shoulders, she wore a cream-colored suit and shoes to match her lime-green shirt.

“Good evening,” she said in a lilting, birdlike voice. “I’m very happy to be here.” She bowed her head, waited until the crowd quieted, then began. “It’s midday in the mountains of Chiapas, Mexico, yet the sun works hard to penetrate the dense air. Is it clouds, fog, or smoke that chokes out the light, making it hard to determine the time of day?

“The smell of burning vegetation eddies around you. Someone is clearing land by burning away the trees and scrub.

“Up the road walks a farmer. He is headed to the village to eat lunch. He walks past scarred mountainsides and wonders why his neighbors still practice a method of coffee growing that requires the destruction of vegetation and brings death to the songbirds and creatures of the land.

“The farmer doesn’t agree with the old way. Fires often burn out of control, destroying prime forests and habitat. Soil erosion is a major problem. No, this farmer is part of a pilot program sponsored by Migration Alliance to help train coffee growers in the techniques necessary to successfully cultivate organic, shade-grown coffee.

“In Mexico, coffee plantations account for seventy-five percent of the tropical habitat, providing homes for over one hundred twenty species of migratory birds.” She allowed her words to sink in. “Yet, over the past ten years, forty percent of the coffee plantations have converted their operations to sun-grown production, resulting in a significant loss of habitat and a significant decline in the numbers of migratory birds. Songbirds are hit the hardest..”

Katherine leaned into the podium. “Since the 1970s, the number of coffee plants per hectare, the equivalent of two and half acres, has increased from eleven hundred to as high as seven thousand plants. Sun-based and high-yield, these plants require the use of petroleum-based fertilizers, herbicides, insecticides, and fungicides. And ninety percent fewer bird species live in this habitat.” Katherine shuffled her note cards.

“So, the question becomes,” she continued, “how to continue market expansion for the coffee industry and still promote forest conservation and environmental quality critical for the migratory birds?” She looked up and grinned. “I can hear some of you asking, ’Why worry about the coffee industry?’”