Death Takes a Gander (4 page)

“Angela Dimato,” she said, puffing from exertion and humiliation. “You know, we went to the university together.”
Made love in the coed dorms, drank lattes at the “beach,” skinny-dipped in Bear Creek
. Her memories stretched and stayed with her. His had obviously faded.

“Peeps?”

Angela cringed at the use of the nickname. It stood for “peeping Dimato,” from when she’d been caught testing a new scope through the dorm-room window her freshman year. The only available subject had been a couple performing a courting ritual in a dorm room across the way. It figured that’s what he’d retain.

“Right. Look, Nate, I need a favor.”

She held her breath waiting for his answer. She hadn’t asked him for anything, even study notes, since the day they’d parted company. She wouldn’t be asking anything of him now if he wasn’t her only hope.

“Shoot.”

She exhaled, relaxing her shoulders, and explained the situation.

“So,” she finished, “if the USDA agrees to count these geese against the Agriventures permit, John Frakus will plow them off the ice.”

Her oratory was met with silence. Underfoot, the snow crunched. The geese honked a plea in the background.

“I’m just a commodity grader, Peeps,” Nathan said finally, with no trace of sleep left in his voice. “Those permits are handled through the Colorado Division of Wildlife offices.”

“But you have to know someone.” Angela heard the pleading in her voice and hated the fact she was begging.

“I’m sorry. I can’t help you on this one.” He hesitated. “In fact, if you want my advice, Angel, you might want to back off. You’re apt to get burned. No sense bucking the brass.”

Coming from a brass-kisser…

“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

She gained satisfaction in clicking off first, then realized his parting words had sparked an idea she might have to thank him for. “Eric, do you know any bird lovers in town with enough clout to stand up to John Frakus?”

He gave her a confused look.

“What better way to fight fire… ”

“Than with fire,” he said. A slow grin spread across his face. “I know Lark Drummond.”

“As in the Drummond Hotel?” Angela’s gaze moved to the hotel on the ridge. A designated historical landmark, the five-story Victorian perched on the hillside beneath a pair of rock outcroppings called the Twin Owls. Lights shone from the first-floor windows and eked out behind curtains in one or two of the windows upstairs.
Talk about brass
.

Angela watched as Eric dialed Lark’s number and explained the situation. Finally, he flipped the phone shut.

“Well?” she asked.

“She’s coming. Let’s hope she gets here in time.”

Angela returned the cell phone to her duty belt. “There’s no way. According to my watch, we have under five minutes left.”

“Then,” Eric said, flashing a smile, “let’s hope she hurries.”

The designated fishing area lay due south of the boat ramp. With the water table below normal, the concession stands that typically lined the path now flanked both sides of the exposed launch pad, angling down to the water’s edge. Overhead, a large banner stretched between the roofs of two Sanolets proclaimed this the site of the First Annual Ice Fishing Jamboree.

The lake’s surface was rough. Snow drifted in miniature mountain ranges and crunched beneath their feet, adding percussion to the wail of the wind and the honking of the geese.

The first pair of geese they came upon was a gander and its mate. Necks intertwined, the birds lay on the ice, the gander still breathing. Angela stooped down but could see no visible signs of trauma. That ruled out gunshots.

“What do you think, Eric? My guess is some sort of poisoning.”

“Or they might have some sort of virus.”

Angela checked out two more birds, then heard the truck engines roar to life. She whirled around. Frakus stood at the top of the boat launch, one arm raised over his head. He reached up, tapped his watch, then dropped his arm. The trucks careened toward the lake.

“Angel, come on!” Eric grabbed her elbow, pulling her toward the nearest fishing hut.

“No, we have to stop them.” She twisted free of his grip and swung back toward the boat launch. He reached out and clamped an arm around her waist.

“There’s nothing we can do,” he yelled over the roar of the machines.

“Let me go!” she screamed, arching her body as he dragged her back. His hold tightened, and she kicked her feet. “Frakus, you jerk!”

Eric dropped her beside a yellow-and-white pop-up tent. Grit scattered on the ice bit into her knees, and she wrenched a tear in her pants. Tears stung her eyes. She turned and watched as the first truck lowered its blade and pushed the gander and its mate along the ice.

The gander struggled to rise. Its wing caught beneath the blade, and the bird arched, slamming into the plow. Again and again, it struck the metal in a futile attempt to escape. Then the plow turned, the wing tore, and the gander was pinned to the cold metal blade by the next bird on the ice.

The human chain had
been Lark’s idea.

She had set the phone tree in motion after receiving Eric’s call, and the Elk Park Ornithological Chapter members had descended upon the lake. Lark was the first of the EPOCH members to arrive. By then, campers awakened by the noise lined the banks, blood smeared the ice, and the pile of geese stood three feet tall. Lark had watched the trucks blade the surface while several men heaved animal carcasses into the bucket of a small Bobcat. Then she’d concocted a plan. In minutes, the EPOCH members had Frakus’s men outnumbered.

Now, facing down a three-quarter-ton pickup, Lark had doubts. “Hold on, everyone,” she directed, clamping her hand more tightly to Dorothy MacBean’s. “He won’t run us down.”

“Are you sure about that?” Dorothy looked skeptical, her gray eyes wide beneath her hand-crocheted hat.

Petey Hinkle revved the plow’s engine and leaned out the driver’s-side window. He was a black man with cropped hair, and his smile lit up the morning. “Git outta the way, y’all.”

“We’re not moving, Petey,” hollered Lark, white puffs of her breath punctuating the cold morning air.

Petey’s smile faded. “Come on, Lark. Play nice.”

“Forget it,” yelled one of the other EPOCH members. “We’re staying right here.”

The geese honked.

Dorothy’s sister, Cecilia Meyer, chimed in from Lark’s left. “Does Gertie know where you are, Petey?”

Lark chuckled. Petey Hinkle’s girlfriend, Gertie Tanager, was editor of the EPOCH newsletter, and club president Miriam Tanager’s niece. Lark would lay odds Gertie didn’t have a clue where her boyfriend was.

“Did we forget to call her?” Lark asked.

Petey flipped her the bird. Ducking his head inside the cab, he ground the truck into granny gear and lurched the plow forward. Lark’s heart flipped over.

“You don’t scare us, Petey,” she shouted, willing her heartbeat to slow down.

“Speak for yourself,” muttered Dorothy, squishing Lark’s fingers inside her glove. For a woman in her mid-sixties, she had one heck of a grip.

Petey’s head emerged from the window again. “You dang well oughta be scared,” he hollered. “Frakus is gonna call the cops, and they’re gonna haul y’all’s butts to jail.” His eyes scanned the row of people stretched across the ice. “Y’all ready for that?” When no one moved, he shook his head. “Where’s Miriam, anyways? I reckon she’d listen to reason.”

“She’s out of town, Petey,” Lark shouted. “I’m in charge.”

“Wrong,” bellowed John Frakus, storming out from behind the pickup. Trussed up in a neon-green snowsuit and matching headband, he planted himself, feet apart, on the ice in front of her. “I’m in charge,” he blustered. “And you have no authority here.”

Lark straightened her shoulders and, for the first time she could remember, willed her five-ten frame to expand. “You are in violation of the Migratory Bird Treaty Act, John.”

“We’ve been granted a dispensation,” he crowed, waving a piece of paper in her face. “I have a permit to round up these birds.”

Lark glanced behind her. Eric and the small, dark-haired woman who had introduced herself as Special Agent Angela Dimato squatted around the pile of geese. “Is that true?” she called out. “Did John get permission?”

Angela rose off her haunches and walked toward them. Short and compact, the woman resonated energy. “I’m afraid so.”

“Let me see that.” Lark yanked the paper from Frakus’s fingers and scanned the document.

The protesters pressed in closer.

“This permit is issued to Agriventures,” Lark said, holding it up for the crowd to see.

“Our cosponsor,” snapped Frakus. He turned to the U.S. Fish and Wildlife agent. “I want these people off the ice, Dimato. Arrest them if you have to.”

“This is public property, Mr. Frakus. They aren’t in violation of any laws in my jurisdiction. If you have a problem with their demonstration, I suggest you contact the county sheriff or local police.”

Lark noticed that Eric had moved to stand behind Angela, adding some punch to her presentation.

The EPOCH members held the line.

“This is a standard-issue permit,” Lark noted.

“Have you got a problem with that?” Frakus asked.

“That means standard permit rules apply, unless exceptions are noted. You may have gotten permission to lump numbers, John, but the terms of the permit haven’t changed.”

Frakus scrunched up his face. “Where are you going with this?” He waited a beat, then threw up his hands. “No, don’t tell me, because I don’t have time to discuss this with you. The jamboree kicks off in an hour.” He leaned toward Lark and lowered his voice. “You
do
remember who stands to benefit from this three-day event, don’t you?”

Yes, she thought. Me. The Drummond Hotel was packed with fishermen in for the President’s Day weekend. Plus she was hosting the Sunday night banquet—a full-course sit-down dinner for two hundred people. She needed the business.

Heck
, between the drought, the fires, and the rash of local homicides, Elk Park needed the business.

With all that considered, Lark rustled the paper. “This states, and I quote, ‘the birds may only be killed by shooting with a shotgun not larger than number-ten gauge fired from the shoulder, and only on or over the threatened area.’”

“Whatever that means,” snapped Frakus. “Most of the birds are already dead, and I’m not going to shoot the ones already down. That stipulation doesn’t apply.”

Angela stepped forward and squinted at the fine print.

Lark scanned down the sheet to the next item. “‘Shooting shall be limited to such time as may be fixed… ’”
Oops
. She glanced at Angela, letting her voice trail off.

“What?” Frakus asked. “You’re not going to finish reading that? Do you know why she stopped?” He opened his arms wide and strutted in front of the EPOCH members “Huh? Huh?” He waited, then continued when no one answered. “Because the hunting season on Canada geese runs from November seventeenth to February seventeenth.”

The crowd booed and hissed. Frakus preened like the villain in a melodrama.

Lark ignored him and kept skimming the pages. The document stated that migratory birds killed under the provisions may be used for food,
yada, yada
. And…

“Aha! The birds, and again I quote, ‘shall not be sold, offered for sale, bartered, or shipped for purpose of sale or barter,
or
be wantonly wasted or destroyed,’ unquote. Any game birds, quote, ‘which cannot be so utilized shall be disposed of as prescribed by the Director,’ unquote.” She pointed to the words, tracing a finger across the page. “There’s nothing in here that says they can be scraped off the ice. That’s wanton destruction.” Lark pinned Frakus with a stare. “Did you get permission to plow the geese, John?”

“Not exactly. William Kramner knew my intentions, but—”

“But what? The Colorado Division of Wildlife policy has always been known to use changes in hunting regulations to manage the numbers of resident geese. Barring that, CDW humanely”—She repeated the word slowly, emphasizing the syllables—“
Hu-mane-ly
captures and relocates nuisance birds at specific times of the year. In the case of Canada geese, that’s in July, when the birds are molting. That way CDW knows they have members of the resident population.” On a roll, Lark moved in, pressing her nose within inches of Frakus’s face. “This is far from July, John, and far from humane.”

Frakus stepped back.

The crowd cheered.

“I have a right to clear the ice,” he blustered. “I obtained permission and have the authority to proceed.”

“Not according to the fine print,” someone up the line yelled.

“I say get some new glasses,” someone else hollered.

“Better yet, get some binoculars.”

The crowd erupted with hoots and shouts.

Frakus sputtered a moment, then said, “Fine. Since you’re such an expert, Lark, tell me, how do
you
propose we get the birds off the ice within the hour?”

Lark glanced around. There were dead and dying geese sprawled everywhere. Counting those in the pile, she figured there were at least a hundred birds. “How many of us are there?”

Cecilia took a quick head count. “Twenty-three.”

“How many have trucks?”

A half-dozen hands shot up.

“I have a truck,” Angela said.

Eric waggled his fingers. “Me too.”

“Great.” Lark said. “Counting mine, that gives us nine trucks. Do we have any pet carriers?” She looked at Eric.

“We have some. Maybe twenty-five or thirty. Not nearly enough.”

“I’ve got a medium-sized one,” offered Dorothy.

“The type where the lid comes off?” Eric pantomimed the gesture. “We can’t use the type with the wire door. We don’t want to stuff the birds through an opening.”

Dorothy nodded.

“Okay, look,” Lark said. “If we break into groups and divvy up the manpower, we
can
do this. We can put the geese into carriers, haul them up to the Raptor House, unload them, then bring the carriers back down here and repeat the process.”

“There’s not enough time!” exclaimed Frakus.

“Oh, my,” Cecilia said. “Will there be enough room?”

“We’ll make room,” Lark said. “And we’ll beat the clock.”

“You’ll never make it,” Frakus said.

“Give us a chance.” Lark paused for effect, then added, “Or if you prefer, John, we can stand here and discuss it some more.”

Frakus dropped his arms to his sides, balling his hands into fists. “That’s blackmail.”

“It’s reality.”

Angela stepped forward. “She’s right, Frakus. I say the fine print gives me grounds to stop you.”

He turned to Eric. “What about you? Are you siding with them too?”

Eric met his gaze. “Lark brought up some valid points.”

“Idiots!” Frakus kicked at a clump of snow, wincing as his foot struck solid ice. Hopping on one foot, he waved off his men. “Forty-five minutes. That’s all you get.”

Before Lark could utter his thanks, Frakus whirled around and limped back toward Petey’s truck. “Climb out of there, Hinkle. Get the rest of the guys, grab some buckets, and start cleaning the ice. We need to get rid of the blood and the crap before the fishermen show up.”

Lark watched for a moment, then gathered the EPOCH members around her. “Okay everyone, listen up. We need to break into groups—some of us up at the Raptor House, some of us on the ice.”

“I’ll coordinate the treatment area,” Eric said. “We need someone to coordinate treatment housing.”

“Cecilia and I can do that,” offered Dorothy.

“Good. Then all we need is about ten volunteers to work with Dorothy and Cecilia. Who doesn’t have a truck?” Lark asked.

A number of EPOCH members raised their hands.

“Then how about you go with Eric and Dorothy?” she said, pointing to them. “Plus we’ll need a couple of people with trucks to fetch the carriers.”

“I’ll go,” Harry Eckles volunteered. “I even know where they are.”

“Me too.” Andrew Henderson lumbered forward. At nearly four hundred pounds, Lark would be glad to have him off the ice.

“We don’t even know what’s wrong with these birds,” pointed out Angela. “We should be observing them and figuring out what’s making them sick before we move them. It’s possible that it could be something dangerous to humans.”

“Good point,” Lark agreed. “But we don’t have much time.” The lineup of plows made that obvious.

Angela faltered.

“How about I tell them to wear their gloves at all times, at least until we figure out what’s wrong?”

“Agreed.”

Lark passed on the message, then asked, “Do you want to coordinate the rescue operation, and I’ll float? Or vice versa?”

Angela hesitated. “I guess I’ll coordinate from here.”

“Great,” Lark said. “Then I’ll make sure everyone has a job and run outside interference.”

“Meaning you’ll keep Frakus off my back?”

“I’ll do my best.”

Angela smiled, flashing a row of perfect white teeth. “Great!”

Lark smiled back, then turned to the EPOCH members. “Everyone clear on what they’re doing?”

The group nodded.

“Okay then, let’s go.”

The EPOCH members split up. Some raced off to get their vehicles, others focused on the felled geese. Eric and Angela started triage. Dead birds were laid to the side, sick birds designated for transport. The birds waddling around on their feet would be left until last.

Lark moved toward the pile of geese and felt her stomach twist. She didn’t handle death well—animals or humans—though she’d racked up a body count in the past year and a half. First there had been the reporter, then Esther Mills, then Owens. It was enough to make her want to vomit.

Bernie Crandall, Elk Park’s Chief of Police, saved her the embarrassment. He showed up, forcing her to act tough. “So, Drummond, what’s the situation?”

Lark swallowed back the bile in her throat and gave him the rundown. “Frakus isn’t happy,” she concluded, “but he’s giving us a chance to save the geese.”

“That’s big of him.” Bernie rubbed his chin. “Look, I’ll put out a call for volunteers over the police band. That should bring out a few more hands.”

“We’d appreciate it.”

The burly cop dipped his head, then jerked a beefy thumb at the geese. “You know, these birds are good eating. What happens to the ones that die?”

“They’re disposed of.”

“Any chance that means ‘cooked up at the Drummond’?”

Her stomach roiled at the thought. “The birds are sick, Bernie! On top of that, it would be a Health Department violation.”

He scratched his head Columbo-style. “What’s wrong with them anyway?”

“Nobody knows yet.” Lark signaled a group of birdwatchers toward a grouping of sick geese, then shrugged. “If you’re asking my opinion, I’d guess lead poisoning.”

“Why?”

She raised her head and jutted her chin toward center ice. “Watch the ones on their feet. See how they stagger around like they’re drunk? They’re disoriented, their honk is abnormal, and they’re suffering from diarrhea.”

“Aren’t they always?”

Lark assumed it was a rhetorical question and didn’t answer. Instead, she flipped her hair over her shoulder and asked, “Don’t you have an investigation to conduct?”