Death Takes a Gander (9 page)

“What about the other geese?” Angela asked. “Did you find lead in all of the others?”

“Not all.” Dorothy got up and examined the records. “We found sinkers in about a fourth of the geese, lead shot in about half, and there was no lead present in over a third of the birds.”

“So where did they come from?” Angela asked.

“Who knows?” Lark said, washing her hands while Eric settled the goose in the main barn with the others. “Nobody saw the flock before Thursday morning, when Opal Henderson spotted them near the spillway.”

Angela closed her eyes and dropped her face toward the floor. There had to be a way to track the birds, or backtrack. At this time of year, the geese wintered over, making only local flights.

White flickered on black behind her closed eyelids.
Snow
.

Angela popped open her eyes. “Didn’t you get snow here on Wednesday?”

“Yes,” Dorothy and Lark answered in unison.

“It was an upslope storm,” Lark added.

“Winds heavy, gusts out of the east.” Dorothy snapped shut the record book. “Why?”

Excitement pushed Angela to her feet. “How far do wintering flocks move in a day?”

By now, Eric had returned. “Maximum distance?” he said. “About one hundred miles.”

“And if the flock had been airborne when the storm came in?”

It took a second, then the room seemed to brighten from the series of lightbulbs going off in their heads.

Lark’s mouth dropped open. Dorothy chortled.

“
Jumping Jimminy,”
Eric said. “The geese would have been blown off course.”

Lark listened in as
Angela called Kramner. It was clear the conversation wasn’t going the way they wanted.

“He refused to discuss it,” Angela said after hanging up. Adjusting make-believe glasses, she mimicked her boss. “‘Do you remember what I told you? No investigation.’”

“He didn’t budge at all?” Lark asked.

“He said, and I quote, ‘If we learn something definitive from the necropsy, I’ll reconsider.’”

It seemed clear to Lark that the director of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, Mountain-Prairie Division, was not inclined to spend taxpayer dollars pursuing a matter he deemed dead.

“He instructed me to leave the birds to you and get my ‘umm’down to the lake. Sorry, guys,” Angela said, shrugging on her coat and snatching up her gloves, soggy socks, and wet boots. “I’m outta here. I hope you can handle this without me.”

“I guess we’ll have to,” Eric said, repositioning his hands on the bird while Lark took over Angela’s job at the head.

Lark waved, then turned her attention back to the lavage.

Eight geese later, she headed into the main barn. She helped change bedding, then watered and fed the flock. Except for the geese she and Angela had brought in, there were no new intakes. Against all odds, a good number of the treated birds seemed to be getting better.

At mid-morning Lark sought out Eric, finding him hunched over his computer.

“What else did Covyduck have to say?” she asked, plopping down opposite him in a chair. Her eyes drifted to the frame on his desk, and she felt warm inside.

Eric pushed back in his chair. “He confirmed that the necropsy results were consistent with lead poisoning—enlarged gallbladder, impacted proventriculus, and a cracked gizzard lining. Nothing we didn’t already know.”

“I guess that means we keep on doing what we’re doing.”

“For now. Angela authorized him to send the shot out for analysis, but it will take a few days to get back the results.”

That made sense, thought Lark. It was a holiday weekend and not a top priority case.

“She also had him order a toxicology report on the lead levels in the liver and kidneys,” Eric said. “Covy put a rush on it, but… ” Eric let his words trail.

“The birds seem to be doing better.”

Eric winced, and his blue eyes clouded. “According to Covy, even if we save them, the secondary losses will be astronomical. The birds are likely to experience reproductive problems, increased susceptibility to disease, infection, predation. He gave them a lousy prognosis.”

“Still, they’re alive.”

Ten hours later, Lark wished
she
were dead. Staring down at the banquet menu, the words “paté de foie gras” pulsed back at her.

“Get me a bag!” she yelled, searching frantically for something to breathe into. Anger had sucked her breath away, and now she was hyperventilating.

“Calm down,” ordered Stephen Velof, the Drummond’s manager. He thrust a brown paper sack into her hands. “John Frakus authorized the menu. In fact, he was quite pleased.”

“I don’t care if the President of the United States gave his seal of approval,” she replied. “Do you know how they make paté? It’s bad enough we serve chicken.”

Velof looked blank.

Clamping the bag over her mouth and nose, Lark breathed hard into the sack. Finally, she came up for more air. “They force-feed ducks and geese huge quantities of corn every day until their livers are oversized, pale, and blotchy. Then they slaughter them. It’s barbaric.” She found it hard to keep her hands from shaking. “Where’s Pierre?”

“In the kitchen.” Velof straightened his tie, as if her anger had rumpled him. “I want to go on record as stating this was his idea.”

You weasel.
“You hired him!”

The kitchen bustled with activity. The clang of pots, pans, and dishes swirled in the room. Waitstaff in black-and-white uniforms congregated in groups near the ballroom doors, while white-hatted cooks grilled chicken, steaks, and salmon over long griddles. Large cauldrons of broccoli bubbled on the stove behind them, belching steam into the air.

“Pierre?” she hollered.

The chef popped his head from behind the freezer door. He was dark and swarthy, and his chef’s hat bowed over one eye. “
Oui
, madam?”

“Stephen tells me you made paté.”

“Oui, and it turned out grand.” He kissed his fingers and smacked his lips. “The guests, they are loving it.”

“You’ve served it already?” She felt her blood pressure rise a notch and gripped her bag more tightly.

“Oui. I made the apple terrine of foie gras and foie gras with the blackberry sauce. Both are scrumptious.” He smiled, fat cheeks puffed with pride. “For the apple terrine, you take the apple and remove the core. Then you combine the salt, saltpeter, pepper, sugar, and nutmeg, and coat the foie gras.”

Lark felt sick. “Please, stop.”

“The blackberries you mix with the fat of the foie gras.”

“I said, stop!” She clutched her throat with her hand. “How could you?”

“What?” He drew back. “You are not pleased?”

“No, I’m not pleased! You of all people know what they do to the geese to fatten their livers.”

“But of course.”

Was his French accent thicker tonight, or was rage affecting her hearing?

“But these birds did not suffer,” he said.

“They all suffer.”

“Oh,
contraire
. I have found a secret. I took the liver from the game bird.”

Fear sparked a stomachache. “From wild geese?”

“Oui.” He stuck out his chest. “And I have saved the breast of the bird for dinner tomorrow and the extra pieces for goose stew. Good, no?”

Paralyzed by the news, Lark wondered whether her heart would ever start pumping again. Ducharme must have been the person Angela had seen down by the lake this morning.

“Do you know what you’ve done?” she said. “You’ve served poisoned livers to my guests.”

Ducharme blanched. “I do not think so.”

“Ducharme, you idiot!” screamed Velof. The noise in the kitchen ended abruptly, and all faces turned in their direction. Lark plucked at Velof’s sleeve.

“Keep your voice down,” she ordered. Turning to the waitstaff and cooks, she said, “Everything’s fine, but it’s time to clear the hors d’oeuvres. Quickly.”

“
Vite, vite,
” Ducharme said said, color flowing back into his face. “Pierre Ducharme has a reputation to uphold. I have created a masterpiece, and now you tell me that the geese I acquired are bad.”

“Oui,” she replied, wishing she could strangle the man.

“What do we do now?” Velof whined.

She wanted to kill him too.

“We tell them.” She gestured toward the door. She had a reputation as well. The Drummond was a world-class destination resort known for its location, good food, friendly service, and luxurious rooms—in that order. If word got out that the Drummond had served the guests poisoned birds, and that she knew about it and hadn’t told, her business would be ruined.

“But we don’t know that anyone will get sick,” Ducharme said, his accent gone.

“What happened to your F
rrrr
ench?” she asked, rolling her
r
.

Realizing his mistake, he clamped a hand over his mouth.

“You’re fired.”

“But you can’t just dismiss me like that,” he said, accent back in full force. “I am Pierre Ducharme.”

“I don’t care if you’re Julia Child in drag.”

Ducharme pulled off his hat and threw it to the floor. “You’ll pay for this, bitch.”

“Is that a threat?” She pulled to her full height and stuck her face up close to his.

“Oui.”

She watched him stomp out, then turned to Velof. “First things first, we need to find out what symptoms the guests who ate the paté might experience. Get on the phone with poison control. In the meantime, I’ll collect samples of the food for analysis.”

“Good idea.”

They reconnoitered in the kitchen a few minutes later. While Lark sorted and marked the gathered specimens in plastic containers, Velof reported the word from poison control.

“They don’t think the guests will experience any problems. According to the nurse on duty, it takes an acute dose of lead poisoning for a victim to experience symptoms. Based on body weight, she thinks the geese would have to have been long dead before they would have a buildup large enough to affect anyone.”

Lark wasn’t convinced. She’d heard of predators getting sick from eating lead-poisoned birds.

“Did she give you the symptoms?”

He consulted his notes. “A metallic taste in the mouth, abdominal pain, nausea, vomiting, bloody or black diarrhea. Enough contamination can trigger neurological symptoms such as headache, confusion, delirium, seizures, coma, and… death.”

“Let’s hope the nurse is right about the guests not getting sick, but for the sake of argument, what did she say to do if someone develops symptoms?”

“Have them report to the nearest hospital ASAP.”

“We need to call Bernie.”

Lark ordered the cooks and wait staff to dispose of the paté and blackberry sauce in a large plastic bag, and she headed to her office. Courtesy of a wait staff leak, rumblings of trouble rolled through the ballroom. Several people dashed for the bathroom. To top it off, the police chief wasn’t in. He was attending the banquet.

“What’s going on, Drummond?” Bernie demanded, taking a seat in the hotel office after being hunted down by Velof.

She filled him in, and he clutched his stomach. “Where’s Ducharme now?”

Lark shrugged.

“He’s very temperamental,” Velof explained. “She yelled at him. I think he left.”

“He ran?” Bernie looked from Lark to Velof.

Velof looked blank.

“What kind of idiot is this Ducharme?” the police chief asked.

“A fired idiot,” Lark said.

“Are you sure he picked the geese up here?”

Lark exchanged glaces with Velof.

“No. But he admitted he used wild geese.” She told Bernie about the person Angela had spotted collecting geese earlier in the day. “Ducharme owns a black pickup.”

“Find him,” the chief ordered, dispatching Velof to track down Ducharme. “I have a few questions I’d like to ask him.”

“What do we do next?” Lark asked once her manager had disappeared.

“First, you tell the banquet guests the truth. Tell them you believe the paté is contaminated, what symptoms to watch for, and what to do if they get sick. Next, the health inspector needs to be notified and the food needs to be analyzed.”

“The health inspector will shut down the kitchen.”

“You have a problem with that, Drummond?”

“I need to be able to feed my guests.”

“Then I suggest you strike a deal with the Elk Park Diner. In the meantime, you need to talk to the guests.”

Bernie was right. There were no alternatives. With any luck, no one would get sick, but she couldn’t take the risk.

“You realize that the minute we announce this, there will be at least one hypochondriac requiring immediate treatment.”

Bernie grinned. “Any bets it’s Frakus?”

Lark couldn’t help but laugh. Finally, she dropped her head in her hands. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Don’t worry, Drummond. With luck, the health department will close you down only until they’ve cleared all traces of the geese from the kitchen.”

“I just pray nobody dies.”

He made a clicking noise with his cheek. “You know, Frakus will likely expect a refund of the banquet costs.”

“Then can I amend my prayer and hope he’s the only one who croaks?”

Now it was Bernie’s turn to laugh. Lark felt another wave of hysteria building inside.

Velof inched back into the room. He looked as if he thought they were talking about him.

Bernie sobered up. “Did you find Ducharme?”

“He’s gone.”

The chief reached for the phone. “I’ll put out an A.P.B. for the chef, in the meantime… ”

“We serve dinner?” Velof asked, straightening his tie.

“No!” Lark and Bernie said in unison.

“Gather the staff. Find out how many, if any, ate any of the goose liver paté. I’m going to talk to the banquet guests.” She pushed back from her desk.

“You should file a formal complaint against Pierre Ducharme to protect yourself, Lark. Meanwhile, I’ll get some of my boys up here to take down the names of everyone who ate the paté.” Bernie pushed himself up, and the chair creaked in protest. “I sure hope you’re insured, Drummond.”

“Why, are you feeling sick?”

The fishing huts stood
like sentinels on the frozen expanse of the lake. Darkness shrouded the ice before dawn, and a stiff breeze whisked across the lake, whipping the flag banners into a frenzy, snapping them like sails in a wind. In an hour, the area would be teeming with kids and adults. It was the last day of the ice fishing tournament. A cause to celebrate.

Not that the work had been all bad. Angela actually enjoyed certain parts of the event—the kids catching fish, the adults acting like kids. The only part she didn’t like was kowtowing to the director of the Elk Park Chamber of Commerce.

Cupping her hands around her mouth, she shouted, “Frakus?”

No answer.

A chill crept along her spine. According to Stephen Velof, who had tracked her down having breakfast at McDonald’s—not a hard feat considering the kitchen at the Drummond was closed and fast food was Elk Park’s only option at that hour of the morning—the director had called the hotel and wanted her to meet him down at the lake. So where was he?

His car had been in the parking lot, alongside Donald Tauer’s SUV and an assortment of RVs, fifth-wheel campers, and Arctic-rated pup tents belonging to some of the fishermen. Camping was not permitted on the ice. A smattering of lights from the makeshift village delineated the early risers, but there had been no lights on at the Visitors Center, and she had passed only one hearty soul on the path between the parking lot and the bathrooms.

“Frakus?”

This time the echo of her own voice slithered into the early morning hours and came back accompanied by the hoot of a great horned owl. Taking heart, she pressed on toward the ice, past the registration table, past the concession stands and Sanolets, until she stood at the edge of the lake staring out.

Why did she have a bad feeling about this?

The cold air pinched the skin on her face, drawing it tight across her cheekbones. She scanned the contours of the shoreline. Her gaze drifted over the miniature houses dotting the ice until it halted abruptly. A faint glow eked out from inside one of the fishing huts.

That’s odd
.

Could it be Frakus? What would he be doing out there at this time of the morning? From what she knew, the huts belonged to individual fishermen, most of whom were competing in the tournament. Had Frakus caught someone camping on the ice? Or worse, cheating?

Why call her? Her authority extended to Fish and Game violations—fishing without a license, keeping a greenback trout. Tournament rules fell into his bailiwick, and camping violations fell under Bernie Crandall’s jurisdiction.

Unless… Had he found more dead geese on the ice?

There was only one way to find out. Easing herself onto the lake’s surface, Angela inched her way toward the hut, keeping her eyes open for unmarked holes. The last thing she wanted to do was go swimming.

The hut in question sat farthest out. Made of corrugated metal and painted army green, it measured the size of a small living room. The pipe from its wood-burning stove towered above a small antenna affixed to the peak of the roof. The wind howled, skittering snow across the ice, and a snake of air slithered up the leg of her snowsuit.

“Frakus?”

Again, no answer.

“Is someone there?”

Metal clanged.

A vision of Ian sprang unbidden to mind. Spinning around, she drew her gun and peered into the darkness.

If this is Frakus’s idea of a joke, it isn’t funny
.

The door of a Sanolet banged on its hinges. Angela jumped.

Keeping one eye on the outhouse, she moved sideways toward the hut. Light seeped from underneath its edges in the places where metal didn’t meet ice and through the cracks in the structure where the sides didn’t quite fit together.

Standing off to one side, she rapped on the door of the hut. “Hello?”

No answer.

Nearby, the Sanolet door banged again, and a shot of adrenaline raced through her veins. Listening, she thought she heard a faint squeak, like the sound of a buoy scraping a dock.

She drew a deep breath, exhaled, then knocked again. “Who’s in there?” This time she pounded on the door, determined to raise the occupant. “This is Special Agent Angela Dimato. Please open the door!”

Still no answer. Maybe the owner had come down earlier and left a light on.

She tried the handle. The door was locked.

That’s weird
. No one locked their fishing huts. It was part of the code of honor. Others were free to take shelter, provided they replenished used supplies.

She heard another noise from inside and circled the hut, trying to peek through the cracks in the seams. She caught glimpses of color but was unable to make out anything more. The light seemed to be coming from near the ice.

The bottom of the hut was raised half an inch off the ground in back. Angela stretched out on her stomach and peered under the edge. From this vantage point, she could make out a chair, a cooler, a small table, and a stove. In the middle of the hut, the hole in the ice was uncapped.

Scooting around for a better angle, she pressed her face to the ice. A strange glow spread through the layers beneath her. The light seemed to be shining up from below the surface. And it looked like something was stuck to the edge of the hole.

A black glove.

A hand
.

Her breath left, and she sat upright, huffing for air. Digging out her cellphone, she hit 9-1-1.

“This is nine-one-one, please state your emergency,” said a cheery voice.

“This is Special Agent Angela Dimato.”

“Who?”

“Special Agent Dimato. I’m calling from Elk Lake. There is someone in the water down near the fishing huts. I’m requesting backup and emergency personnel.”

“Yes, ma’am. Please stay on the line. Tell me, how do you spell your last name?”

“Just get an ambulance and Bernie Crandall down here, stat! Elk Lake, by the fishing huts.”

The town siren blared as she kicked in the door. It took two tries to knock it off its hinges. The first sent a jarring shock wave through the pad of her foot, up her calf, and into her knee. The second slammed the door inward, buckling the metal jamb.

She darted inside. The room glowed eerily, illuminated from under the ice. In addition to what she had seen through the cracks, a couch lay tipped on its back, knocked aside in a scuffle. A nice stereo system stood in the corner, and four Bose speakers were mounted on the walls.

Lark moved toward the body in the water. Gouges in the ice indicated that the person in the hole had tried climbing out. Or that someone kept pushing him back in. The hand belonged to a big man.

Frakus?

There was no way she could pull him out by herself. His glove was frozen to the ice at his wrist. He must have fallen through, then reached back out, the wetness of his clothes securing him to the lake’s surface like a tongue on frozen metal. A flashlight bobbed in the water, half-encased in newly formed ice.

Afraid to grab him for fear of losing him into the hole, she searched for something—anything—to safeguard his position. A rope?

All she could find was a roll of fifty-pound test line.
It’s not heavy enough
.

Suddenly, the hut filled with firemen. Nomex-clad men hauled the body out of the water. A National Park Service insignia flashed from the victim’s shoulder.

Angela sank to a chair. Her ears rang. Her head spun. The man in the water wasn’t Frakus. It was Eric Linenger.

What was Eric doing in the fishing hut? And why was the door locked?

The second question nagged at her.

Staying out of the firemen’s way, she walked over and examined the lock. Her kick had knocked off the catch plate on the inside of the door frame, but the door handle mechanism was still in place. Made of stainless steel, it was keyed on only one side. The outside. Which meant someone had locked Eric in.

Who?

Who would have had a key? The owner of the hut, anyone he had given a key to, and possibly Frakus. It ran in her mind that the owners of the ice fishing huts were required by permit to provide one for entry in the case of an emergency. Keys were normally kept in the marina office—in this case, the office was in the Visitors Center.

“Chief.” She tried catching Bernie Crandall’s gaze without drawing the attention of the reporters and film crews who had arrived on site, but several heads turned at the sound of her voice.

“What?” The beefy police chief left his post beside the ambulance and swaggered toward her.

She noticed one reporter edging over with him and dropped her voice. “Who locked the ice hut?”

Crandall gave the reporter a mean glance, took Angela by the elbow, and led her farther away. “Let’s go over your story again.”

She had told it a number of times—about Velof passing the message to meet Frakus, the vehicles in the parking lot, the eerie light, and the Sanolet door—but she told it again.

“And Velof told you it was Frakus who called?”

“That’s what he said.”

Crandall jotted something in a notebook. Slapping it shut, he eyeballed her. “Now, what was your question?”

“Do you know who this hut belongs to?”

“Yep,” he answered, but his attention seemed drawn by some commotion near the ambulance.

“Whose is it?” she prompted, flashing her fingers in front of his eyes.

He broke his stare. “Donald Tauer’s.”

The CEO of Agriventures? What had Eric been doing inside Tauer’s fishing hut?

Just then a cheer rose from the firemen. Crandall made a dash for the ambulance. Angela scrambled behind.

“What’s going on?” she asked, standing on tiptoes to see over the heads of the firemen. Their broad, shoulders blotted out the view.

“He’s alive!” someone shouted. “We have a pulse.”

“What?” Eric was alive. A giddiness washed through her, followed by a chill of fear. How long had he been under water?

“This is good,” said Crandall, elbowing his way back through the crowd. “When he can talk, maybe he can tell us what happened.”

“If he can talk,” she muttered. She hated to be pessimistic, but she was afraid of getting her hopes up. “It’s my guess he was under there quite a while.”

“It’s a cold-water drowning.” Crandall ducked under the crime scene tape and moved back onto the ice.

Angela followed. If he was trying to make her feel better, she wasn’t convinced. She knew they could warm him up slowly, but as often as not, victims like Eric didn’t remember anything once they woke up—not even how to tie their own shoes.

“What this?” Frakus’s voice cut through the crowd behind them, and Angela groaned.

Now he shows up
.

“I’ll second that,” mumbled Crandall.

“Will someone tell me what the hell is going on around here?” Frakus bullied his way through the firemen packing up gear and tugged down the yellow ribbon cordoning off the fishing area. Behind him, Donald Tauer and another man picked their way past the concession stands.

Nathan Sobul
. The sight of her former boyfriend caused Angela’s breathing to shallow and her legs to tremble. What was he doing here? She wondered if it was too late to throw up.

“Someone get that tape back up,” hollered Crandall. “Dammit, John, you’re messing up my crime scene.”

Like three more people mattered, thought Angela. Between the firemen, policemen, and Angela, any evidence on the ice had been trampled by now, or contaminated. Inside the hut was a different story. Besides herself, four firemen, Crandall, and the crime scene investigators, only Tauer and anyone else with a key could have been inside.

By the time the men reached the hut, Angela had pulled herself together. She’d also figured out the connection between Nate Sobul and Tauer. Nate worked for the USDA. Tauer was in organic foods. No doubt they’d met on the job. No wonder Nate wouldn’t help block the use of Agriventures’s geese-depredation permit. He and Donald Tauer were friends.

Nate looked up.

Their eyes met.

Angela knew, in this business, sooner or later she would see him again. Why did it have to be now?

“I am talking to you, Dimato,” barked Frakus.

“Sorry.” Angela glanced at Crandall, hoping to deflect Frakus’s negative vibes. “Eric Linenger fell through the ice. They’re transporting him to the hospital.”

To his credit, Frakus blanched. “Is he okay?”

“It’s too soon to say,” answered the chief. Crandall eyed the three men. “What brings you gentlemen down here so early?”

“It’s the last day of the fishing tournament,” Frakus said. The “duh” was implied.

Tauer moved forward and pointed to the lit-up fishing hut. “Is everything still intact? Was anything damaged?”

Angela scowled. A man was in critical condition, and Tauer was worried about his things?

Crandall ignored him. “According to Special Agent Dimato, you called her about an hour ago, John, and asked her to meet you down here?”

“I what?” Frakus looked surprised. “I didn’t call anyone.”

Now Angela frowned. “Velof tracked me down at McDonald’s. He said you wanted to meet me here early.”

Frakus stared at her like she’d lost her mind.

“No?” Crandall jotted another note in his book.

Why would Stephen have lied? wondered Angela. Her mind drew a blank. More likely Frakus was lying, except he seemed truly surprised. Had someone else called pretending to be Frakus? But who? Eric? No way. Velof would have recognized his accent. Someone else who wanted her down on the ice to find Eric? Or had Eric come down to the ice and stumbled into an ambush meant for her? The thought sent chills up her spine.

One thing was certain; someone had locked Eric inside the fishing hut after pushing him into the water. Someone had wanted him silenced. But why?

“What time did you get here this morning, John?” asked Crandall.

“Why?” Frakus glanced around, absorbing the scene. “Are you suggesting this wasn’t an accident?”

“The thought crossed my mind.”

“Well, I didn’t do anything. I’ve been with Donald and Nate here all morning.”

“He’s telling the truth,” Nate said. “We met in the parking lot at about five thirty and took my car into town to the Elk Park Diner for breakfast”