A Nest in the Ashes

by Christine Goff

Except death.

  Their eyes met.

  Eric looked back out the window. “I don’t see any way to fight it. The jurisdiction falls to the National Park Service law enforcement officers, and, except for the autopsy, they’ve completed their investigation. According to them, the evidence shows—”

  The coasters tumbled, clattering onto the tabletop. “The report didn’t include the autopsy?”

  “Only a preliminary,” said Eric. “It indicated that Wayne had fallen and struck his head. Why?”

  She gathered the coasters, then stood and crossed the rug toward him. “Maybe there’s something in the autopsy we can use to prove Wayne didn’t start that fire. That’s all we have to do, isn’t it? Prove that he didn’t do it, or that he had a valid reason for doing so?”

  “The investigation team was thorough, Jackie. The evidence collected proved Wayne was holding the fusee that started the fire. The NPS isn’t going to reopen the case unless someone comes up with some pretty compelling evidence to refute their findings.”

  Jackie straightened her shoulders. “Then we will. I don’t know what happened, but I refuse to believe Wayne did anything wrong.” Her eyes opened wide. “What if someone framed him?”

  “Like who?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe that Trent fellow.”

  Pacey Trent had needed a scapegoat, but would he have gone so far as to lay the blame on a dead man?

  “Or what if Nora Frank decided she couldn’t wait for Wayne’s job?” Bitterness clung to Jackie’s voice. Eric had thought she liked Nora.

  “I seriously doubt that Nora—”

  “You know as well as I do,” Jackie interrupted, “that with Wayne gone, his job along with a substantial raise in pay belongs to her.” Jackie sniffed. “Unless of course, she screws up.”

  Eric swallowed. Spit stuck in his throat. “Let me get this straight. You’re suggesting someone—”

  “Murdered him.”

  Chapter 12

  Her words resonated in his soul. The rantings of a grief-stricken widow. Yet, somehow the idea seemed more palatable than suicide. Even he had allowed himself to visit the idea, the concept of foul play niggling at the back of his mind when he’d first heard that Wayne died from a blow to the head. The missing pickup and psychrometer had added fuel to the theory, then, reminded of Wayne’s earlier behavior, Eric had allowed himself to be sidetracked into thinking Wayne might have wanted to kill himself.

  What if his gut instinct had been right after all?

  The idea that Pacey Trent had murdered Wayne was too far-fetched to consider. Trent had no need to go to such extremes to find a scapegoat. He could have pinned the blame for the fire on Nora Frank.

  Unless Wayne had decided to call off the burn. If so, he would have contacted Trent, who had a vested interest in seeing the fire lit.

  As for Nora, it was no secret she wanted Wayne’s job. But badly enough to murder him for it?

  And what about the missing truck? The fact that it had never been found indicated someone had taken it. Maybe the missing boys from the Youth Camp? The troubled teens had yet to turn up, though Search and Rescue had tracked them through the woods on the backside of Eagle Cliff Mountain. Maybe the boys had encountered Wayne while making their escape, conked him over the head, and stolen his truck.

  “You’d thought of it too,” said Jackie, pulling Eric back from his thoughts.

  Murder.

  He stood for a moment, watching a flock of pine siskins cavort at the hanging feeder, so carefree in contrast to the solemnness brought about by Wayne’s death. “What did Wayne tell you he was planning when he left Friday morning?”

  “I already told you, Eric. He said he wanted to test the humidity up on Eagle Cliff Mountain.”

  “Do you know if he mentioned it to anyone else?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t remember him making a phone call, but then he left early. I got up and made him coffee while he checked his pack.”

  “Do you know if he took a weather kit with him?”

  Jackie looked at Eric blankly.

  “A psychrometer,” he explained. “It’s a small, flat device with two thermometers bolted to it that’s attached to a metal handle by a small chain.”

  He made a circular motion with his wrist. A psychrometer was used in the field to determine humidity levels, and Wayne would have had one to test the humidity on the mountain. In a standard weather kit, the right-hand thermometer, called the “dry bulb,” was read and the temperature recorded. The left-hand thermometer, the “wet bulb,” has a cloth attached. The cloth is soaked in water, then the psychrometer is swung in a circular motion. The evaporation of the wet cloth causes a cooling effect that drops the wet bulb temperature below that of the dry bulb, and the difference in temperatures determines the level of humidity. The missing psychrometer supported the investigation team’s theory that Wayne had not gone up on the mountain to test humidity levels.

  “I didn’t pay that much attention,” said Jackie. “Why?”

  “They didn’t find one among his things, or anywhere on the ground.”

  “Which means . . . ?”

  “He couldn’t run any tests, or didn’t plan on running any.”

  They looked at each other. “Or someone took it,” they said in unison.

  But again, why? The only possible reason was that the thermometers showed that the humidity was too low to safely light the burn.

  “Maybe he left the kit in the truck,” suggested Jackie.

  Eric supposed it was possible. Wayne might have taken his readings down lower, then decided to hike in and . . . what? Look around some more? Or, light a fire?

  A door slammed, and Tamara shuffled down the hallway to the stairs. A smaller, thinner version of her mother, her eyes were red-rimmed and nearly swollen shut from crying.

  “Mom?”

  “I’m right here.” Turning to go to her daughter, Jackie squeezed Eric’s arm. “I’m counting on you.”

  His chest tightened. “I promise I’ll do what I can.”

  Eric polished off the bottle of water on the walk home. Flipping on the television, he surfed the channels and stopped on KEPC-TV when Linda Verbiscar’s face filled the screen. Eric clicked off the mute, catching her words midstream.

  “. . . from park headquarters where we’re waiting for official word on the cause of this week’s fire.”

  A shot of the Visitor Center appeared on the screen, with the charred remains of Beaver Meadows visible in the background. Small tendrils of smoke rose from blackened stands of sage and bitterbrush, and the soil looked like a moonscape.

  “Linda,” said the studio newscaster. “While we wait for the park officials, perhaps you’d like to take this opportunity to update us on the latest developments in the wake of this disaster.”

  “Well, Dan, as you know, one man is dead. Wayne Devlin, age fifty-four. As Rocky Mountain National Park’s fire management Officer, Devlin was the man responsible for this week’s burn. He was discovered burned to death on Eagle Cliff Mountain late Saturday afternoon.

  “It’s widely thought that Devlin headed out to test the humidity levels early on the morning of the burn. One thing’s for certain, he never showed up at command central. And, it now appears, he may in fact have started the fire that caused so much damage, and indeed cost him his life.”

  “Does that mean we should expect the Park Service to declare this an arson fire?”

  “That is a possibility, Dan. My sources tell me that Wayne Devlin had, in fact, been acting strangely before he died. In digging, I learned that he has for the past year been under a neurologist’s care at the University Medical Center.”

  Eric stared at the picture of Linda. That meant that Jackie had lied to him about Wayne’s behavior. If he’d been seeing a neurologist, she had to have known something was wrong.

  “Do we know what he was being treated for, Linda?”

  “Patient records are confidential, Dan, and we haven’t been able to
root out that information. Perhaps today’s press conference will shed additional light on the situation.”

  In the background, there was a flurry of commotion as the Visitor Center doors opened, then closed again. No one emerged.

  Verbiscar turned back to the camera. “In other developments, there is still no word on the two missing boys from the Youth Mountain Camp.”

  “Tell us what you know about the camp, Linda. Is my impression correct? Is this a camp for troubled youth?”

  “Yes, Dan. The Youth Mountain Camp runs an innovative program designed to help teens between the ages of fifteen and eighteen who have all had some type of run-in with the law. The youth are recommended into the program by police or probation officers from throughout the greater Denver metropolitan area. By all accounts, the program has met with varying degrees of success.”

  “Do we know anything specific about the missing boys, Linda? For instance, do we know why they were sent to the Youth Mountain Camp?”

  “No, Dan. We’ve been unable to obtain that information. Victor Garcia, Elk Park’s county sheriff, himself a former attendee of the camp, and who now helps run the facility, has been very tight-lipped. As has Bernie Crandall, Elk Park’s chief of police. The one thing we do know is, the boys names are Lewis Kennedy the third, more commonly known as Tres, and one Justin Suett. Tres resides with his parents in the Cherry Creek area, Cherry Hills Farms to be exact, and Justin comes from the Castle Pines area.”

  Eric rubbed his chin. Both were upscale neighborhoods. Rich boys, with too much money and too much time on their hands. Privileged kids looking for excitement, and finding trouble instead.

  “Wait. It looks like people are exiting the building behind you, Linda.”

  “Yes, Dan.” The camera zoomed in on Pacey Trent. “It appears that the fire management officer for the Intermountain Regional NPS is finally ready to make a statement. Let’s hear what he has to say.”

  Trent’s announcement was short, and to the point. Exactly what he’d told Eric it would be—a pronouncement of Wayne’s guilt.

  •••

  Eric climbed into his truck and headed into Elk Park as the sun dropped behind Longs Peak and twilight settled into the valley. Rolling down the pickup’s window, he rested his elbow on the sill and allowed the cool breeze to sift through his hair. The air smelled faintly of smoke, but not enough to cause alarm. The fire was out.

  Turning right onto Devil’s Gulch Road, he looked to see if there were any lights on at Lark’s place. The carriage house stood dark behind the Drummond Hotel, and he tamped down his disappointment. Maybe she’d be back by the time he finished feeding the birds at the Raptor House rehabilitation center.

  Fire or no fire, taking care of the rehab center occupants—a permanently injured eagle named Isaac, six red-tailed hawks, two golden eagles, a few kestrels, and a great horned owl—fell under Eric’s job description. A volunteer at the center since it opened over sixteen years ago, he’d been assigned there permanently after William Tanager, the previous owner, had died. William’s wife, Miriam, had turned the daily operations over to the Park Service. The Tanager family owned the land in trust. NPS ran the center.

  There were seven buildings in all. The big barn housed the intensive care unit and offices, and all incoming and outgoing birds were processed through there. The remaining buildings were designated care units, pinpointed for separate species, or designated for special services. The Nesting Compound housed burrowing owls and stood empty now. The Pygmy House sheltered the smaller owls and kestrels. The Eagles’ Eyrie housed eagles. Collegiate Hall sheltered the educational birds—ones used for school programs that for a number of reasons could never be returned to the wild. In addition, there was the hospital ward, Protective Custody House, and the Freedom House, where birds took their final test flights before being released.

  Accelerating up Raptor House Road, Eric relaxed, listening to the sounds of the evening. Wind whooshed past the window, and rustled the trees. In the distance he heard a common nighthawk call, peent, peent, as it sang its courtship song. The sounds of life. A far cry from the stifling depression of the Devlin house.

  Pulling past Bird Haven, Miriam Tanager’s house, Eric was surprised to see Lark’s truck parked in front.

  “Hey, stranger,” she called from the porch.

  Eric slowed. He hadn’t seen her standing outside.

  “Hey, yourself.” Eric grinned, feeling more like a seventeen-year-old trolling for girls in downtown Lillehammer than a thirty-five-year-old park ranger on his way to work. “What’s going on?”

  “The EPOCH meeting.” She sounded surprised, then smiled. “I take it you forgot.”

  He had, though the Elk Park Ornithological Chapter met every Monday night at Bird Haven. “I came to feed the birds.”

  Decked out in jeans and a flannel shirt, with her hair in a French braid, Lark looked like she’d stepped out of an L. L. Bean catalog. She sauntered down the stairs, and he felt his heart bump.

  “Want some company?” Lark gestured at the house. “We’re starting late. Some of the others can’t make it before eight.”

  “Sure.” He tried to keep the word light, and not sound too anxious.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Ja, why?”

  “You look tired.”

  “It’s been a long day.”

  While he pulled frozen Coturnix quail and dead mice out of the Raptor House freezer and arranged them on a microwavable platter, he told her about the mop-up and Trent’s waiting for him at the bottom of the hill.

  “I saw the broadcast,” Lark said.

  Her tone suggested disappointment. In what? The system? She bent forward and leaned her elbows on the counter. He popped the platter into the microwave. Normally he would have thawed the birds and mice by leaving them out for a couple of hours, but tonight he punched in five minutes defrost on the keypad and hit the start button.

  “Did you go over to the Devlin’s?” she asked.

  “Ja. I figured I owed it to Jackie to give her the news in person.”

  “How did she take it?”

  Eric shrugged. “She wants me to help her prove he didn’t start the fire.” Eric related the conversation in detail, right down to the accusations. “She thinks he was framed, or murdered.”

  “Murdered?”

  “Ja, that’s what she suggested.”

  “What do you think?”

  Should he confess what he was thinking? If he couldn’t trust Lark, who could he trust?

  “I don’t know. It was my initial reaction, but . . . What if he committed suicide?”

  “You think he killed himself?”

  “Maybe. He’d been acting strange lately. If Linda Verbiscar was right about the neurologist, maybe he knew something was wrong with him and wanted to improve the benefits to his family.”

  Lark scrunched up her face.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s done that.” The timer dinged, and Eric snatched the platter of quail and mice from the microwave.

  “Do you think Jackie’s worried about losing Wayne’s pension?”

  “Ja. You can’t really blame her.”

  Lark shook her head in agreement. “You know, Forest Nettleman told Dorothy MacBean he’s planning to sue.”

  Eric stabbed the meat hard with a fork. Flesh cracked beneath the pressure. “He’s a jerk.”

  Lark puffed out a breath in what Eric took for agreement.

  “He told Dorothy that he wanted to use the media exposure to make a statement.”

  “What kind of statement?” asked Eric, shoving the platter back in the microwave and punching in another five-minute defrost cycle.

  “Apparently Forest hired Linda Verbiscar to produce an IMAX-style documentary for the Wildland Center. Some gung-ho piece on fire and its effects on avian and wildlife populations. From what Dorothy said, they share a common interest in ‘educating the public on conservation needs.’ ” She made quote marks in
the air. “Their focus is on the National Park system.”

  Eric bent down, facing Lark and placing his elbows opposite hers on the counter. He could feel the electricity spark between them. “What’s their stand?”

  “Anti-burn. Neither one of them agree with the NPS’s attempt to micromanage through prescribed burning.”

  “I should have guessed.” The timer counted down, and Eric pushed up from the counter.

  “No,” said Lark. She reached out and touched his arm.

  “No, what?”

  “They’re not anti-burn, rather anti-suppression slash pro natural burn.”

  “In other words,” said Eric “they’re all for a lightning strike fire burning down the Wildland Center, just not one that’s man-made.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  Eric checked the quail again. This time the flesh was supple, and the smell confirmed the dead mice had thawed. “Come on. It’s supper time.”

  Chapter 13

  In companionable silence, Lark opened doors while Eric dished out meals and the birds conversed, squealing and shrieking their delight at being fed. Like children in a buffet line, some dug right in with enthusiasm, while others hung back and eyed the food with suspicion.

  Pitching a dead mouse to a kestrel, Eric mulled over the events of the past two days—the fire, the firestorm, Wayne’s death. Animal instinct and the will to survive drove most creatures, and humans were nothing if not animals. Eric began to wonder if he’d been right in the first place.

  “Lark, can you think of anyone who might have wanted Wayne dead?” he asked.

  Lark fumbled the latch on the door to the peregrine mews. “Excuse me?”

  “Playing the devil’s advocate, who leaps to mind? Can you think of anyone who stood to gain by Wayne’s death?”

  Lark frowned, wrestling with the lock. “Jackie,” she answered, sliding back the door.

  “Okay, besides her. She’s the widow, not a suspect, remember.”

  “Maybe, but she’s a widow with great motives. She would be sitting pretty right now, if Wayne hadn’t been found negligent for lighting the fire.” Lark held up her hand and ticked the reasons off on her fingers, starting with her pinkie. “First there’s his pension.”