Death Takes a Gander

by Goff, Christine

  “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.”

  CHAPTER 9

  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 Frrrrench?” 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?”

  CHAPTER 10

  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 on
e 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.