“I should have guessed.” The timer counted down, and Eric pushed up from the counter.
“No,” Lark said. She reached out and touched his arm.
“No, what?”
“They’re not anti-burn, rather anti-suppression slash, pro natural burn.”
“In other words,” Eric said “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.”
Eric bristled. “Now attachable for damages, and less than he brought in alive.”
Lark pointed to her ring finger. “Add the death-while-on-duty pay.”
“Uncollectible,” Eric said. “He’s been found guilty of negligence, remember?”
Lark shrugged, closed and relatched the door, then held up her hand, adding her middle finger to the count. “Third, there’s the money dished out by the Benefits Act.”
“Now forfeit.” Eric didn’t like the case Lark was building, and he felt like a traitor even considering Jackie.
“Now,” Lark said. “But what about before?”
“You can’t deny Jackie loved him,” Eric countered.
Lark patted her chest with her finger-counting hand. “Hey, devil’s advocate, remember? I’m on your side. I agree, she loved him a lot, but you’re the one who asked who I thought stood to gain. Financially, Jackie was the person who stood to gain the most.”
“You’re right,” conceded Eric, pushing through the outer door and heading down the sidewalk toward the next building. “I did ask. I just wasn’t prepared for your answer.”
Lark fell in step beside him. “So, do they know when the fire started?”
Was she trying to change the subject? Eric cocked his head. “Based on the size of the fire and the wind, the investigation team figures sometime between eight and ten a.m. They can’t be more exact because the site was overrun by fire a second time. They think the fire Wayne set—”
“Allegedly set.”
Eric smiled at her. “Allegedly… might have smoldered awhile before taking off.” Eric’s mind played over the minutes before the firestorm—finding Wayne’s body, the Beaver Meadows Fire crowning the ridge, deploying the shelters. Then, shaking off the memories, he glanced at Lark. “I talked to Jackie around eight a.m., and then again just before nine. She was home.”
Lark grinned. “Then she’s off the hook, because she came into the Warbler around nine-thirty to buy coffee. There’s no possible way she could have climbed Eagle Cliff Mountain between the time you say you talked with her and the time she showed up at the coffeehouse.”
Eric stopped walking. For the second time in as many days, he wanted to kiss Lark. A happy, but extremely uncomfortable realization. The two of them had been dancing around each other for a while, but a kiss was a huge step considering how long they’d been friends. He didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize their friendship.
“What?” she asked.
He wet his lips, then shook his head. “Nothing.”
Lark frowned. “So, who does that leave?”
“Trent,” Eric said, moving again. “Or Nora, or the missing boys.” He explained how he had it figured while Lark unlocked the door of the Protective Custody House. “Pacey Trent wanted to shed a positive light on prescribed burning, and Nora wanted Wayne’s job so bad she could taste it. Wayne stood in both of their ways.”
“I don’t get it,” Lark said, shoving back the door. Eric squeezed past her, shouldering his way through an inner door to the mews.
“It’s like this,” Eric explained. “Wayne was considering calling off the burn because of the fire danger. Trent was adamant the burn was going to happen. And Nora had been trying to force Wayne out for over a year. She’d been working to get him fired.”
“Why?”
“Because of how strangely he’d been acting. She didn’t think he was fit for duty.”
“Do you think one of them could have killed him?” Lark asked.
“Could, or would?” Eric reached into the bucket, pitched the last quail to a red-tailed hawk, and watched the bird tear the meat apart. “Hungry people do desperate things.”
Lark worried her lower lip. “Okay, assuming they both wanted Wayne dead and were capable of murdering him, who had the chance?”
“Not Trent,” Eric admitted. “He was accounted for at all times. Though, he could easily have planted evidence in order to make it look like Wayne started the fire.”
“Framing someone is different than murdering them,” Lark said. “What about Nora?”
Lifting the empty bucket, Eric headed back toward the kitchen. Lark padded behind, and Eric answered her over his shoulder. “She disappeared for over an hour, right after the blowup occurred.”
“But would she have started a fire?”
“Maybe to cover up evidence.”
“Seems risky to me,” Lark said.
“Ja, well…” Eric held open the Raptor House door and waited for Lark to brush past.
“And the missing boys?” she asked.
Eric didn’t know about them. “It’s only supposition, but, suppose they stumbled upon Wayne in the woods. They might have bashed him over the head in order to steal his truck.”
“I’ll buy that.” Lark crossed the room and scootched her rear end up on the counter while Eric rinsed the platter. “I cast my vote for the missing boys. But again, there’s the question of the fire.”
Eric set the platter into the dishwasher, slid in the rack, then slammed the door and leaned against the opposite counter. “What if we’re looking at this all wrong? What if it wasn’t someone targeting Wayne, but someone Wayne stumbled upon who bashed him in the head? Maybe Wayne surprised someone setting a fire.”
Lark toyed with the end of her braid. “Who?”
“The missing boys? They might have been building a campfire. Or how about Nettleman?”
“Forest?” She sounded incredulous.
“Why not? He’s got a reputation for taking things to the extreme. Weren’t you the one who said he was against selective burning?”
“Yeah, but setting a forest fire to prove you’re anti-burn seems a bit over the top.”
“If the shoe fits,” Eric said, leaning back against the counter. “You can’t tell me you doubt he’s capable of extreme behavior. The American public didn’t. You didn’t see them re-electing him to Congress.”
“So he has a history.”
“He’s been known to do things for the cause,” Eric said. Dousing a rag in hot water, he started wip
ing down the microwave. “Maybe this time he was hoping to prove his theory to the general public.”
“Then he may have succeeded.” Lark’s fingers inched up the weave of her braid. “Right now the general Elk Park population isn’t exactly embracing the NPS burn policy. Of course, if we’re going on the killer-surprised-Wayne-in-the-woods theory, there could be any number of suspects. Campers, hikers…”
“Linda Verbiscar,” offered Eric.
“Why her?”
“She was very anxious for fire footage. The moment the first blowup occurred, she and her cameraman bolted toward Eagle Cliff Mountain.”
“Did they get to the fire line?”
“I don’t think so.” Eric made a mental note to ask Pacey Trent. “But she was desperate for close-up footage.”
“Enough to create her own?”
Eric recalled Linda’s grilling, how she had twisted his words, and her tenacity at the press conference regarding Wayne. “She’s a tough bird.”
“Tough enough to kill someone?”
“That’s the real question, isn’t it?” Eric hung the rag on the spigot, and Lark slid off the counter.
“If we’re looking at all the possibles, there’s also Gene Paxton,” she said.
Eric cocked his head.
“Rumor has it the guy used chintzy building materials. He didn’t have as much invested in Shangri-La as everyone thinks, but he’s reported substantial investments and stands to make a ton of money when the insurance pays off. Not to mention the amounts he’ll collect from the Park Service and Wayne Devlin’s estate.”
Insurance fraud?
Eric flipped out the light. Placing his hand on the small of Lark’s back, he ushered her toward the door. “I wonder what the first thing to do is.”
“Check everyone’s alibis,” Lark said with the voice of experience. “We know Jackie and Trent are out. They’re accounted for at the time of the murder.”
Eric slid the Raptor House door shut. “Do you think Dorothy can vouch for Nettleman?”
Lark shook her head. “She and Cecilia were waiting for me at the house when I came off the fire. I remember Dorothy saying Forest had left the Wildland Center an hour before she received the evacuation order.”
“Which means Forest Nettleman had plenty of time to climb Eagle Cliff Mountain.” Eric yanked hard on the lock, then steered Lark toward Bird Haven. “Do you know, does Nettleman own an ATV?”
The Elk Park Ornithological Chapter meeting hadn’t formally convened by the time Lark and Eric arrived. The usual attendees—Miriam Tanager, Forest Nettleman, Harry, Dorothy, Cecilia, Andrew and Opal Henderson from the valley, and Gertie Tanager—along with a handful of irregulars had gathered in the living room at Bird Haven. Rachel Stanhope was the only regular missing, having returned to New York in the fall. Overhead, a chandelier constructed of tangled antlers, electric wires, and candle-like lightbulbs cast a pale light over the crowd. Warm lamplight reflected off leaded glass windows and burnished floors. A soft, burgundy-colored leather couch anchored the room, along with scattered rugs and a moss rock fireplace.
Forest Nettleman perched on the hearth. Tall and gangly, he straightened when he saw Eric. “Well, speak of the devil.”
Eric wondered if he meant it literally.
“Come over here a minute, Eric. Perhaps you can settle something.” Nettleman made a circular motion with his hand.
Eric groaned.
Lark elbowed him in the stomach. “Be nice.”
“Sure,” he wheezed, sidestepping a second blow.
Leaving her to talk with Miriam, he crossed the living room toward Nettleman and Andrew Henderson. Nettleman extended his right hand but didn’t stand. Henderson—a super-sized man with a super-sized appetite and a scraggly goatee—sat on the couch. He stuffed a cracker into his mouth and waved.
“We’re in the midst of a debate,” explained Nettleman, gesturing between himself and Henderson. “As you no doubt know, I’m a staunch opponent of prescribed burning. I have been from the start. Andy, here, disagrees with me.”
Henderson’s face reddened. “The name is Andrew, if you don’t mind,” he said, forcing his words around the hors d’oeuvres in his mouth.
“Right,” conceded Nettleman, acting like he’d just remembered. Never mind that he’d known Henderson for years.
“Anyway,” he continued, “from what I hear via the grapevine, Eric, you and I were on the same side. You were against the burn too.”
“On this one, ja,” Eric admitted.
“I told you.” Nettleman beamed at Henderson, then focused his piercing blue eyes on Eric. “Do you mind telling us why?”
Eric chaffed under the questioning. He didn’t like being played, and he suspected Nettleman was setting him up. “Is there a prize for the right answer?”
Henderson choked on the cracker. Nettleman frowned.
Eric waited another beat, then said, “In my opinion? The fire danger was too high.”
“And you were right,” Nettleman said.
A small consolation, thought Eric. “I was also concerned about the number of breeding birds in the area,” he said. “A lot of towhees and warblers have moved in. They were nesting, and I hated to see them driven out.”
“Very admirable,” concurred Nettleman. “Not even someone as pro-burn as Henderson could dispute that logic.”
Henderson wiped his mouth on a napkin and started to speak, when Nettleman bulldozed over him.
“Humidity and avian factors notwithstanding, you support the burns, Eric.” Nettleman rested his elbows on his knees. “I’d like to know why.”
Swinging his leg up along the back of the sofa, Eric sat down. “Honestly, I think the fire management policy speaks for itself. Prescribed burning accomplishes one main thing. It eliminates the buildup of fuels and decreases the danger for catastrophic wildfire.”
“Unless,” pointed out Nettleman, “it’s the burn itself that becomes the catastrophe.”
“There is that.” Eric picked at a loose thread of stitching on the couch. “It’s too bad what happened. I’m sorry for the loss.”
“Too bad?” Nettleman choked out a laugh. “Your ‘controlled burn’was a total disaster. And one, I might add, the NPS owes restitution for. Let me say, once the federal boys get a copy of my bill, they won’t be so eager to rubber stamp the prescriptions. In fact, at my urging, the governor has already declared a moratorium on burning, and I think you’ll see more repercussions as time goes on.”
Only, it wasn’t “the federal boys” who were going to pay up. It was Wayne Devlin’s estate that owed.
“Accidental destruction of private property aside,” Nettleman said, “it’s a bad idea to play God, Eric.”
“I wouldn’t say we go that far, Forest.”
Henderson grunted in support.
“No?” Nettleman stared with incredulity at the two men. “I beg you to take a closer look at the theory, gentlemen. According to popular belief, prescribed burning replicates the natural fire patterns, reintroducing fire into the ecosystem, correct?”
“You’ve got that much right,” said Henderson, sliding forward to the edge of the couch. “After almost a hundred years of fire suppression, our forests are choking to death in undergrowth. Fire will fix that.”
“Will it? How? Burning in May doesn’t replicate natural fire,” argued Nettleman, warming to the subject as he drew an audience from the other birders. “For instance, studies have proven that certain plants flower at certain times. Isn’t it safe then to assume that fire impacts the growing season?”
Several people nodded and moved in closer.
“Then let’s take it a step further,” Nettleman said. “In the state of Colorado, our natural fire season is between late June and early August, right? But when do we burn? April. May. Late fall. Why? So we can control the fire.” He turned to Eric. “Admit it.”
“What’s your point, Forest?”
“My point is, prescribed burns take plac
e within a time frame limited to the dormant season and accomplish what? The removal of duff, litter, and the grasses—the coverings of the forest floor. Have you never considered that by burning at this time of the year, we’re also altering the basic composition of our forests and open lands?”
Eric glanced at the faces of his friends. “You cited studies, Forest. The studies don’t prove that. In fact, a majority suggest fire is of benefit to the land.”
“But you can’t deny that the timing of a burn is critical to responsible ecosystem management. Or that a fire in the traditional season isn’t best.” Nettleman settled back against the side of the moss rock fireplace. “Tell them, Eric. Tell them about the studies.” Nettleman turned to the others. “I’m telling you, folks. By burning when we do, we may actually be altering the natural vegetative state of our forests and encouraging the growth of non-native plants while suppressing the ability of the native plants to grow.”
Eric rose to his feet, taking the floor. “I’ll admit, there have been some studies.” He held up his hand to quiet the birders. “But they were studies based in Florida. We’ve seen no signs of that happening here. The biggest impact we’ve observed is the change made by fire on the immediate habitat.”
“What kind of changes are we talking about, Eric?” prompted Henderson.
“That depends on the intensity of the fire. The goal is to have a low-intensity fire that reduces the fuel loads but doesn’t impact the environment long term.”
“What happens if it’s a high-intensity fire?” Dorothy asked MacBean, joining the conversation and sidling up next to Forest Nettleman.
“A high-intensity fire burns in the crown, in the tops of the trees,” explained Eric. “It causes severe damage to the forests, killing the trees and destroying the nesting habitat and food supply for a large number of birds.”
“But don’t certain birds thrive on fire?” asked Henderson, displaying his allegiance to Eric by facing off Dorothy MacBean.
“Not in the long run,” answered Nettleman. “There’s an initial increase in bird count. Raptors move in to feed on the small animals left without cover. Woodpeckers dine on the exposed bugs. But overall, the studies show a decline in the number of birds for a twenty- to twenty-five-year period.”
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