“I saw the guy stab her,” she said, then filled Crandall in on the details—how she’d been teaching Rachel to use the scope, how they’d spotted an unusual bird, and how she’d happened to focus on the parking lot behind the Warbler.
“What did the perp look like?”
“I don’t know. He was wearing a black ski mask.”
“He?” Crandall scooted his butt onto the fender, allowing his feet to dangle by the front tire. “You’re sure it was a he?”
She thought about that, trying to picture the figure in her mind. “No. I’m not sure.” She pulled the braid off her neck and toyed with its end. “I guess it could have been a woman.” She’d just assumed it was a man because of the brutality of the crime. “His or her ski mask covered everything. It was one of those hats with the eye holes and mouth opening.”
“You say it was all black?”
“Yeah. Well, wait, not exactly all black.”
Crandall pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled loudly.
“It was mostly black. It had some lettering on it.”
“What type of lettering? A logo?”
Lark shook her head. “No. I think there were four letters, but they didn’t spell anything.” She closed her eyes and tried re-creating the scene. She remembered the figure, the raised arm, then snapped her eyes open. “E, Z, something, something.”
“Probably personal initial, or maybe some sort of organizational logo.” Crandall rubbed his chin. “I thought you said you got a good look at this guy.”
“A look, not a good one.” Lark rubbed her forehead where a dull pain was beginning to throb. “Give me a break, Bernie. I was at least a quarter mile away.”
Crandall rolled his eyes. “So how big was he?”
“Bigger than Esther.” But then, who wasn’t? Besides, she was cowering.
“Do you think they were close enough to the building that the guy was standing on the curb back there?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Lark said. “But maybe. I just don’t think the angle was right for that.”
Crandall drummed his hands on the fender. “So when you got up here, was Vic already holding the body?”
Lark hugged her arms around herself. An hour ago, Esther lived and breathed. Now, she was the body, the deceased. “Yeah.”
Absently, Crandall swung his feet, bouncing them off the front tire of the car. “Do you remember anything else? Did you see what the suspect was wearing, besides the mask? Did he have on gloves? Any jewelry?”
“I remember he was wearing gloves.” She reached up, massaging the muscles behind her ears. “Everything happened so fast. I remember seeing the guy raise his arm, a flash of silver, and then the blood.”
A vision of Esther’s face, her mouth opened in terror, flashed through Lark’s memory as Crandall pounded a dirge on the fender. Behind them, two Elk Park PD officers stuffed Esther’s body into a bag, then carried it to the coroner’s station wagon. The forensic team had picked up and moved to an area near the back door of the Warbler Café.
“Did you see anyone else?” Crandall asked. “What about employees? Did you see any sign of Teresa or Scott?”
“No, only the killer and Esther.” Lark turned away as the coroner slammed the station wagon’s tailgate. “Besides, Teresa left early.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw her leave.”
“When?”
“About one o’clock. I was in the café with Rachel. I don’t think Teresa planned to come back.” Ever.
“Why? Why’d she leave?”
Lark swallowed, calming the queasiness in her stomach. The sight of the body bag and the questions about Teresa had caused Lark’s stomach to roil again. She didn’t know whether to barf on Bernie’s shoes or answer him. Heck, he was bound to hear the story from someone eventually. “She had an argument with Esther.”
Crandall cocked his eyebrows. “About what?”
“Money.”
“What, she wanted a raise?”
“All I know is, she said Esther owed her some money. But she’s eighteen years old. Gas money would be important to her.” Lark realized she was minimizing the argument, but for some reason, she felt a need to protect Teresa, especially with Esther gone. But what if Teresa had killed her?
“Hey, Chief,” called out one of the officers combing the area.
Crandall looked up. “Yo.”
“Got any idea where we can find a set of keys for the store?” asked the officer, walking toward them.
“Did you check the deceased’s pockets or her handbag?” Crandall jerked his head in the direction of the coroner’s wagon. “Or try reaching Harvey. He owns the strip mall.”
The officer flashed Crandall a thumbs-up. Crandall turned back to Lark. “I have one more question. Do you have any idea who we should notify about Esther?”
Lark stared down at her shoes. “Did you ask Vic?”
“He claims she doesn’t have any next of kin. I thought, you being Esther’s friend and all… well, I figured you might know if she had any business associates.”
Gooseflesh prickled Lark’s skin. “I’m one of her partners.”
Crandall’s eyes widened. “Since when?”
“Since she started the company a few years ago. It’s a matter of public record.” Lark flipped her braid over her shoulder. “I’m not the only one.”
“Stay here a sec,” he ordered. The forensic team had packed up their gear. Crandall tramped toward them across the parking lot. After a brief conversation with the lead man, Crandall shook hands and returned to the car. “Okay, here’s what’s gonna happen. I’ll call Esther’s attorney in the morning. Meanwhile, I suggest you go home and take a look at your contracts. Figure out whether or not you have the authority to run her businesses, and call me.”
“Me? Run the businesses?”
“Hey, the way I’ve got it figured, we’re about through here. All that’s left is the mop-up. With Esther dead, somebody’s got to take over the operations. If Vic’s right and she doesn’t have any next of kin… Hey, even if he’s wrong and she does… you’re her partner. In my book, that makes you the person in charge.”
“How can you be so callous, Bernie? Esther’s been murdered.”
Crandall studied the ground. “If I let it be personal, I couldn’t do my job.” He paused for a beat, then lifted his head. “There’s just no telling how quick shutting down a business can affect the bottom line.”
“Pretty darn fast,” Lark admitted.
“That’s what I figured, especially seeing as how we’re at peak season. So unless you and all those other investors want to lose your shirts, I suggest you come up with a game plan and call me tomorrow.”
Lark didn’t know how to respond.
“Hey, Drummond, I’m tryin’to be nice here.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
Shadows shrouded the parking lot, and Elk Park’s lights twinkled in the valley. In the background, one of Crandall’s men uncoiled a hose from a spigot on the wall. Whistling a tune from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, he hosed the remnants of blood from the asphalt as casually as she might rinse bird droppings off a patio. Mop-up. Thank God Vic was gone.
Suddenly, Lark felt exhausted. “Am I free to go?”
“Sure,” Crandall said, rolling his hand and gesturing grandly. “Be my guest.” He waited until she’d walked around the patrol car, then called out, “Hey, don’t forget to give me a call if you have any great revelations.”
“I guarantee, you’ll be the first to know.”
As promised, Rachel was waiting to give her a ride up the hill. Lark found her parked around front, with the seat leaned back and jazz music drifting from the radio.
“Thanks for hanging around,” Lark said, sliding onto the passenger seat.
“No problem.” Rachel sat up and readjusted the seat. “How did it go?”
“Okay, I guess.” Lark heard the tears in her voice before feeling the sting in her eyes. She t
ried fighting them back, but images of Esther crumpled in Vic’s arms floated through her head. Images of pain, and blood, and death.
“Here.” Rachel reached across and handed her a wad of tissues. “I saved you some.”
Lark’s tears flowed unchecked.
The drive to the Drummond was short, and Lark had barely composed herself before Rachel pulled the car up to the carriage house door and stopped. Stephen Velof hailed her from the hotel’s porch. Lark cringed as he headed across the parking lot.
“I’ll call you tomorrow, Rae,” she said, climbing out of the Toyota. Shutting the door, she banged twice on the side. Rachel waved and pulled away.
“I was beginning to wonder if you ever planned to come back,” Velof said. “What did you find out?”
“Nothing you want to know, Stephen.” Lark started up the front steps. “Aren’t you supposed to be off by now?”
“I was waiting for you. I was hoping we could resolve the coffee issue.” He followed her toward the carriage house. “What don’t I want to know?”
“I didn’t have a chance to talk to Esther.”
“What?” He reached out and steadied himself on the porch railing. “Why not? You gave me your word.”
“Because Esther is dead, Stephen.”
“Dead?” His face turned fish-belly white. “As in deceased?”
“As in ‘as a doornail.’”
Velof hesitated for only a second. “Do they know who will be taking over her operation? Perhaps we could contact them?”
Pragmatic to the heart. Just like Crandall.
“Possibly me,” she said, noting a faint ripple of disbelief cross his face. “I’m supposed to call the attorney in the morning.” She reached for the screen door. “Right now, I’m taking a bath.”
“How will this affect the coffee delivery?” he persisted. “I did send someone to the grocery, as you suggested, but the coffee supply there is, well… rather limited, not to mention expensive and horrid tasting.”
“I won’t know anything until tomorrow, Stephen. Now, if that’s all…?”
Velof glanced down. “There is one more thing.”
Lark paused, her hand on the screen.
“Peter Jacobs hired a singer for the lounge.”
Based on Stephen’s critical tone, Lark guessed that he didn’t approve of the new hire. But hiring lounge entertainment was Jacobs’responsibility, and he was good at it. “That’s his job. What’s the problem?”
“We can’t afford to hire this girl.”
“Why not? What’s her fee?”
“It’s not that, it’s—”
“Just answer my question, Stephen,” she snapped, tired of the melodrama. “What’s her fee?”
Velof stiffened, balling his fists at his sides. “She wants fifty dollars a night and a place to live. Jacobs assigned her a vacant bed in the Manor House.”
Elk Park, like the majority of resort areas, suffered from a shortage of low-cost housing. Seasonal workers could no longer afford to pay the high rents. Hotels and lodges could no longer afford to pay salaries high enough to compensate. The stalemate called for creative measures.
Lark solved the problem by providing her own on-site housing. Maids, wait staff, kitchen staff, and front desk help were assigned rooms in the Manor House. Beds were allocated on a first-come, first-served basis. Even Velof lived on site in a small apartment designated as the manager’s quarters.
“I don’t see the problem. Two hundred fifty dollars a week isn’t out of line,” Lark said. “And, if there’s room in the Manor…”
“The woman doesn’t have a green card.”
Lark dropped her hand to her side, giving Velof her full attention. “Jacobs hired an illegal?”
Velof grinned a Cheshire smile. “A real songbird.”
Lark’s blood pressure rose a notch. “Is he insane?”
Colorado was notorious for harboring its share of illegal immigrants—mostly Mexican—by welcoming them into the minority segments of the communities spread up and down the Front Range. A business caught employing an illegal was subject to hefty fines and penalties, and, in some cases, the loss of a business license.
“We can’t hire someone who doesn’t hold a green card,” Lark protested.
“That’s what I said, but Jacobs considered it a special case.”
“Special case, my tush. It’s not worth the risk. I’ll tell him myself. He’ll just have to unhire the girl.” Lark headed for the hotel.
“That’s what I told him you’d say,” Stephen crowed, scampering behind her. “But he insisted I speak with you before I fired her.”
Something in Velof’s tone stopped Lark in her tracks. What wasn’t he telling her? “Does this singer have a name?”
Velof pivoted at the edge of the lawn. The glare from the streetlamp blotted out his features. He coughed.
“Her name, Stephen.”
Velof scuffed the toe of his loafer along the asphalt curb. “Teresa. Teresa Cruz.”
CHAPTER 4
Harboring had just taken on new meaning.
“Where is she now?” demanded Lark, anger bubbling inside her. Whether it was directed at Velof, Jacobs, Teresa, or at Esther for dying, Lark couldn’t tell.
“She’s in the lounge,” Velof said, glancing at his watch. “Jacobs scheduled her on at eight.”
Teresa needed to be fired. And she needed to be told about Esther. Not a job for Velof. The man showed about as much compassion as a hungry mountain lion. Talk about leading a lamb to slaughter.
Then there was Crandall, but he wanted to question Teresa in connection with Esther’s murder. No compassion there, either.
Velof wet his lips. “I must point out, Lark, you’re not exactly dressed to make a hotel appearance.”
Lark glanced down at her clothes. By hotel policy—her policy—semiformal evening attire was required in the lobby areas after six o’clock. That meant coats and ties for men, and skirts or nice slacks for women. She was still wearing her shorts and flannel shirt, and both looked worse for wear.
“What time is it?”
“Ten till.”
“Then I have time to change.”
Velof nodded. “In the meantime, I’ll inform Jacobs of your decision and apologize to our guests.”
“That’s okay. You’ve done your duty, Stephen,” she said, smiling coldly. “I’ll take it from here.”
He stalked away, and she turned back toward the house.
Entering the bedroom, she peeled off her boots, heavy socks, flannel shirt, shorts, and T-shirt. After a quick swipe with a washcloth, she pulled on a pair of soft brown pants, a silk knit tank top, a cashmere sweater, and loafers. Then, yanking a brush through waist-length tangles, she braided her hair and secured the end with a soft black ponytail holder. By the time she crossed the parking lot to the Drummond, the temperature had dipped considerably.
There must be a front moving through, she thought, good on one hand, bad on the other. Colorado needed rain, but tomorrow afternoon kicked off the tenth annual Migration Alliance conference. Rain would have a definite negative impact on all of the scheduled bird-watching activities.
Lark reached the patio as strains of “Amor Prohibido” wafted through the French doors. She glanced at her watch. Why had they started early?
Teresa’s clear, strong voice caressed the air, weaving a spell that wrapped itself around Lark. A number of others also seemed enthralled. The diners on the patio ceased talking, while patrons crowded the doors.
Lark shook off the spell and bounded up the steps to the main foyer. Peter Jacobs lounged against the doorjamb leading to the bar, watching Teresa’s performance. A short, skinny man, he sported a trim beard and displayed great, if somewhat wrinkled, taste in clothing: pink oxford shirttails tucked hastily into a pair of belted chinos, pink-socked feet crammed into brown leather loafers.
“We need to talk,” Lark said.
Peter started at her voice, his fingers moving nervously to
his beard. “Lark!”
“My office. Now.”
“Can’t it wait until after the set?”
Lark poked her head inside the lounge. The tables and chairs were packed. “I guess it will have to.”
She noticed Paul Owens sitting near the stage with his business partner, Katherine Saunders, and the tall blond woman from the Warbler. They were accompanied by an older gentleman with graying sideburns, who watched Teresa intently. When the girl launched into a reggae-enhanced rendition of “Bidi Bidi Bom Bom,” a Latino chart topper, the gentleman danced in his seat.
Teresa gyrated onstage, bedecked in a high-waisted, short-skirted, bright pink sundress dotted with powder-blue flowers. The dress swirled as she shimmied, a look of rapture transforming her face. After three more songs, she ended the set with “God’s Child,” and the crowd demanded an encore. Teresa promised to return in twenty minutes.
Once she’d escaped the stage, Lark snagged her and marched her and Jacobs back to the office. Velof was waiting for them. Lark waved everyone to chairs. Teresa and Peter sat together. Velof declined, and posted himself sentinel-like beside the door.
First things first. Lark scooted a chair next to Teresa’s. “There’s something I have to tell you.”
Teresa’s gaze darted from Jacobs to Velof, then cast about as though seeking an avenue of escape.
“Esther Mills is dead.”
Teresa’s head jerked back as if she’d been struck. Her dark eyes shone with pain, the type born from years of suffering. However, she showed no remorse, for the moment. “When? How?”
“Late this afternoon.” Lark drew a deep breath, then exhaled. “She was murdered.”
Teresa covered her face with her hands, but not before Lark spotted a glimmer of fear. What was she afraid of? Being in the United States alone, or that someone might accuse of her killing Esther?
Lark reached out and touched her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
Teresa jerked away. “I’m not.”
Death of a Songbird Page 4