Death of a Songbird

by Goff, Christine

  Not quite the reaction she expected. Lark tried a different tack. “Police Chief Crandall wants to talk to you.”

  Teresa’s body trembled. “I won’t… I have nothing to say.”

  “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice.” Lark glanced at Jacobs. He kept his attention focused on Teresa, concern etched in deep lines around his eyes. Behind him, vigilant at the door, Velof looked bored.

  Teresa’s pink-tipped fingers picked at the edge of the wooden desk. “Mr. Velof must have told you.”

  “That you don’t have a green card?”

  “Yes.”

  “He did.” Lark tried in vain to make eye contact with the girl. “Is that what you and Esther were arguing about? I overheard her threatening to send you home.”

  Teresa raised her chin defiantly. “Everyone heard her.”

  “Do you mind telling me what happened?”

  The girl tossed her head like a headstrong filly. “My father arranged for my travel – we are a people at war. You must understand, he was frightened for me.”

  “Frightened of what?” Lark asked.

  Teresa fired off a rapid volley of Spanish.

  “I’m sorry. English, please. I don’t speak your language that well.” Lark looked at the others. “Unless someone else can translate?”

  Jacobs shook his head, crossing his arms and turning sideways in his chair.

  “She said her father didn’t arrange the papers correctly,” Velof said. “In fact, he screwed them up royally.”

  That it was Velof who spoke, Velof who understood her, surprised Lark. The Latin language seemed more suited to Jacobs than the straight-backed portrait she’d painted of the Drummond day manager.

  “She says it was because he didn’t want certain people alerted to the fact she was leaving the country,” he continued.

  “What do her papers say?” Lark asked.

  Velof waited for Teresa’s response, then cleared his throat. “She says they give her permission to be in the United States for six months. After that, she’s forced to return to Mexico.”

  “Only, let me guess, she doesn’t intend to go back.”

  “Eventually, I will,” Teresa explained, “just not right away.”

  “Did Esther know that?”

  “Yes.” The girl spoke in Spanish again. This time, her words were barely audible.

  “Esther promised Teresa’s father that once Teresa was in the United States, they would arrange for her to obtain a green card,” Velof said, pacing the narrow track of tile that separated the door from the chair, like a soldier on patrol paces the fence. “According to Teresa, Esther never followed through.”

  “That’s right,” Teresa said, continuing in Spanish.

  “Apparently, Teresa’s father paid Esther to help them, plus he supposedly gave Esther money that belonged to Teresa. Money she’d never received. She claims Esther lied to them from the beginning and used the money for the business, but that her father believes she’s safe here.”

  “Safe from what?” An unsuitable romance? A childhood indiscretion?

  It wasn’t the idea of a father sending his daughter away that Lark found unfathomable. That sort of thing happened all the time, and for any number of reasons. When Lark turned fourteen, her father had shipped her off to boarding school, justifying his parental abdication by convincing himself—and anyone else who would listen—that it was for Lark’s own good.

  No, what Lark found unfathomable was the fear inherent in Mr. Cruz’s decision to send Teresa away with Esther. He must have been seriously frightened to entrust his daughter to a stranger with no official credentials backing her up.

  “I don’t understand the danger.”

  “How much do you know about the revolution in Mexico?” Velof asked.

  “I know there’s been some civil unrest in the southern states, but—”

  “Civil unrest?” Velof snorted. “More like civil war.”

  The vehemence in his voice unsettled Lark. “What do you know about it?”

  “Enough.” Velof stopped marching and sat down on the windowsill, arms stiff at his sides. “In 1994, a band of Indian farmers calling themselves the Zapatistas led an uprising against the Mexican government. They cited problems such as work, land distribution, housing, food, health care, education, etc. And they timed the rebellion to coincide with the ceremonies marking the first day of the North American Free Trade Agreement.” He gripped the edge of the windowsill so hard his knuckles turned white. “One hundred forty-five Zapatistas and civilians died during that twelve-day siege. After that, the rebellion moved underground, and there’s been only sporadic fighting between the guerrilla forces, the forces of the government, and the larger landholders. Still, war is war.”

  Jacobs, who hadn’t said anything up to then, reached for Teresa’s hand, “Teresa is a Tzotzil Mayan. Her father is an Indian coffee grower sympathetic to the Zapatista rebels. All the Indians want is the right to work and some land to grow their crops on.”

  “My people are very poor,” Teresa explained.

  Velof snorted. “And whose fault is that? All your people need to do is tap into the resources. Yet every time the government tries to help, the Zapatistas contend the government’s offer to control of the land. The government is not all bad.”

  “They are,” Teresa insisted.

  Lark turned to face Velof. “There must be some reason the people believe it is.”

  Velof cupped his hands, slapping them against his sleeves with a popping noise. “Just before NAFTA, the PRI repealed an article of the constitution that protected the communal land holdings of the Indian people.”

  “Who’s the PRI?” Lark interrupted, curious how Velof knew so much about the political climate of southern Mexico.

  “The Institutional Revolutionary Party,” Teresa answered. “The ruling party.”

  “All the repeal did was open the door to privatization of the Indian communal property,” Velof continued, “and most of the Indians already work their own plots of land.”

  Jacobs slid forward in his chair. “Don’t you get it? It’s the same thing that happened in the 1700s in the Scottish Highlands. The English government forced the Scots to privatize, pitting clan against clan. It destroyed their cultural base.”

  “No one in Chiapas is being forced to do anything,” Velof said.

  “No? What about La Mascara Roja?” Teresa shivered, and Jacobs draped a protective arm around her shoulders.

  “Who?” Lark asked.

  “La Mascara Roja,” Velof scoffed. “The so-called ‘red guard.’ A group of opportunists, if you ask me.”

  Teresa straightened her carriage. “They are PRI gunmen.”

  “How are they any different than the masked rebels? Or the large landholders with their ‘white guard,’ for that matter? I wonder if you’ve ever considered that your people might benefit from a little civilizing.”

  “Stop,” Lark ordered. “This is getting us nowhere.”

  Teresa mumbled something in Spanish.

  Lark looked at Velof. “Care to translate?”

  Velof shook his head.

  Teresa flashed a haughty smile, then spoke directly to Lark. “In December of 1997, the PRI stole the coffee harvests of Las Abejas. Just before Christmas, they came back and killed forty-five women and children in Acteal. I was there. I got away, but my mother was killed.”

  Lark stared at Teresa. The girl had lost a parent and witnessed a massacre. Was that the reason her father had sent her to the United States, the reason he distrusted the Mexican government so much? “Does your father think you’re in danger?”

  Teresa bowed her head. “He made me leave because of what I saw.”

  Things were starting to make sense. It’s natural to feel afraid with the Mexican army on your tail. “It’s time we called your father, Teresa.”

  “No!” The girl squeezed Lark’s hand tightly, making her wince. “The town’s telephone… it is listened to by the government. I
t is not safe.”

  “Are you saying there’s no way to reach your dad?”

  “Sometimes he calls me.” Teresa pulled her hand back and studied her nails.

  Velof pushed away from the windowsill. “Let’s get back to addressing the green card, shall we?”

  Lark bristled. “Back off, Stephen.” She stood and walked around the desk. While Jacobs nervously finger-combed his beard and Teresa fidgeted, Velof dusted his lapels. “How is it you know so much about what’s happening in Chiapas, Stephen?”

  Velof shrugged. “I worked a resort in Veracruz, a place called Fortin de las Flores.”

  “Yes, I know it,” Teresa said.

  Velof ignored her. “It’s a beautiful little town, a former Spanish outpost.”

  “It has beautiful gardens there, and very sweet fruit,” Teresa said.

  Velof turned his back and faced the small window, looking out over the Drummond lawns. “A lot of wealthy Mexican families own private homes there or visit the area on vacation. I worked at the Palacio, the largest resort club in town.”

  That explained how he understood Spanish.

  “While I was there, guerrillas attacked a small military post near the city. They had heard that the president of Mexico was staying at the Palacio, and they stormed the club. I was held hostage. One of my friends died.”

  “Lo siento,” Teresa whispered.

  Velof glared at the girl. “The Zapatistas, the PRD as they’re called, claim they’re fighting for freedom, for a better government, for more democracy. I think they just want more for themselves.”

  “That’s not true.” Teresa leaned toward him, hatred marring her face. “They fight for the people, for the women and children.”

  Lark recognized a Mexican standoff when she saw one. Velof and his biases versus Teresa and hers. Lark found herself poised in the middle with no idea which side to take.

  A knock at the door shattered the strained silence. Lark breathed a sigh of relief at the interruption. “Yes? Come in.”

  The bartender stuck his head in the door and flashed a fistful of fingers. “Teresa’s on in five.”

  “Her encore has been canceled,” Velof told him.

  Lark blasted him with a frosty stare, then spoke to the stunned barkeep. “Tell the crowd she’s not feeling well. I’ll explain it to you later.”

  “What’s there to explain?” Velof said. “She can’t perform. We’d be in direct violation of—”

  Lark slammed her hand against the desk, causing the others to jump and the bartender to slam the door. “Need I remind you that I run the Drummond, and you work for me?”

  Jacobs and Teresa shook their heads. Velof’s ears turned pink.

  To break the tension, Lark tried tapping Crandall’s dirge on the desktop. It came out “Here Comes the Bride.” Lark stilled her fingers. “Look, all of you, I’ve had a long day. And, as much as I hate to admit it, Teresa, Stephen’s right. I know about the green card. I can’t let you work.”

  “But I have no money.”

  “I understand that, but…” Lark smiled sympathetically. “You have to look at this from my point of view. Technically, I should be calling immigration.”

  “No!” Teresa’s eyes took on a sheen. “Please, you can’t!”

  Lark raised both hands to calm the girl. “I won’t. I promise.” She shot a glance at Velof. “And neither will anyone else in this room. But you’ve got to help me. You’ve got to give me some time to straighten things out.”

  First there was the issue of immigration; then there was the issue of Crandall to settle. She would have to call him eventually.

  “She can stay in the Manor House,” Jacobs said. “I’ve already assigned her a room.”

  Teresa pouted. “But what about money?”

  “You have fifty dollars coming from tonight. That should cover you for a day or two.”

  “But I want to work.”

  “Well, you can’t. Not right now.” Lark sat back in her chair. “Peter, show Teresa to her room and pay her the money we owe her in cash. Meanwhile, I’ll do some checking tomorrow on the status of your immigration visa.”

  Teresa rose without another word and swiveled her hips to the door. Jacobs followed her out. Lark glanced at Velof. “She can be quite the prima donna.”

  “Hmpf,” he replied.

  Lark sighed. Somehow she had to mend the fence. She needed his help right now. “Look, I’m sorry if I offended you. You know how much I rely on your judgment.”

  When he still didn’t respond, she headed for the door. There was only so much sucking up she could do.

  “Frankly, she’s what I’d call a chipe.”

  Lark frowned and turned back. “As in Chipe Coffee? Isn’t that Spanish for warbler?”

  “Yes, but I’m choosing to apply the slang definition.”

  “Which is?”

  “A major-league spoiled brat.”

  CHAPTER 5

  After a soak in the tub, Lark gratefully climbed into bed, waking the next morning to sunshine warming her face. The sunlight dappled the quilt in dalmatian spots, and she stretched, basking in the warm rays before remembering that Esther Mills was dead.

  The realization hit her full force. Her friend and partner was gone—murdered—in a senseless act of violence. And for what? A few measly dollars?

  Death always surprised Lark. Even when she saw it coming, it broadsided her with its callous disregard; how it took only a moment to forever change the lives of those left behind to mourn.

  When William Tanager had died, she had stood vigil with Miriam. Then, at the last possible moment, in fear of her own mortality, Lark had bolted, leaving Miriam in the clutches of her wicked stepdaughters.

  This summer, when she’d stumbled upon the reporter’s body in The Thicket, Lark had screamed. Bottom line, she didn’t handle death well.

  Thank heavens she’d found the strength to keep it together yesterday. Somehow she’d managed to keep her lunch down and stick by Rachel, who has charged in where only braver women dared go.

  Lark rolled over and gazed out the bedroom window. By now, everyone in Elk Park knew about the murder. Bad news traveled fast in a small town. And by now, the old guard would have started the telephone tree and stocked Vic Garcia’s refrigerator with enough frozen casseroles to feed Denver’s transient population for a week. Since Esther had no known heirs, it would fall to Vic to plan the memorial service.

  On the other hand, the Chipe Coffee Company, the Warbler Café, and Teresa were her problems. Lark glanced at the bedside clock. It was still too early to call the attorney Crandall had told her to contact.

  Stumbling out of bed, Lark stripped off her pajamas and made the requisite pit stop. Then, donning a pair of soft blue jeans, a white T-shirt, and tennis shoes, she headed to the kitchen. In the hoopla, she’d forgotten to shore up her personal coffee supply. A quick tour of the cupboards proved them bare of any other caffeine-laced substance.

  Well, there’s coffee at the Drummond. She stared out the kitchen window. And there’s Velof at the Drummond. Nix that idea.

  Lark weighed the other options. With the Warbler closed, she was left with the diner, the grocery store, or Bird Haven. Lark opted for Bird Haven.

  Grabbing a jacket—more out of habit than necessity—she made a dash for the truck. The name of the game was Avoiding Velof. Sure enough, as she pulled the truck into the driveway, he tried flagging her down from the patio. Unwilling to scrub toilets, she pretended not to see him, peeling out of the parking lot in a spurt of sand. Whatever he wanted would keep.

  The drive to Bird Haven took five minutes. A quick burst up Devil’s Gulch, then a left under the overhead sign on to Raptor House Road. The private drive, fenced on both sides, meandered through a meadow sprinkled with tansy, aster, and fireweed. A cluster of buildings squatted in the distance.

  The entire ranch encompassed twenty-five hundred acres of prime real estate situated at the base of Lumpy Ridge, a popular rock-climbing
and recreational area that belonged to Rocky Mountain National Park. Climbing was restricted on the buttresses during the peregrine breeding season, but today the cliff area swarmed with climbers. Lark’s ankle throbbed at the sight.

  The ranch house perched on top of a small knoll. Large and sprawling, it had been built in the late 1800s by an enterprising cattle rancher, who later sold it to Miriam and Will. Behind the house sprawled the Raptor House, a seven-building rehabilitation center for injured birds. The structures and the land were part of Bird Haven, but the Park Service handled the daily operations.

  Lark parked the truck beside the green Toyota, jumped out, and wandered around the house to the back door. “Hello?” she called. “Anybody home?”

  Rachel hailed her from the kitchen. “Come in, come in. How are you today?”

  “I could use a cup of coffee.”

  “I just made some, fresh-brewed.”

  Lark filled an oversized mug and splashed in a dollop of cream. Cupping the mug in her hands, she savored the smell, allowing the steam to penetrate her sinuses before taking a sip.

  Rachel popped four slices of bread into the toaster, grabbed the jam and butter, and offered Lark a small plate and butter knife. “Here.”

  Lark helped herself to toast, then settled in at the breakfast nook table. “You’ll never guess what happened last night.”

  “Nothing bad, I hope.”

  “It depends on how you look at it.” Slathering the toast with strawberry jam, she told Rachel about the scene with Teresa. “Velof was downright Gestapo-like.”

  Rachel looked thunderstruck. “Teresa’s an illegal immigrant?” She shook her head. “Lark, you’re taking a huge risk letting her stay at the Manor.”

  Setting her knife on the edge of her plate, Lark reached for a napkin. “What else could I do? I couldn’t just throw her out. She’s practically a kid.”

  “Have you called the attorney like Crandall told you to?”

  “He’s not in until nine.”

  A ruckus from the dining room drew their attention. The adjoining door banged open, and a streak of white swooped toward them. Perky, Miriam’s cinnamon teal parakeet, made a beeline for Rachel’s hair.