Lark glanced at Harry. He was nodding in agreement.
“Within five years,” she continued, “the Plain was luring homed larks, American pipits, rock wrens, sparrows, meadowlarks, et cetera. And closer to the lake, where owls and osprey used to hunt, they were spotting red-winged blackbirds and spotted sandpipers.”
Andrew snorted. “That said, we haven’t had any drastic changes around here. Not since the Big Thompson flooded.”
“Are you going to deny that it’s been getting drier and drier every year?” Harry asked.
“No, but we’re in a drought period.”
“What about average temperatures? Don’t you see them rising year after year?”
“Maybe in minute increments,” conceded Andrew. “But, without a study, there’s no way to know for sure.”
“But there was a study done,” Harry said. “It was published in the Journal of the Colorado Field Ornithologists. If I remember correctly, the author concluded that even a relatively small change in average temperature could impact bird distribution and affect ranges.”
“Paraphrased nicely, but I’d have to read the article before—”
Several sharp taps on the podium microphone interrupted their conversation.
“—I could accept the theory,” finished Andrew in a loud whisper.
“Try the July 2000 issue.”
Paul Owens stepped up to the microphone, pulling Katherine with him. Dressed in matching khakis and ptarmigan-logoed T-shirts, they still managed to look mismatched. Next to Katherine, Paul looked tall. He was blond, boyishly handsome, and sparkled with energy and enthusiasm. Dark-haired and petite, Katherine’s aloof manner increased her stature. And she looked out of place in silk-screened cotton.
“Hello, everyone,” Paul said. “May I have your attention for just a few minutes. I’d like to make some introductions, then I’ll let you go back to your conversations.” He cleared his throat and leaned into the microphone. “First, I’d like to thank you all for being here. This is the best turnout ever.”
The crowd applauded. Owens bobbed his head like a water duck.
“Second, I’d like to introduce you to my partner, Katherine Saunders.”
There was another burst of applause, but this time Owens raised his hands for quiet.
“Katherine is a remarkable lady. An outstanding birder, a founding member, and a large financial supporter of the Migration Alliance. Without Katherine, MA wouldn’t exist as we know it today.”
“He could have trimmed that statement,” murmured Dorothy, slipping up beside Lark.
“And ended with exist?” Lark asked.
Dorothy nodded.
Several others shushed them, as Katherine waved her hand side-to-side in the air. “Thank you, Paul. Everyone. It’s so nice to be here.”
Owens waited for the clapping to die down, basking in his partner’s glory. “There are several other people I’d like to introduce, so if you could please hold your applause until the end…?” He consulted a stack of three-by-five cards he held in his hand, then looked up and smiled. “We’re quite fortunate to have with us Buzz Aldefer, a major in the United States Air Force. Where are you, Buzz?”
A large man with graying sideburns and a buzz cut stepped out of the crowd and strode to the podium. Lark remembered seeing him the night before in the Drummond lounge.
“It’s an honor to be here,” Buzz said, his voice low and gravelly. He bent toward the microphone, stiffly from the waist.
“Buzz is but one of three military officers assigned to the Migration Alliance board, all of whom work primarily in a research capacity. By virtue of the fact that all three branches of the U.S. military participate in Migration Alliance, it becomes imminently clear the U.S. military understands the importance of defining the patterns of migratory birds.”
“That’s right, Paul. We feel that the greater our knowledge, the greater the assurance that neither our pilots nor the migrating birds shall meet with disaster during Air Force maneuvers or training exercises. Through our participation with MA, we clearly demonstrate our concern with the welfare of our nation and the welfare of the global environment.”
Aldefer stepped away from the podium to a halfhearted round of applause, clearly in violation of Paul’s earlier instructions and clearly criticized by the majority of MA members.
“Thank you, Buzz.” Paul clapped his hands near the mic, adding to the noise. Consulting his notes again, he said, “Next, I’d like to introduce someone who’s here representing the coffee industry. Please welcome Jan Halloway.”
Lark had seen her before, at the Warbler Café and in the lounge the night before. Dressed in blue jeans and a cardigan, she appeared altered from the image of power suits portrayed in the trade journals. Lark had been following her rise to power. She’d gone from steno pool to chief executive officer in under four years, becoming one of the country’s youngest and highest-paid corporate CEOs. Her accomplishments elevated her in Lark’s eyes, but in reality, it was a pair of two-inch platform heels that made her appear so tall. And she looked nervous, which didn’t make sense. Halloway must have spoken in front of this many people hundreds of times.
“Good evening,” said Halloway, stepping up to the podium. “Paul asked me to tell you about myself.” She flashed a Pearl Drops smile and pushed back her streaked blond bangs. “I’m the CEO of Jitters Coffee Company. Have all of you heard of us?”
A hum rose from the crowd. A sea of heads bobbed.
“Then you know we are a franchise corporation that donates hundreds of thousands of dollars to the less-fortunate countries where we purchase our coffee supplies. The money is primarily used to educate farmers on the benefits of growing bird-supportive coffee, toward child education programs, and toward social development programs in a number of underdeveloped countries.”
“Big whoopee,” whispered Dorothy. She’d joined them after the speeches began and now stood with a sour look and her arms crossed. “Jitters’ profits topped fourteen million per quarter last year. Their total revenue topped one billion. A few hundred thousand dollars…” She shook her head. “It’s a drop in the bucket to them.”
Lark calculated the amount in her head and came up with a number around 1 percent.
“Our interest,” continued Halloway, “is in insuring our coffees are organically produced. That requires coffee be grown in shade, which, in turn, provides more and more treed habitat for birds. A win-win situation.” She flashed another smile and waited for a spontaneous burst of applause to die down before gesturing toward a young Hispanic man hanging in the shadows. “Now, I’d like to introduce you to another member of our team. Someone who’s worked for us for a while, but someone I’ve only met here, for the first time: Norberto Rincon. Step out here, Norberto.” She stretched out a hand. A young man stepped out of the shadows and inched forward. Thin and wiry, he stood eye to eye with Jan and looked more wary than nervous.
A crash near the door caused him to spring backward and fade from sight. Lark stood on her tiptoes, straining to see what had happened. Buzz Aldefer was bent over, plucking splinters of glass off the patio floor.
Jan cleared her throat. “Norberto is Jitters’new middleman in Chiapas, Mexico, and a little shy. But he knows his business. Norberto serves as the go-between for the coffee bean growers and the Jitters Coffee Company. It’s his job to arrange for the sale and delivery of all of our Mexican coffees.”
“That’s the canned version,” whispered Dorothy, as Halloway stepped down.
Lark glanced at her sharply.
“All right, hold on, everyone,” said Owens, applauding as he reclaimed the mic. “I have one more announcement to make.” He bowed his head, then lifted his face slowly, his smile gone. “As some of you may have heard, Esther Mills, a longtime friend and expert birder, was murdered last night outside the Warbler Café.”
A gasp tore through the crowd.
“Oh great,” mumbled Lark. “That should do wonders for business.”
>
One on either side of her, Cecilia and Dorothy both elbowed her in the ribs. “Shhh.”
“Esther’s death is a great loss to the birding community,” continued Owens. “Dedicated to the preservation of bird habitat, she had devoted the last several years of her life to developing the Chipe Coffee Company, a company that purchased only hand-selected, organic coffees directly from Mexican coffee growers. The coffee beans, grown in pesticide-free, shade environments, were hand-delivered to warehouses in Denver, then resold and distributed through outlets up and down the Front Range. She was even looking into expanding her operation.”
Really? thought Lark. If that was the case, why had Esther recently canceled all coffee deliveries until further notice?
Owens tossed his head, flipping back a lock of gold hair. “Esther was scheduled to speak during this year’s conference. I’ve been informed that her business partner, Lark Drummond, one of Elk Park’s local experts, has graciously offered to fill her place.”
Lark felt the color drain from her face. She, give a speech? Lark turned to Dorothy, figuring that’s who’d “graciously” volunteered her. Dorothy had disappeared. Smart woman.
“It came up suddenly,” explained Cecilia nervously. “She was forced to make a command decision. She didn’t think you’d mind.”
“Well she should think again.”
Owens craned his neck. “If you’re here, Lark, raise your hand.”
Dorothy had reappeared next to Owens and whispered in his ear, pointing in her direction.
“Oh, yes, I see her. She’s way in the back, folks, close to the bar. Come on, Lark, put it up there so everyone can see who you are.”
Lark forced a smile, made a silent promise to kill Dorothy, then slowly lifted her arm. The birders cheered.
Owens waited for the crowd to quiet. “For those of you who knew Esther, there will be a memorial service held in her honor Saturday afternoon. The time and location are posted on the bulletin board near the registration table.”
A murmur swept the crowd as birders consulted their field trip schedules and conferred with one another.
Owens rapped his knuckles against the podium and consulted his notes. “Hold onto your binoculars, I’m almost finished.”
The crowd tittered.
“This next piece of news is a tad premature to announce, but I wanted all of you to be among the first to hear it. A little bird told me that Migration Alliance has been named the beneficiary of Esther’s estate.”
Lark frowned. Gil Arquette had told her Owens was the beneficiary and, therefore, one of her new partners. So why had Owens just announced the Migration Alliance as the beneficiary? Had she gotten the facts wrong? Had Arquette meant the Alliance, and mentioned Owens’s name because he was MA’s executive director? Or did Owens for some reason want people to think that the Alliance was the beneficiary and not him?
CHAPTER 8
Situated on the east end of town, the municipal building housed the mayor’s offices, local planning and zoning offices, and the Elk Park Police Department. A nondescript gray, the two-story building, comprised of brick and mortar, stood back from the street and shared its parking lot with the public library. Parking spaces unoccupied by town personnel were generally occupied by tourists choosing to ignore the Municipal Building and Library Parking Only—All Other Vehicles Will Be Towed signs. Today was no exception.
Lark weaved through the parking lot twice, then jimmied her truck into a one-hour parking slot on the street. Cracking her windows against the heat, she snatched the field notebook she’d picked up at Bird Haven off the seat, and sprinted for the building.
The sergeant at the desk waved her through, pointing her to an office in the corner. Bernie sat behind a gray desk, feet propped up, reading the Elk Park Gazette.
“Anything interesting?”
“Speculation about Esther’s murder.” He set the paper down on his desk and tapped the front page. “They’re reporting it as a robbery run amok.” He gestured to a gray chair the color of the building, the walls, and the carpet. The only color in the room was on Bernie. He wore a bright blue T-shirt tucked into gray regulation trousers. “Have a seat.”
Lark sidled into the room. “I came for the keys and to give you this.” She waved the field notebook.
Bernie leaned over the desk and dangled a ring of keys on the tip of his index finger. “I’ll trade ya.”
Lark hesitated, then took the keys and handed over the notebook. “I’d like it back.”
Bernie shrugged. “First, let’s have a look-see.”
“Check out the last page.” Lark pocketed the keys. “Like I think I told you, I was calling out marks on the bird, when I sighted the murder taking place. I guess I just kept calling out things, because Rachel wrote down the letters, ‘black mask’ and ‘gloves.’”
“EZLN.” Crandall scrunched up his face and scratched his head. “Any idea what it means?”
Lark shook her head. “Not a clue.”
“Okay. I’ll look into it.” He snapped the notebook shut. Lark reached for it, but Bernie held it away. “I think I’ll hang onto this for a while.”
“Of course you will.”
Bernie grinned. “You look like hell, Drummond.”
Lark made a face. “Thanks. Just what a girl likes to hear in the morning.”
It didn’t help that he was right. Last night’s lack of sleep fretting over her new partnership with Owens had taken its toll. She’d tried washing away the telltale bags, but to no avail. Leave it to Bernie to point it out. “Take it back or I won’t tell you what else I know.”
“Spill it.”
“For some reason, Paul Owens is trying to cover up the fact that he, not the Alliance, inherited Esther’s money.”
That seemed to get Bernie’s attention. He pinned her with his sharp blue gaze.
Lark filled him in on Owens’announcement at the kick-off bash. “Gil Arquette told me he had called Paul, so Paul knew the money was left to him. Instead, he announced that it was bequeathed to the Migration Alliance.”
“So?”
“So, obviously he wants everyone to think Esther left the money to the Alliance, not him. Why? Unless he’s trying to cover up something.”
Bernie leaned back, draped his arms over his head, and stared thoughtfully into space. “You know, Drummond. You may actually have something there.”
Lark’s next stop was the Warbler Café. Out of morbid curiosity, she parked in the back lot and crossed the pavement. Halfway to the back door, she found the dark stain. In spite of the officer’s hosing, blood remained. The sun beat down, baking it into the hot asphalt. She hurried to the back door and turned the key.
By contrast, the Warbler was dark and cool. Lark shivered, rubbing her arms. She’d come to believe that the spirits of those who died violently sometimes lingered, either out of disbelief and shock or to insure that justice be done before the spirit moved on.
Esther clung to the Warbler. In the furnishings, in the paintings, in the very essence of the building, she remained. Lark whispered a promise to help find her killer and then, with a flick of the light switch, dispelled the shadows and made a beeline for the office.
She spent the morning poring over the books, perusing work schedules, payroll information, and accessory supply sheets. In a ledger detailing shipments and purchases, Lark found some odd numbers scribbled on several pages. From what she could decipher, it seemed Esther tracked all shipments out of Chiapas, not just the ones she made. And the numbers were staggering.
Toward the back of the ledger, Lark found what she was looking for: an inventory record. According to the numbers, coffee on site posed no problem, but warehouse supplies appeared to be running low.
Lark dialed the number on the warehouse inventory list and spoke with someone in the billing department of Commercial Storage.
“I don’t know anything about any coffee supply,” explained the woman in nasal tones. “The way we work things, you pay us
for warehouse space, and we give you a password to the main gate and keys to the warehouse at one of our five locations. But, honey, unless you can prove you’re the person who signed the contracts, that’s all the information you get.”
Lark thanked her, then hung up and rummaged through the filing cabinets for a folder containing the code to the warehouse. The key had to be one of those dangling from the key ring Bernie had given her, but it would be totally useless without the password to the main gate.
The code turned up in a file marked “Storage.” The warehouse address was listed as Lyons, somewhere off of Highway 7 and U.S. 36. Lark started a new to-do list: “Check warehouse.”
On a hunch, she picked up the phone and dialed the Drummond.
“Stephen?”
“Lark, thank heavens.”
“Stephen, I need to know who distributes coffee for the Chipe Coffee Company.”
“Where are you?”
None of your business. “I’m at the Warbler, and I need to know who delivers Chipe’s coffee to the Drummond.” She spoke slowly, enunciating each word, hoping he would take the hint and just answer her question. “Off the top of your head, do you remember the name of the delivery company? Or can you look it up in the orders for me?” She paused, then added “please” as an afterthought.
“When are you coming back?”
She heard the rustling of papers. “Are you searching through the invoices?”
“You haven’t forgotten we have the Migration Alliance banquet this evening?”
“No, I haven’t forgotten, Stephen.” Lark sucked in a breath, annoyed by his persistence. “I’m sure you’re dealing with things just fine. Now, did you find the information?”
Velof sighed. “The company is Talley Distributing.”
“Do you have a phone number?”
He rattled off ten digits, and she hung up before he could harangue her anymore. Knowing Velof, he’d still have plenty to say later this afternoon.
The clerk at Talley Distributing connected her with the shipping manager, who connected her with the supervisor, who connected her with Mr. Talley.
Death of a Songbird Page 8