“What exactly do you want?” he demanded.
“I’m looking for an explanation as to why Esther Mills canceled Chipe Coffee Company’s Wednesday-afternoon deliveries. From the inventory sheets, it appears that the coffee supply, though dwindling, is still adequate for filling orders.”
“Why don’t you ask her?” he replied. “I can’t hardly wait to talk to her myself.”
Didn’t he know? “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Mr. Talley, but Esther Mills is dead.”
He choked and sputtered into the phone. “Come again?”
“She was murdered two days ago. Shortly after she canceled the deliveries.”
“You’re shittin’me.”
“No.”
Talley let out a long, low whistle. “Hey, you’re not accusing me of doin’nothing, are you?”
“No, I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on with Chipe Coffee Company.”
There was a long silence, then Talley said, “According to my boys, Mills had no good reason to cancel out. Not unless she was looking for a way to stick it to me.”
“Is there a reason she’d want to do that?”
“None that I know of, but she was a strange bird.” Talley cleared his throat. “How’bout I offer you a proposition?”
Business or personal? “I’m listening.”
“Esther owes a twenty-five percent cancellation fee for Wednesday. It’s legal-like, all part of the contract. But how’bout, I’ll waive the fee if you go ahead and authorize me and the boys to deliver the goods as scheduled. We can fill the orders this coming Wednesday, one week late. What do you say?”
Lark scrunched her eyes closed and let out a sigh. What could she say? “That’s a generous offer, Mr. Talley.”
“Darn tootin’. Of course, it isn’t every day somebody kicks the bucket. Consider it a favor to you.”
Lark weighed the options. She could sit on the delivery, which forced Chipe Coffee Company customers up and down the Front Range to find another distributor, or she could accept the man’s offer.
“Mr. Talley, you have a deal.”
Lark hung up, pushing the phone away, hoping she’d made the right decision and that there wasn’t some special reason Esther’d postponed delivery of the coffee supply. If so, it was too late now.
The next order of business was finding Esther’s speech. Replacing the file on the warehouse, she thumbed through the remaining folders. Knowing Esther, she’d made handwritten notes. So where were they stashed?
Lark searched the desk, then the credenza, and turned up nothing. At that point, she checked the computer. There were no files that indicated Esther’d been working on anything, and the disks in the disk holder were all clearly marked with what was on them. Esther must have been working on the speech at home.
Esther’s house was located twelve miles outside of town. The cabin—a small, two-bedroom log home, chinked together with white grout—had belonged to Esther’s grandmother, Paris. The house looked the same as it always had, but Esther had added her own unique touches to the surrounding acreage. In back, she’d built a giant labyrinth bordered in wildflowers. A pair of bronzed lions flanked the driveway entrance. Sundials and bluebird houses dotted the yard. Beneath the windows, fresh herbs cascaded from whitewashed window boxes.
Lark climbed out of the truck. Visiting Esther’s was like stepping back in time to the sixties or forward into a New Age Mecca. She found it hard to see how Victor Garcia, a thirty-year law enforcement veteran and straight-nosed cop, fit in.
“Vic?” Lark tapped on the front door. She heard the scrape of a chair.
“What do you want?” He came to the door in wrinkled clothes, with a three-day’s growth of beard on his face. His eyes looked bloodshot, and Lark smelled whiskey on his breath.
“Not doing so good?”
He rolled his eyes and stumbled back inside. Lark followed him into the kitchen. A half-full glass sat in the middle of a small wooden table beside a half-empty bottle of whiskey. Another empty bottle lay on the floor beside the chair. A thin layer of dust coated the counters, making it clear no one had used the kitchen in days.
“Have you eaten anything, Vic?”
“Nah. I’m not hungry. This is all I need.” He held up the bottle and took a deep swig.
“Yeah? Well, I don’t agree.” Lark snatched up the rag draped over the faucet, wet it, and wiped down the counter. Crossing to the refrigerator, she pulled out a carton of eggs and flipped the stove on. “You have to eat something, Vic. You have a funeral to plan.”
He snapped back in the chair as though she’d stuck him, then buried his head in his arms on the table. “I can’t bury her.”
“So we’ll have a memorial service and you can scatter the ashes.”
“I can’t scatter the ashes, either.”
Lark thought of Cecilia’s story and shuddered. “What are you planning to do, then? Keep the ashes on the mantel?”
“I don’t even have a mantel,” he said with a bitter edge to his voice. “Didn’t you hear? She left everything to that Migration Alliance dude.”
“I heard.”
“Even the frickin’house.”
She hadn’t realized that Owens got the property, too. That didn’t seem fair. And it didn’t seem like something Esther would do. “Who told you Owens got everything?”
“Bernie Crandall. He said he was convinced I killed her, except he was having trouble finding a motive.”
“Maybe there’s been a mistake.”
“Hah. Fat chance.” Vic took another swig from the bottle.
“You can’t be sure of that. You two were living together like husband and wife. Maybe that makes you her common law husband?”
Vic’s head came up. “It might, huh?”
“Yeah.” Lark nodded, pleased that she might have found a solution to Vic’s problem. “If so, you’re entitled to some of the estate. If I were you, I’d check with Gil Arquette.”
“I’ll do just that,” said Vic, scraping back his chair and staggering to his feet.
“Later,” ordered Lark, pushing him back down on the seat. “Right now, you’re going to eat something. And give me that.” She took the bottle away from him and, against his protests, poured the contents down the sink.
Two eggs, some bacon, and several stiff cups of coffee restored Vic to some semblance of the man Lark knew. After she explained what she was looking for, he pointed her to a rolltop desk in the living room.
“How about I take a look while you go shower?” she suggested, clearing the dishes to the sink. “Then we can talk about what we’re doing on Saturday.”
A shadow crossed his face at the thought. “I can’t let go.”
Feeling helpless, Lark patted his shoulder. “We’ll work on it together.”
She waited until he’d disappeared into the bedroom before rolling up the desk’s top and rifling the contents of Esther’s desk. The sight might have been more than he could handle.
The pigeonholes were full of treasures: old fountain pens, wax and wax stamps, tissue writing paper. In one cubbyhole on the right, she found a stack of letters. Most of the postmarks were old, dated from the 1920s, and showed Paris Mills’address on the return. One or two were more recent.
Curiosity prompted Lark to open one postmarked two years ago from Mexico. It read:
My dearest Esther,
Though it’s been only one day since you’ve been gone, in my heart it feels like months, years, an eternity. Knowing we may never be together again makes it all the harder.
Katherine returns today…
Katherine? Lark flipped to the last page and looked for the signature.
Yours forever and ever, Paul
Paul Owens. It had to be. The stamp was Mexican, and the postmark read San Cristóbal de las Casas. That was one of the places Esther bought coffee in Chiapas.
Esther Mills had been having an affair with Paul Owens. So that’s what he had been covering up. Lark wondered if Vic
knew. Esther was the love of his life. If he had discovered she carried a torch for another man, might he have been jealous enough to kill her? More likely, he’d have killed Owens.
And what about Katherine? Even though she and Paul weren’t married, she seemed very possessive of her partner.
The sound of the closet door clicking into place prompted Lark to put the letter back in its envelope. But instead of sticking it back into its pigeonhole, she crammed it into her pocket
“Find what you were looking for?”
Lark glanced up. Vic stood in the doorway, shaved and wearing clean clothes. His eyes looked tired but alert. “Not yet,” she said.
“What are these?” He walked over and reached toward the letters. Lark held up a hand, but he plucked a stack of three-by-five cards from the next pigeonhole.
Lark’s heart pounded as she flipped through the stack. “Blank index cards.” She shoved them back in the desk. “It must not be here.”
“I saw her working on it.”
At Vic’s insistence, Lark searched the desk again. Nothing turned up.
“Do you have a computer?”
“Not at home. We don’t even have a TV out here at the house. Esther thought the radiation off the screens was dangerous. She even avoided using the computer she had at work.”
That fit with the earth mother image, thought Lark. Then another idea flickered through her mind. The speech was obviously missing. Vic had seen her working on it Maybe it had been stolen. Maybe Esther was killed not for money as they initially thought but for something she knew. Something she had planned to reveal.
CHAPTER 9
Teresa Cruz was waiting on the front steps of the carriage house when Lark returned, and she followed Lark into the house.
“I need to talk to you,” she said.
“About what?” Lark tossed the truck keys onto the counter, along with the ledger she’d brought home from the Warbler. She wanted to look more closely at the figures posted inside that didn’t make sense. Dates and numbers—large numbers—reflecting purchases and sales too large for Esther to have made.
“I want to know what is happening with my immigration.” The expression on Teresa’s face read trouble.
Lark puffed her bangs back, picked up the Migration Alliance schedule, and turned to face the girl. “Bottom line? It doesn’t look good, Teresa.”
“What do you mean?” The girl’s eyes widened in fear. Dressed in a T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops, she looked small and vulnerable. Lark felt sorry for her, but facts were facts.
“I spoke with the attorney,” she said. “He’s looking into alternatives, but there isn’t much hope. He expects you’ll be sent back to Mexico and that you’ll have to resubmit an application for a permanent visa. The odds aren’t in your favor.”
“I can’t go back. I won’t.”
Where had she heard that before? “I don’t think you’ll have a choice. Unless you have a special skill of some kind that you’re keeping secret.”
“Like what?” Hope resonated in Teresa’s voice.
Lark rolled the program schedule and slapped it against her thigh. “Like you can play pro baseball or can rid the world of cancer.”
“I can sing.”
“It doesn’t qualify. I asked.” Lark started past her into the living room, but Teresa grabbed her arm. Her fingers bit into Lark’s flesh.
“You don’t have to turn me in,” she cried. “If they don’t catch me, then they don’t know I’m not supposed to be here.”
Hadn’t Arquette suggested the same alternative? The consequences scared her, though. “And what happens if they do catch you? Then both our butts are in a sling.”
Teresa shook her head, black hair flying. “No, because you don’t know for sure that my visa’s no good.”
Lark gestured for the girl to sit down on the couch, then pulled up the easy chair opposite. “Teresa, I’d like to help you, but I don’t know what I can do. If I hire you without a green card, I put my business in jeopardy. Same deal if I know your visa’s expired and don’t turn you in. But for the sake of argument, let’s say I look the other way because I’m not sure. How are you going to live? Where are you going to get the money to support yourself?”
Teresa wet her lips. “If you give me a job, Peter says he’ll take the blame if INS finds out.”
“Great. Why doesn’t he just marry you?” she mumbled.
“He offered.” Teresa met Lark’s gaze, then looked away, worrying her hands in her lap. “I can’t. I don’t want to.”
Lark asked herself whether she really wanted to know the reason, then curiosity got the better of her. “Why?”
“Because I’m already married.” Teresa’s chin jutted up defiantly.
Lark stared at the girl, then leaned back in her chair, stunned. “Married?”
Teresa nodded.
You’re just a baby. “Where is your husband?”
“He’s still in Mexico.”
Lark closed her eyes and rested her head against the chair. This whole thing was getting more and more convoluted. “Care to tell me what happened?”
Teresa stuck out her lip. “No.”
Spoiled didn’t begin to define this girl. “Then,” Lark said, scooting to the edge of her chair, “I guess this conversation is over.”
“Wait!” Teresa reached out her hand, preventing Lark from rising. A teardrop etched its way down her cheek. “I was sixteen when I met Jesus. We fell very much in love, and I married him… against my father’s wishes.”
Why didn’t that surprise her?
“My father, he told me Jesus was trouble, but I didn’t believe him.”
“Did your father say why he thought he was trouble?”
“I knew why. It’s because he cares so much for the cause of the Zapatistas.”
Lark frowned. “Jesus or your father?”
“Jesus.” Teresa smiled, tears fell in glossy lines down her cheeks. “My father is a coffee farmer. He wants only to grow his crop and make the money to feed his family. He would do anything to take care of us. But not Jesus. He is a rebel, a freedom fighter. He wears the mask of the Zapatista with pride.” She brushed the tears away with the back of her hand. “Do you remember what I told you about the PRI invading Las Abejas?”
“You spoke of women and children, of your mother, dying.”
“Sí, murdered at the hands of the PRI and their La Mascara Roja. Jesus lost two sisters that day. He was very angry.”
Lark drew a ragged breath. “I can understand why.”
“He was determined to… how do you say?”
“Retaliate?”
“Sí. He and several of his friends sneaked in and attacked La Mascara Roja still guarding the area. One of the presidente’s sons was assigned to the squad. He was killed in the attack, and my Jesus was blamed.”
“So now he’s wanted for murder,” Lark said. An eye for an eye, until the last one dies.
“If they catch him, he will be executed.”
Seeing the anguish on Teresa’s face, Lark felt her own eyes tear. “I’m sorry.”
Teresa pursed her lips. “The PRI knows I am married to Jesus. They came to my father’s house looking for him the day Esther was there to buy coffee. They demanded to question me, but I was not home. My father, in fear for my life, found me and sent me away with Esther.”
“And Jesus?” Lark almost hated to ask.
“He is safe, hiding in the mountains of Chiapas. Without me to give away his hiding place, he will never be caught. Until there is peace, he must wear his mask.”
The image of someone in a black ski mask flashed through Lark’s mind. “Teresa, what does a Zapatista mask look like? What color is it?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Black.”
“Plain black?”
“Except for the signature of the Ejército Zapatista de Liberación Nacional.”
“Spelled out like that?”
“No, spelled only in letters.”
; Ejèrcito Zapatista de Liberación Nacional. EZLN.
The Migration Alliance banquet was scheduled to start in the ballroom at seven. Cocktails were served on the Drummond patio beforehand, and there was a full crowd.
Shortly after Teresa’s revelation, Velof had shown up demanding attention to last-minute details. Lark had promised to be there shortly, then sent Teresa back to the Manor House. The girl left grudgingly, but not before extracting a promise from Lark to consider her request to remain at the Drummond.
Once they were both gone, Lark tried calling Bernie and was forced to leave a message on his voicemail. Now, having refixed her hair in a French braid and decked herself out in a multicolored broomstick skirt with a lavender T-shirt and silver jewelry, Lark wanted a drink.
Before leaving the house, she browsed through the ledger again, trying to figure out what bothered her. Something in the numbers didn’t fit. She started to set the ledger back on the counter, then changed her mind. Too easy to spill something on it. Crossing to the bookshelf, she slipped the ledger into a space between the Joy of Cooking and The Guide to Colorado Birds. That ought to keep it safe.
“You look nice,” Eric Linenger said, squeezing in behind her at the bar. Lark had seen him come in and was secretly pleased when he’d made a beeline across the patio, past Nora Frank, his fellow ranger and wanna-be girlfriend, to find her. Nora didn’t look happy. Lark smiled at him and ordered two beers.
“Flattery buys you a drink.”
“Then I’ll have to do it more often.” He raised his bottle in a silent toast. “Though,” he paused, looking at her seriously, “I did mean what I said.”
Lark felt the blood rise to her cheeks. “Thanks.” You don’t look too bad yourself. Tipping her head back, she studied him. Tonight he was in uniform—khaki shorts, a short-sleeve shirt, and hiking boots—and he looked almost James Bond-ish in a pair of aviator sunglasses. His wind-tousled brown hair reached his collar, adding to the rakish look. She was about to say something, when she noticed Officer Klipp slip out through the patio doors. Stepping to one side, he pressed his back to the wall and scanned the crowd.
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