Death of a Songbird

by Goff, Christine

  “You seem sort of distracted. Is something wrong?”

  Klipp left, and Lark turned her attention back to Eric. “Have you got an hour?”

  “That bad?”

  “You don’t know the half of it.” Lark took a swig of beer.

  “Try me.”

  “The question is, where to begin? Can you keep a secret?”

  “On Scout’s honor,” he said, flashing the Boy Scout’s salute.

  First she told him about Teresa, about Teresa’s connection to the Zapatistas, and about the emblem on the hat belonging to the masked killer, leaving out the part about the expired visa. Then she told him about her visit to Vic’s, about the letter she found, and about the strange notes in the ledger. “Were you here when Paul Owens announced that the Migration Alliance may have been named in Esther’s will?”

  Eric nodded.

  “It isn’t the MA that inherited her percentage in Chipe Coffee Company. It was Owens himself.”

  Eric whistled. “So everything fits with the letter.”

  “That was my take on it.” Lark held out the MA schedule of events. “Now, top things off with the fact that I have staff out with the flu. I’m scheduled to lead a half-day hike in the morning with no one available to replace me; Dorothy tried. Esther’s memorial service is set for tomorrow afternoon. I lead an all-day hike on Sunday. Plus, I have to deliver Esther’s speech on Thursday. With no notes, I might add. You might say it’s been a hell of a week already.”

  Eric draped his arm affectionately across her shoulders. “Whine, whine, whine. Be honest. You love the hikes.”

  “Oh, and I almost forgot,” she said. “We’re reopening the Warbler. Tomorrow, after the service.”

  “So soon?” Eric pulled his arm away. Lark masked her disappointment.

  “We can’t afford to keep it closed.”

  The call sounded for everyone to enter the ballroom, and the two of them moved in that direction. Eric pocketed his sunglasses, and they found two seats at one of the EPOCH tables. Andrew and Opal Henderson staked claim to another two chairs, and Gertie plopped down to save places for Harry, Dorothy, and Cecilia.

  “What’s on the menu tonight?” Andrew asked, folding his napkin into his lap.

  “That depends on what you checked off on your registration,” Lark replied. “I’m having the beef.”

  A variety of dishes were served, starting with salad and ending with chocolate mousse. As the last dessert was served, Paul Owens stood up and banged his spoon against his glass.

  “Good evening. May I have everyone’s attention? I think everyone has their desserts by now, so we’d like to get started with our program this evening.”

  The room quieted. Lark glanced around at the other guests. Some leaned forward with interest, while others dabbed at their mouths with their napkins and cast about for an avenue of escape. Lark’s desire fell somewhere in between.

  “So, let’s get right to it.” Owens smiled. “Tonight’s speaker, Katherine Saunders, is someone I know quite well.

  “An avid birder from the time she can remember. Her father, Preston Saunders, instilled in Katherine a love for all things avian. He became a birder when taxonomy was still considered a valid method for identifying birds, so Katherine grew up in a home filled with stuffed rarities. She learned quickly how to identify the species and took to photographing our feathered friends. It was the Saunders money that helped found the Migration Alliance, and that helps fund a variety of programs throughout the world geared toward the preservation and conservation of birds.

  “So, without further ado, may I introduce my partner and colleague, Katherine Saunders.”

  The room thundered with applause. Katherine approached the podium and adjusted the mic. Short, with dark hair that flipped up on her shoulders, she wore a cream-colored suit and shoes to match her lime-green shirt.

  “Good evening,” she said in a lilting, birdlike voice. “I’m very happy to be here.” She bowed her head, waited until the crowd quieted, then began. “It’s midday in the mountains of Chiapas, Mexico, yet the sun works hard to penetrate the dense air. Is it clouds, fog, or smoke that chokes out the light, making it hard to determine the time of day?

  “The smell of burning vegetation eddies around you. Someone is clearing land by burning away the trees and scrub.

  “Up the road walks a farmer. He is headed to the village to eat lunch. He walks past scarred mountainsides and wonders why his neighbors still practice a method of coffee growing that requires the destruction of vegetation and brings death to the songbirds and creatures of the land.

  “The farmer doesn’t agree with the old way. Fires often burn out of control, destroying prime forests and habitat. Soil erosion is a major problem. No, this farmer is part of a pilot program sponsored by Migration Alliance to help train coffee growers in the techniques necessary to successfully cultivate organic, shade-grown coffee.

  “In Mexico, coffee plantations account for seventy-five percent of the tropical habitat, providing homes for over one hundred twenty species of migratory birds.” She allowed her words to sink in. “Yet, over the past ten years, forty percent of the coffee plantations have converted their operations to sun-grown production, resulting in a significant loss of habitat and a significant decline in the numbers of migratory birds. Songbirds are hit the hardest..”

  Katherine leaned into the podium. “Since the 1970s, the number of coffee plants per hectare, the equivalent of two and half acres, has increased from eleven hundred to as high as seven thousand plants. Sun-based and high-yield, these plants require the use of petroleum-based fertilizers, herbicides, insecticides, and fungicides. And ninety percent fewer bird species live in this habitat.” Katherine shuffled her note cards.

  “So, the question becomes,” she continued, “how to continue market expansion for the coffee industry and still promote forest conservation and environmental quality critical for the migratory birds?” She looked up and grinned. “I can hear some of you asking, ’Why worry about the coffee industry?’”

  The crowd laughed. Several pushed away their coffee cups, obviously willing to sacrifice a cup of java for the avian population.

  “I’ll tell you why. Because it’s a five billion dollar industry, that’s why. An industry that provides work for over three million Mexican citizens.” Katherine paused, searching the faces of her listeners. “And I’ll tell you how: By working with Mexico and the other coffee-growing countries to promote coffee production in shade environments, either by offering incentives or by forcing compliance to new regulations imposed by their governments, at MA’s urging.”

  Katherine went on to explain the Smithsonian Migratory Bird Center’s Shade Management Criteria for Bird-Friendly Coffee. According to her, the SMBC acknowledged only two types of shade: rustic shade and planted shade.

  “Rustic shade consists of natural forest vegetation,” Katherine explained. “If additional trees have been planted, the system is then called a traditional polyculture. And even in this type of system, trees are generally thinned and trimmed to reduce undergrowth and overgrowth in hopes of increasing light. The SMBC recommends that a minimum canopy cover of forty percent be maintained.

  “A planted shade environment contains a backbone of trees, such as Inga and Erythrina, that provides the optimal shade environment for the coffee plant. And, as the diversity of trees in the plantation increases, so does the number of species of birds. In fact, probably more critical for avian diversity is the stature of the trees. The backbone shade species must be allowed to attain twelve to fifteen meters in height.”

  Katherine tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “But shade alone is not enough. MA must push for organic designation. Current national crop production standards requirements for organic labeling read that the agricultural products must ‘not be produced on land to which any prohibited substances, including synthetic chemicals, have been applied during the three years immediately preceding the harvest of the agricul
tural products.’”

  Katherine looked up from her note cards, scanned the room, and held up two fingers. “Currently, only one to two percent of the coffee produced in the world qualifies. Of the five million bags of coffee produced in Mexico last year, only sixty thousand qualified to be tagged as organic.” She shook her head.

  “So, now you ask, how is the Migration Alliance working to help maintain, improve, and increase bird habitat in Mexico? Well, I’ll tell you.” Katherine punched her fist on the podium, and Lark jumped, along with everyone else at her table. “By teaching the farmers. MA supports a team of agronomists who make village visits, supervising, monitoring, and teaching farmers methods of terracing, composting, pruning, and intercropping plants for shade diversity.”

  She lowered her head again. “Consumers, we must unite.” Her voice crescendoed as she spoke. “We must purchase only organic coffee from legitimate distributors, and we must do it now, for the sake of the birds. For the sake of humanity.”

  Katherine stepped back from the podium and the crowd roared to life. Several people stamped their feet and whistled.

  A waiter approached Lark on the right. “Do you care for some coffee, ma’am?”

  “Is it organic?” Gertie asked, a smug look on her face.

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” Lark replied. “That’s all we serve.”

  “Good for you,” Andrew said. “In that case, pour me one, too.”

  The waiter poured coffee all around. Lark had barely taken a sip when Velof appeared in the doorway and set a course in her direction.

  “Here comes trouble,” Eric said softly.

  Velof scooted between the tables, apologizing to people he bumped into along the way. He stopped opposite Lark, standing directly behind Dorothy. “May I speak with you, please?”

  “Can’t it wait?” Lark asked, setting down her coffee cup.

  “No!” Velof exclaimed. “Bernie Crandall is in your office demanding to see Teresa Cruz. Wouldn’t you know, the girl has disappeared.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Lark found Bernie Crandall sitting behind her desk, bouncing an eraser off the desk blotter.

  “So where’s the girl, Drummond?”

  “How should I know?” Lark said. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  Crandall palmed the eraser, leaned back, and put his feet up on the desk. “You saw her last.”

  “Correction,” Lark said, batting his feet to the floor. “Stephen saw her last.”

  Crandall straightened and started bouncing the eraser again. “Okay, I’ll give you that. But he says he walked her back to the Manor House about two o’clock in the afternoon, and she seemed real upset over some conversation she’d had with you. Care to elaborate for me?”

  Lark chewed on her lower lip. Part of her wanted to protect the girl; the other part questioned the wisdom of covering up for a possible killer. Self-preservation finally forced her to come clean. “Look, she’s in the States on an expired visa. Gil Arquette was trying to wangle an extension, but things weren’t looking real promising. I had just told her, when Stephen popped in all hot over the fact that I’d been out all morning when he needed help making decisions for the banquet tonight.”

  “For what it’s worth, it looked to me like things went off without a hitch.”

  “Finally, a break.”

  “I know what you mean.” Crandall unfolded himself from the chair, stretching as he stood. “I could sure use one.”

  Lark wet her lips. “Then I guess I’ll tell you. I know what the letters on the mask stand for.”

  “You do? What?”

  “The Ejército Zapatista de Liberación Nacional.”

  “Which means?”

  “It’s the name for an organization of freedom fighters operating in southern Mexico made up of Mexican Indians called the Zapatistas.”

  “Who told you this, Drummond?”

  “Teresa.” She filled him in on their conversation.

  “Interesting.” Crandall scratched his jaw. “Look, Drummond, I need to talk to the girl. If you see her again, I expect you to hang onto her and touch base with me.”

  “You’ll be the first one I call.”

  After six hours of sleep and a quick shower, Lark pulled on a clean pair of shorts, a fuchsia-colored T-shirt, matching socks, and her hiking boots. Grabbing her birding gear and a jacket, she snagged a chocolate doughnut and a cup of coffee off the continental breakfast buffet on her way through the Drummond and scooted out the side door of the hotel, plopping down in a chair on the west end veranda.

  “Are you our leader?” asked a bright-eyed woman in a mesh birding vest.

  “That’s me.”

  “I’ll go tell the others you’re here.” The woman scurried off toward a group of about fifteen birders gathered near a large white bus. A sign reading Endovalley was taped to the inside of the windshield glass.

  Assignments for the birding field trips had been dished out on a first-come, first-served basis to leaders and participants alike, and Lark had switched hers to a half-day trip. Originally, she’d been scheduled to lead the Pawnee National Grassland tour. But like the other groups going to Arapaho National Wildlife Refuge and Tamarack Ranch, the Pawnee tour was a full-day trip. Lark needed to be back for the two-thirty memorial service.

  “There you are,” Dorothy said, charging across the parking lot in a pink birding cap. She clutched white name badges and species cards in hand. “I brought you a new name tag. I figured you would misplace your other one.”

  Lark reluctantly pinned the badge on her shirt pocket. Not quite as bad as the bright yellow bus tags with school name and phone number that she’d been forced to wear in third grade, but close. She took another bite of her doughnut. “Where are you going today?”

  “I’m in charge of the alpine tundra trip. Ptarmigans and brown-capped rosy-finches.” Dorothy consulted her clipboard, flipping to a second set of pages. “You’re in charge of the Endovalley. Three-toed woodpeckers, preferably nesting.”

  The area loosely called the Endovalley covered a relatively small section of the park just west of the Alluvial Fan. In actuality, it was a picnic area at the end of the Endovalley Road, approximately two miles off Highway 34.

  The Alluvial Fan was all the evidence that remained of the Flood of 1982, when the earthen dam at Lawn Lake failed, pouring 674 acre-feet of water down the steep drainage of the Roaring River. A wall of water reached thirty-foot heights in the narrows, cutting a deep gash in the ground, dislodging hundreds of boulders, uprooting trees, and washing away the soil. The destructive force of the flood was immense. Three campers lost their lives. Millions of dollars in damage resulted. Horseshoe Park became a temporary lake, and Elk Park stood hip deep in muddy water. But the dead trees in the Fan area provided great habitat for viewing swallows, sapsuckers, flickers, and hairy woodpeckers.

  Dorothy smoothed the pages on the clipboard. “You’ve been assigned bus number thirteen. You should have about forty birders. There’s a cooler of water in the back…” She glanced at Lark over the top of her reading glasses. “In case anyone forgot to bring a water bottle.”

  “Mine’s in my backpack, Dorothy.”

  “And there’s sunscreen, bug spray, and a first-aid kit. There are also several large cartons of boxed lunches in the cargo area.”

  By now, ten or twelve of the gathered birders had crowded around, and Lark began assessing her group. There were a couple of novice birders, evidenced by the lack of equipment and preparedness, and several veterans, who she knew were probably better qualified to lead this trip than she was. The face in the crowd that intrigued her the most was that of Norberto Rincon.

  “Gather round, folks,” Dorothy called out. “This is Lark Drummond, and she will be your leader today.” In a softer voice, she whispered, “Good luck. Sorry I couldn’t find anyone to take your spot. I’ll meet you back here at one-thirty.”

  “Thanks, Dee.” Lark pushed herself up from the seat and smiled. “Good mor
ning, everyone.”

  Silence.

  “Okay. First off, I see some of you don’t have jackets. This is Elk Park, and we are going to be climbing a bit in altitude, birding at elevations around 8,500 to 9,000 feet. I’d advise you to take the time to go back to your rooms and grab something. It’s been unseasonably warm, but you never know when a storm might roll in.”

  No one made a move, so she continued.

  “Okay, then general info time. The Endovalley covers multiple habitats. We can expect to see a lot of birds this morning, everything from western wood-pewee to rock wren. Is there anything in particular anyone’s dying to see?”

  “It’s all new to me,” said a heavyset woman dressed in heavily pocketed camouflage. A pair of Leica binoculars were draped around her neck, indicating she’d bought the best of everything to embark on this new adventure. A brand-new guidebook protruded from one of her front pockets. A water bottle bulged from the other.

  “I could use a western tanager for my life list,” responded a younger man wearing jeans and a Migration Alliance T-shirt. His name badge tagged him as Art.

  “What’s a life list?” the woman in camouflage asked. She flashed her badge at Lark. Her name was Molly.

  Art rolled his eyes.

  “A life list is a list that a birder keeps of all the birds he or she ever spots,” Lark patiently explained. She handed the woman a species card, then passed one to each of the birders. “This card lists only the birds of our area, while a life list covers the world.”

  “Don’t you think it’s about time to get going?” Art demanded.

  Lark tarried long enough to make him antsy, then loaded the bird-watchers into the bus and instructed the driver to stop at Endovalley picnic area.

  Passing Elk Lake on the ride up, they snagged a Canada goose and several mallards, as well as a red-tailed hawk hunting along the road.

  “Listen up, folks,” Lark said when they crossed the bridge at Roaring River.