Death of a Songbird

by Goff, Christine

  “American dipper on the left,” someone from the back of the bus called out.

  “Where?” Molly cried, struggling to find her binoculars among her other paraphernalia.

  “It’s gone now,” Art said. “It went under the bridge.”

  Lark noted the disappointment on Molly’s face and stood up, addressing the group as a whole. “Everyone will have another chance at the dipper. We’re going to start at the end of the road, at the Endovalley picnic area, work our way back to this point, and eat lunch at the picnic area we’re passing on the right.”

  Gazing out the window, Molly waved her hand in the air. “What happened here? Was there a fire?”

  “Flood.” Lark filled them in on some of the history of the area as they drove along. “Up here on the left, you’ll see a historical marker. This is the Convicts’Cabin site, where convicts were housed to help build the Old Fall River Road in 1913.

  “I’m sure you’ve all noticed how varied the habitat is in through here,” she continued. “Near the Alluvial Fan there are lots of dead trees and tree cavities, home to a population of birds: swallows, sapsuckers, flickers, and hairy woodpeckers. Along the lake, you can see spotted sandpipers. And, in the willows along Fall River, you find hummingbirds and warblers.”

  The bus pulled into the Endovalley parking lot and circled around the one-way drive, stopping in front of the compost outhouses. Picnic tables were scattered beside willow-choked wetlands, and on either side of the river lay mixed forests of lodgepole pine, Engelmann spruce, Douglas fir, and aspen.

  Lark consulted her watch. “Okay, folks, it’s six-thirty now. This is the place for a pit stop. We’ll bird this area for a while, so let’s plan to meet back at the bus at around eight o’clock. Then, if anyone’s spotted anything of interest that the others missed, we can all traipse off to see it.”

  It was Lark’s job to spot and point out as many species as possible for the birdwatchers, so she added, “Any of you who want to stick with me are welcome. There are also a number of great birders with us today.” She pointed them out. “I’m sure any one of them would be happy to have you tag along with them.

  “Just for your general information, the willow tangles are a great place to see MacGillivray’s warblers and Lincoln’s sparrows. You might find American dippers in the river. And, if you head west, you’ll find a small pond surrounded by forests and backed by cliffs. The Cordilleran flycatcher nests along the cliffs in there, and it’s the best spot to see northern water thrushes, Wilson’s warblers, western tanagers and, if you’re lucky, a three-toed woodpecker.”

  A buzz rose from the birders.

  “Is the three-toed woodpecker a good bird to see?” Molly asked.

  Art groaned.

  “Trust me,” Lark said. “It’s a very good bird. Anyway, if you follow the trail, you’ll come to a gate you can walk around. Keep on the path for several hundred yards until you cross the small footbridge.”

  The birders scattered. Lark agreed to wait while Molly used the facilities, and she scanned the trees by the compost potties looking for birds. Her eyes lit on Norberto Rincon, who had gotten off the bus and stood alone near a stand of aspen on the west side of the road. Lark sauntered over.

  Norberto, dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt, carried only a pair of beat-up binoculars. Tall and wiry, he hummed with energy and looked only slightly more relaxed today than he had at the reception when Jan had introduced him.

  The loner type, thought Lark. “Hi, glad you could join us.”

  “Thank you.” He smiled, flashing white teeth against caramel-colored skin, and dipped his dark head.

  “I hear you’re from Chiapas?”

  “Yes.” He studied her with a measured gaze.

  “Do much birding there?”

  “No.”

  The amusement in his eyes and his quiet scrutiny prompted her to walk away. Molly exited the toilets, and Lark called out, “Let’s head toward the pond.”

  Norberto fell in step beside her. “I have a lot to learn.”

  It was the first time he’d spoken more than a word or two, and she was surprised his voice carried no accent. He spoke like he’d been educated at American schools. “I guess your job doesn’t require you to have an interest in birds,” she said.

  “No.”

  “Yellow-rumped warbler, Audubon variety.” Lark pointed to a tree limb high in the pine tree in front of her. She stopped, focusing her binoculars on the bird. Charcoal gray, with a bright yellow crown, throat, side patches, and rump. “Does everyone see it?”

  The crowd tagging along behind her nodded. All except for Molly, who still struggled to center the bird in her binoculars. Lark had started to fall back to help, when Art moved forward. “Here, you’re doing it all wrong.”

  “She’s in good hands,” Lark said, moving on. “I noticed you had no trouble spotting the warbler. You must be a hunter or sailor.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you know how to use your binoculars too well for a nonbirder without any other spying avocation.”

  “You’re very perceptive, Ms. Drummond.”

  “Lark.” She moved onto the narrow path and led the way over the footbridge. “Dipper.”

  She spent the next few minutes pointing out birds, then settled back into her conversation. “So, you haven’t worked for Jitters long.”

  “No.”

  “Don’t you ever elaborate?”

  “No.” He grinned again. “What is it you want to know?”

  Lark tipped her face, closing her eyes to the sun and basking in the warmth of the summer day. What did she want to know from him? All the things she couldn’t ask Teresa, especially now that she had disappeared. “Tell me about Chiapas.”

  “Chiapas is the most resource-rich state in Mexico. It produces coffee, corn, and cocoa, and there’s been a lot of growth in cattle ranching and timbering. It also produces a lot of hydroelectric power. But most important are the oil reserves.” He dropped his head. “Yet, even with all the wealth, the poverty level is high. Very high.”

  The subject seemed to distress him.

  “Tell me about the people.”

  “Most of the people in Chiapas are descended from the Mayan Indians. They speak dialects of Maya, Tzotzil, and Tzeltal. They are mostly agrarians, raising corn and coffee to support themselves. And it’s a patriarchal society. First there is the household, made up of the immediate family and their plots of land, over which the elder male rules.

  “Then there’s the hamlet, which oversees a number of households in an area. Marriages are usually made within a hamlet, and resources are not shared.”

  The bitterness in his voice made Lark wonder if he’d fallen victim to the system. Maybe he’d been denied marriage to a girl he loved because of the ancient customs of his heritage. Or maybe he just felt their antiquated ways prevented them from getting ahead.

  Norberto brushed a shock of dark hair off his forehead.

  “Cordilleran flycatcher,” Art hollered.

  Lark turned to where he pointed up at the cliffs overlooking the pond.

  “It’s at eleven o’clock, perched high in an aspen at the base of the cliff.”

  She scanned, searching among the fluttering leaves for the small bird. “Good call.” She turned back to Norberto, who had just dropped his binoculars to his chest. “So who oversees the hamlets?”

  “They’re governed by townships. That is the largest unit in Indian society, the center of culture and worship. Everyone in a township’s hamlets is required to leave the household at some time and work in the township for a year. Even there, money makes a difference. The richer the farmer, the better the position he holds, the more prestige he attains, the more it benefits him spiritually.

  “Townships have little communication, and each one is different. They have different customs, rules, rituals, and dress. The center of the townships is San Cristóbal de las Casas.”

  The city of the postm
ark. Lark scanned the trees for signs of birds the group had not yet spotted. “And who lives in the city?”

  “Some Indians, but ladinos mostly. Mixed bloods, people who speak Spanish natively and are also agrarians, but who are more apt to be formally educated and who are more aware of the world outside of the townships. Indians trade outside very little, but ladinos manage trade. They import and export goods and oversee the trade for the townships.”

  Lark lowered her glasses. “That makes you a ladino, right?” She had been guessing, but Norberto’s expression told her she’d guessed correctly. “So where do you buy the coffee? In the townships, or the hamlets, or do you go to the households like my partner used to do?”

  “Your partner?”

  “Yeah, Esther Mills, the woman who was murdered.”

  Norberto’s eyes grew wide. “You are the owner of the Warbler Café.”

  “That’s me. The one who knows nothing about running a coffee business.”

  He grabbed her, squeezing her arm in a tight grip. “Then you can help me. I’m looking for a woman. I’m looking for Teresa Cruz.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Lark’s blood changed to ice water in her veins. Norberto Rincon was looking for Teresa.

  She thought back to Thursday night and his reaction when Buzz Aldefer had dropped a glass. Had he hidden in the shadows because he was afraid of Buzz or because he was afraid someone else might recognize him? Or had Buzz dropped the glass because he’d recognized Norberto? Either way, how did they know each other if Norberto wasn’t a birdwatcher? Lark’s mind sifted through the possibilities. All seemed government related.

  And now Teresa was missing. Why? Had she gone into hiding underground because she recognized Norberto as a government agent, or had something happened to her?

  “Let go of my arm.”

  “Oh, look,” Molly cried out. “What’s that bird?”

  Lark wrenched her arm free and raised her binoculars, searching in the direction Molly pointed, forcing herself to concentrate on the job at hand. She spotted the bird low on a ponderosa pine. “It’s a male three-toed woodpecker. See the yellow crown? The woodpecker was blackish, with a white strip down its back, a white line behind its eye curving downward, and its tail was black with white outer parts. Good catch, Molly.”

  Art glared.

  At one o’clock, having avoided any further conversation with Norberto, Lark called it a day.

  “Not bad for a morning,” Dorothy said, an hour later, as she and Lark hurried down the deer path toward the Warbler Café. “The Endovalley group counted ninety species in under five hours. I think that might be a record.”

  They had changed for the memorial service at the carriage house, Lark into a pair of black slacks and white and black striped shirt, and Dorothy into a black skirt with a light pink shirt. Lark had tried getting hold of Bernie to tell him about her conversation with Norberto. The police chief wasn’t in. He was probably at the Warbler for the memorial service. To be on the safe side, she’d left a message on his voice mail to call her ASAP.

  Reaching the parking lot, Lark could see that the door to the Warbler stood ajar. People poured out onto the small deck, overflowing down the steps and onto the sidewalks. More people must have shown up than they’d expected. She prayed Gertie and Cecilia had been prepared.

  “Never fear,” Gertie said, as they entered the café through the back door. “We’re ready.”

  The Warbler appeared transformed from yesterday when Lark had been in the offices. All traces of dust and disorder were gone. The chairs were neatly arranged, congregation-style, to face the raised seating area where a table with candles, flowers, and large posters covered with pictures of Esther had been strategically placed. A small podium and microphone stood to the right.

  On the coffee bar, various types of cakes and pie had been arranged, and the smell of fresh-brewed coffee permeated the air. The wooden surface gleamed with fresh oil.

  “Great job,” Lark said.

  “Was there ever any doubt?” Gertie flashed her a smug look, then turned to greet the first of the mourners.

  Lark wandered into the back office and found Vic waiting with the minister.

  “People are starting to arrive,” she informed him. “Are you ready?”

  As if anyone was ever ready for a funeral. The one and only she’d been to was for William Tanager, and that one she’d attended for Miriam. It was held at the Elk Park Lutheran Church. Lark had arrived early, walking in to find an empty room with an open casket. Will was laid out in his best suit and looked tan compared to the white satin casket lining.

  Gertie had arrived within minutes, followed by her older sisters, Gillian and Geraldine. Geraldine and Gertie handled things well, shedding the appropriate tears into regulation hankies. But Gillian, a matron from Houston with a guilt complex that covered her travel mileage, had let out a wail and thrown herself into the casket. She’d come up covered in flesh-toned makeup, leaving William looking scarred and Miriam sputtering mad.

  Lark counted her blessings this was a memorial only: no body, and no ashes.

  “It’s time, Vic.” The minister gestured toward the office door.

  Vic fingered his mustache nervously.

  “You’re going to get through this,” Lark told him. Aside from the nervous habit, and all things considered, he looked great. His suit had been freshly pressed, his shirt collar properly starched. Instead of a cloth tie, he wore a bolo made of silver and turquoise with leather strings capped in silver. And his cowboy boots shined.

  “I’m having trouble breathing.”

  “You’re okay.” She laid a hand on his sleeve and he gripped her arm.

  “Stay with me?”

  “Sure.”

  Lark walked beside him to a small love seat placed sideways behind the pulpit. From there she could see Gertie, Rachel, Dorothy, and Cecilia occupying the first row on the right. Behind them sat Harry, Eric, and the Hendersons. Paul Owens sat on the left, and he was there alone.

  Why hadn’t Katherine come? Did she suspect that there was more to Paul and Esther’s relationship than friendship? Lark glanced sideways at Vic. Had he suspected, too? If so, he hadn’t given any indications.

  And there was no sign of Jan Halloway.

  The service was short and simple. Several people stood and spoke, telling stories about birding with Esther. Lark didn’t know what to say and so declined the opportunity. Instead, she helped cut and serve cake, pour coffee, and clear plates, until the last of the mourners headed home. She tried to catch Bernie, but he slipped away before she could stop him.

  “Whew,” Gertie said.

  “I think our opening went well, don’t you?” Cecilia asked.

  “Opening?” Gertie slapped a lid on one of the coffee bins. “I’m not sure that’s how I would have phrased it. More like ‘our giveaway.’”

  “I think it came off fine,” Rachel said, scooping up a handful of glasses.

  “I’m going to check the deck for glasses and stuff,” Lark said. She slipped out the front door and walked to the end of the building, leaning against the railing.

  “Nice out here, isn’t it?” Paul Owens’voice came from behind her, causing Lark to jump. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “I didn’t see you out here.” Lark tugged at the hem of her T-shirt. “Do you always sit around alone?”

  “No.” But he remained in the shadows, his face shrouded. She wished she could read his expression. Throughout the memorial service he’d maintained a stony expression, showing no emotion whatsoever. Based on the letter she’d found, he had to be hurting inside.

  “I actually stuck around hoping to have a chance to talk with you for a minute.”

  “Oh?”

  “According to Esther’s attorney, you and I are business partners now.”

  Lark didn’t mention she’d talked to Arquette as well. Instead, she played dumb. “I thought you said the Migration Alliance was the ben
eficiary.”

  “I did. I was wrong.”

  “When did you find that out?”

  “Police Chief Crandall called me this morning and asked how I knew about the money. It seems someone had pointed out that Esther’s lawyer had talked to me before I gave my speech the other night. They thought it odd I didn’t know the true terms of the will. I did some checking this morning, and, apparently, I misunderstood Mr. Arquette.”

  Lark leaned back against the railing. Owens’motive for murder wasn’t as strong if he hadn’t known that he was inheriting the money. Was he smart enough to have figured that out?

  “How did you know Esther, anyway?” Lark knew it was a leading question and felt guilty for asking. But not that guilty.

  “We were old friends,” he replied, his voice even. “I met her in Mexico a few years ago when we were both down there working.” He glanced at his watch and stood. “Speaking of work, I have a dinner engagement to go to.”

  “Yeah? Well, have fun.”

  He started to walk away, then turned at the steps. “Katherine and I are hosting a small party tomorrow night up at the Black Canyon Ranch. Jan Halloway from Jitters Coffee Company will be there, along with Norberto Rincon and Buzz Aldefer. We could use a third woman. How about joining us?”

  “It’s awfully short notice.”

  “True, but we’re partners now, and it might be an opportunity to get some insider information on the coffee industry.”

  Lark knew she ought to say no. She was helping lead the all-day volunteer’s hike tomorrow, the one that Owens and the others were scheduled to attend, and there was still some planning to do. Plus, she’d been dodging Norberto.

  On the other hand, they were partners. And she admired Jan Halloway. Ever since reading about her in Fortune magazine, Lark knew she wanted to grow up to be just like her: smart, attractive, and CEO of a top company before the age of forty.

  “I promise, it won’t be a late night,” cajoled Paul. “Besides, it will give us partners a chance to get better acquainted.”

  Yes? No? “Sure, I’ll go.”

  Lark agreed to meet Paul Owens and his party at the Black Canyon Ranch at five-thirty for drinks. After a cursory sweep of the porch for glasses, plates, and disposable trash, she dashed up the hill to the carriage house to change for dinner.