Death of a Songbird

by Goff, Christine

  After a quick shower and blow dry, she braided her hair, then added a touch of mascara. Pulling on a straight black skirt and a sleeveless, Western-cut blouse with large silver buttons and a standing collar, she added a pair of black flats, two wide, silver bracelets, then studied the effect in the mirror.

  Should she wear a pair of nylons, the bane of feminine society? Her legs were tan. Tan enough for dining by candlelight.

  Jouncing up Black Canyon Ranch Road, she wrestled with her doubts, letting them get the best of her as she reached the top of the road.

  She should have worn a nicer dress.

  She should have worn her hair down.

  She should have put on nylons.

  What was she doing coming up here in the first place? She hardly knew these people.

  She had met Paul and Katherine Saunders once before and read a few articles about Jan Halloway. That hardly classified her a member of the A team. She would turn around at the top, call the ranch, and beg off.

  Lark crested the hill and made a slow loop through the parking lot, but, before she could drive away, Paul Owens hollered from the porch. “Hello the truck.”

  Lark slumped in her seat, then turned the truck back around and jockeyed it into a vacant spot.

  “I couldn’t figure out what you were doing,” he said, yanking open her door. “For a minute there, I thought you were going to leave.”

  Lark stuffed the keys in her skirt pocket. “No way,” she lied. “I was just looking for a good place to park.”

  “This way then.” Pulling her arm through his, he escorted her up the stairs, through the foyer, and into the bar. Inside, the lights shone brightly, reflecting off the waxed hardwood floor. She definitely should have worn hose.

  “I want you to meet everybody. I believe you’ve met my partner, Katherine. Jan Halloway.”

  Lark smiled and offered her hand. Katherine returned the honor, shaking hands like a dead fish. Her wrist stayed limp, her hand heavy and clammy with sweat. Jan Halloway, on the other hand, pumped back with a firm grip.

  “Señor Norberto Rincon,” Owens continued, “and Buzz Aldefer.”

  Decked out in a designer suit and Gucci loafers, Norberto nodded over his hand. Up to now, she had successfully avoided him after Molly had spotted the three-toed woodpecker. Lark was not willing to give away Teresa’s whereabouts. Not that she could. Teresa had never returned to the Manor House. Lark wondered if he would try to approach her again at dinner.

  Buzz stood but didn’t bother to shake.

  “Join us,” Katherine said, patting a seat beside her. “What would you like to drink?” She signaled for the bartender, and Mike Johnson approached.

  Mike owned the Black Canyon Ranch, and he and Lark went way back. They’d been what Cecilia deemed “an item” before he dumped her for his present wife, Cindy.

  Lark took quiet satisfaction in the way his eyes traveled the length of her legs.

  “Nice to see you,” he said.

  “Thanks.” She crossed her legs. “I’ll take a Pepsi.”

  “Is that all you’re going to have?” Jan asked. “I thought this was a party, Paul.”

  A hot flush crept up Lark’s face, and she fumbled for a recovery. “I’m leading the birding trip tomorrow, so…”

  “Still into that?” Mike asked. It sounded more rhetorical than anything.

  “Yeah.”

  When he had headed back to the bar, Jan twisted in her seat to face Lark. “I hear you and Paul are business partners.”

  Katherine’s eyes narrowed.

  A sore subject? Why, because of the business or because of Esther’s relationship with Paul?

  “That’s true,” Lark said, forcing her mind back to the conversation. “And it’s going to be more of a challenge than I thought. I spent all of yesterday poring over the records, and some of the numbers still don’t make sense.”

  “Oh? In what way?” Jan asked.

  “Are you offering to help the competition, Jan?” drawled Buzz, “or just on the looky-loo for vulnerabilities?”

  Jan’s face tightened. “I was trying to be generous.”

  Lark decided it was time to put up her guard. “Actually, I only found one ledger where the numbers were confusing, so I brought the darn thing home. Late-night reading. I’m sure it will all fall in place soon. It’s just, at the moment, I don’t know anything about running a coffee company.”

  “For what it’s worth,” confided Jan, leaning forward, her blond hair falling across her face, “neither does Paul.”

  Had Lark been a man, the view down the front of her dress would have been cause for embarrassment. She noticed both Norberto and Paul leaned in for a closer look.

  Katherine pushed back her chair. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  Paul and Norberto stood. Buzz followed her into the foyer.

  “Paul’s been asking me for pointers,” Jan said, never missing a beat.

  “She’s full of great ideas.”

  “That’s because it’s my business.” Jan straightened up and tucked her hair behind her ears. “Though, I suppose, if I were smarter, I wouldn’t be offering to help the competition.”

  Lark laughed. “You’re not serious.”

  Jan looked taken aback.

  “You can’t possibly think of Chipe as competition.”

  Jan arched an eyebrow and shrugged her shoulder to her chin. “Our rival, then.”

  Lark glanced at Paul and Norberto. It was obvious Paul wasn’t going to touch Jan’s remark with a ten-foot pole. Norberto hadn’t said a word yet.

  “Chipe Coffee Company hardly vies for a share of the Jitters market,” Lark said. “Jitters grossed over one billion dollars last year.”

  “You’ve been doing your homework.” Jan took a sip of her vodka martini and stirred the olives around. “And you are wrong about Chipe Coffee. It’s definitely competition. We bank on our reputation for being an environmentally and socially friendly company, and, from my vantage point, Chipe works to capitalize on that same market—a market Jitters Coffee Company cultivated.”

  Lark’s Pepsi arrived, along with another round of drinks.

  After a flurry of activity, Jan raised her glass in salute. “Here’s to Chipe.”

  Lark clinked glasses with Jan, then sipped her soda. “I’ll concede, we are competition, but only to a point. We do, what? One percent of the business you do? We can hardly be perceived as a serious threat.”

  She thought of the numbers in the ledger. Some of them were high volume. Was Esther tracking the competition? Was that what the records were about?

  Jan smiled. “You’re absolutely right. Jitters could squash you flatter than a tick. But, then, what’s the point?” She raised her glass. “Which is why, provided you get me drunk enough over dinner, I’m going to share all my trade secrets with you.”

  “You won’t mind if we take notes?” Paul asked.

  Lark twirled the ice in her glass and waited for the laughter to abate. Jan was nothing like she had expected. The news articles depicted a young executive, maternal in her attitude toward her company and employees, yet savvy enough to grow a single storefront operation into a major, worldwide corporation. In person, she came off as a middle-aged lush with an attitude.

  Lark recognized the type. They were the women of her mother’s world. Women with clout, who wore their skirts short in spite of their age, craved attention, and worshiped power. Women who smiled with one side of their mouth, listened to your secrets, then used them against you at the country club. It took years to penetrate the upper circles and, once you did, you never really knew who your friends were, which kept you alone in spite of belonging.

  That’s what Lark had escaped by coming to Elk Park from East Haddam. Here, women brought over pie when someone died. They didn’t send the hired help.

  “Seriously, Lark, I’m happy to assist you in any way,” Jan said. The smile. “That is, if you need help?” The fishing for secrets.

  But was she f
ishing for information about Lark or the company? Lark steered the conversation away from Chipe Coffee and back to Jan. Two could play this game.

  “Thank you. I’m just so impressed with what you’ve accomplished.” The smile. “I know nothing. I don’t know the laws of importation, testing procedures, resale packaging. But then, Jitters started out small, too, didn’t they?” The jig line.

  “Yes.” Jan studied her momentarily, nibbling on the edge of an olive as though testing the bait. “The importing is the easy part. You follow the rules and get the coffee into the States. The important part is the resale packaging. The presentation to the buyer. Which is why Jitters is the number-one-selling specialty coffee in the U.S. today.”

  “Exactly how big is the Jitters Coffee Company?”

  Pride filled out her voice. “At present we have approximately two thousand stores worldwide, with more opening every year. Last year, Jitters profits topped fourteen million dollars per quarter. Yet it amounts to only one-half percent of the world market share.” She twirled the toothpick between her fingers, spinning the olive like a globe.

  “Coffee is big business,” said Norberto, speaking up for the first time. “It’s a five billion dollar industry in the United States and brings in one trillion dollars’ worth of gross revenue for my country every year.”

  Lark looked at Paul.

  Wow, he mouthed.

  “How much coffee is that?” Lark asked.

  “Annually?” Norberto moved his hands up and down, as though weighing his words. “Give or take, Mexico exports nearly five million sixty-kilo bags a year.” He let the numbers sink in, then added, “And that’s only nine percent of the world market.”

  Jan reached over and patted his sleeve. “Norberto represents the Jitters coffee growers,” she explained. “We purchase all of our Mexican coffee from Chiapas-based growers, and everything comes directly through him. It’s a big responsibility. Last year alone, we purchased approximately thirty percent of our coffee from Mexico. The earnings potential is high for us because the Mexican market prices are lower than almost everywhere else.”

  “Why? Because of the war?” Lark realized her question sounded antagonistic, but she didn’t care.

  “We prefer to think of it as civil unrest.”

  The official version.

  Paul jumped in before Lark could respond. “I want to hear what you do, young man. What exactly is your job?”

  Norberto seemed startled by the question, almost as though he didn’t know the answer. He groped for words, glancing at Jan for help. “I… we… it’s my job to insure the money I’m paid reaches the growers.”

  Paul leaned in for the kill. “Whoa. Wait a minute. If I’m understanding this right, you’re saying you get paid on commission?”

  Norberto looked momentarily confused, then recovered his composure and nodded his head.

  “Which means, based on the number Ms. Halloway gave us, you made a hefty sum last year.” Paul turned to Jan. “Why don’t you purchase your coffee direct from the growers, like Esther did? It eliminates the middleman and increases your profits.”

  Jan’s harsh laugh drew attention from as far away as the bar. “You have to consider how much coffee Esther purchased. Maybe five hundred bags a year, at the most. Jitters purchased just under one hundred thousand bags last year. We’re feeding a worldwide market with a humongous appetite.”

  Lark’s annoyance meter exploded. “Are you putting down Esther’s attempts to preserve bird habitat?”

  “No, you’re misreading what I said.”

  Lark knew she should hold her tongue, but, what the heck, she was on a roll. “Esther traveled to Mexico and paid the growers directly because she believed they were being ripped off by the large corporations and the middlemen.” She warmed to her subject, and her voice grew louder. “She insured that she purchased only shade-grown, bird-supportive coffee. And, in order to make a difference, paid out more per kilo for the product, direct to the grower.”

  Jan brushed Lark’s comment aside with the flick of her hand. “The coffee industry is not a cause, Lark. It’s business. If you remember to think in a businesslike manner, you’ll survive.” The subtext: If you don’t, you’ll die, and I’ll dance on your grave. “I’m sure you’ll do fine.” The smile. “And, now you have me curious. Exactly how much did Esther pay per kilo?” Fishing.

  Lark moved away from the bait. “I’m not sure. I’d have to look at the records.”

  “Ballpark figure.”

  “Esther claimed she paid seventy percent over market,” Paul said. “What would that amount to?”

  “I’m not drunk enough to tell you that yet.” Jan sipped her martini. “Not that it matters. What matters is, it’s not the growers who need the money, it’s the workers. It’s the growers who pay the field hands poverty wages.”

  “Do you even know what the average coffee picker makes per day?” asked Norberto.

  “No,” admitted Lark, forcing herself to cool down.

  “Three dollars a day.”

  “That may be true, but most of the farm workers are family members who benefit from the mere existence of the crop. Even the larger farms are family-run operations.” Lark was glad she remembered parts of Esther’s spiel. “Jitters pays you less per bag than Esther pays her growers. Then you take a percentage off the top. Tell me how you think that’s fair.”

  Norberto’s expression changed. Where sorrow had been written just moments before, anger now reigned. His eyes glittered with the self-righteousness of someone falsely accused.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Jan said. “You tell me what Esther pays her growers per kilo, and I’ll tell you what percentage of that lines the grower’s pockets.”

  “Better his than the middleman’s,” countered Lark, unable to resist getting in one last dig. The comment crossed the proverbial line, and she clamped her mouth shut.

  Norberto’s face flushed. Jan glared. Lark met the stare, refusing to break eye contact. The air crackled between them. Finally, Jan looked away.

  Lark tugged at the hem of her skirt and tried changing her tone. “Look, all I’m saying is that the organic grower is a small businessman. Just like me. He needs the profits in order to sustain his business. Without the extra money, he can’t continue to grow coffee in a shade tree environment. He’ll be forced to convert his land, destroying shade environment and valuable bird habitat.”

  Jan took a swig of her martini and banged the glass down on the cocktail table. “Listen, bird girl, there is no possible way Jitters can insist that its suppliers pay more than they already are to the farmers. We pay fair market value for our products. We do everything possible to help combat the poverty and sustain the environment. I’ll have you know, last year we contributed over one million dollars to social and environmental programs around the world. Why? Because that’s the type of company we are.”

  Which was what percentage? Multiplying the quarterly profits by four, and factoring in the one million dollars in contributions, Lark quickly calculated that Jitters annually donated around one and a half percent of their profits. Without knowing the exact numbers, she couldn’t factor what Chipe’s percentage would be. She could only hope it was higher.

  CHAPTER 12

  “Our table’s ready,” announced Katherine. “I’ve left Buzz to arrange the seating.”

  Jan pulled her hand from Norberto’s sleeve. “Saved by the dinner bell.”

  Lark forced a smile and stood, smoothing the wrinkles from the front of her skirt. The gesture brushed away some of her anger. Business was business, and Jan’s job was to make money for Jitters. Jan was limited in how much she could do, just like Lark was. For the second time that night, her thoughts ran to Teresa.

  Katherine led the way to the dining room. Paul brought up the rear. Old guard, old manners, old money, at least in Katherine’s case. They followed customs culled over generations by the upper classes, emulated by the middle classes, and often disdained or disregarded by t
he lower classes. Customs that dictated who went first, who came last. Lark fell in behind Jan.

  “Lark, you sit here by me,” Buzz said, pulling out a chair.

  Her seat touched the chair, and instantly a waiter appeared to spread a napkin across her lap. A busboy stepped forward and filled her glass with water.

  A pair of pale yellow candles burned in silver candlesticks at either end of the table. Translucent china in delicate patterns of a similar color adorned the iris-blue tablecloth. Crystal glasses sparkled in the candlelight.

  Katherine sat down at one end of the table, Paul at the other. Jan and Norberto sat across from Buzz and Lark. Boy, girl, boy, girl.

  “Isn’t this lovely?” Katherine said. “I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of ordering appetizers while I was checking on our table.”

  On cue, a silver tray of crackers and pâté arrived. Lark took some, then passed them to Buzz. If Katherine had been ordering hors d’oeuvres, where had he been?

  Lark busied herself with a butter knife. “Major,” she said, hoping to turn the conversation in a new direction. “Tell me again, what is your connection to the Migration Alliance?”

  “I’m just here to keep the United States Air Force apprised of what’s happening with our fine feathered friends.” Buzz popped a cracker into his mouth and reached for another. “Most of my time is spent in Houston, reading reports.”

  For a desk jockey he looked remarkably fit. Tall and graying, broad shoulders stretched the seams of his dinner jacket. Strong cords bulged in his neck, threatening to pop the collar button off his white shirt.

  “Now, don’t be modest,” said Owens. “Buzz spends a lot of his time in Mexico, volunteering at the Hawkwatch site, helping Pronatura out with tours, that sort of thing.”

  “So the government pays you to birdwatch?” Lark pretended not to notice him choke on his food. “Sign me up.” She noticed that Norberto watched him intently.

  Buzz wiped his mouth on his napkin. “Excuse me, but I can’t say anyone’s ever asked me that question before.”