Death of a Songbird

by Goff, Christine

  Teresa cowered on the corner of the living room couch.

  “Come on, Bernie. She’s just a kid.” And possibly a murderer, though the more Lark learned the more convinced she was that Teresa hadn’t killed Esther. She knew for a fact Teresa hadn’t killed Paul. She couldn’t have. And Lark was convinced the two crimes were somehow connected. “Why not take Jacobs into custody and leave Teresa here with me?”

  “You willing to take full responsibility for her, Drummond?”

  “Sure.” Lark prayed her instincts were right.

  Crandall hesitated, then turned to Teresa. “Do you understand that if you split, Drummond here goes to jail?”

  Teresa looked at Lark. “You have my word of honor. I won’t run away.”

  “Either you’re an idiot, Drummond, or I am.” He shrugged on his leather bomber jacket. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Lark sent Teresa back to bed and followed Crandall out the front door. “Hey, Bernie, what are the odds you could get a warrant to search someone’s room in the Drummond?” She left the inference open as to whose room she was talking about.

  “Nil.”

  That’s what I thought.

  Crandall opened the patrol car door. “For what it’s worth, we did check out Paul Owens’ room and bag his belongings. All we found was a razor and a pile of clothes.”

  After he left, Lark formulated a plan and checked on Teresa. The girl was sound asleep, exhausted from her ordeal the night before. She’d sleep long enough for Lark to spot-check a few rooms at the Drummond.

  Donning a jacket, Lark slipped out the side door and followed the deer path around the back of the Drummond. Below her, Elk Park appeared to stretch as the rays of the sun snaked up the valley and bounced off the asphalt shingles of the buildings. Around her, dew sparkled on pine needles and shimmered on the sleepy faces of the day flowers. The early-morning air smelled of butterscotch pine and biscuits.

  Overhead, the birds sang riotously, celebrating the morning, and Lark stopped to listen. Her eyes tracked the darting flight of a yellow-rumped warbler, then a flash of red in the trees overhead rooted her to the spot. Above and to her left, a small bird perched on a branch of a large ponderosa. The red-faced warbler!

  The bird preened, ruffling then smoothing its feathers, making sure he was seen. A squirrel chattered nearby, shattering the moment. The bird looked up, then flew away, disappearing among the quaking aspen leaves. Too bad she didn’t believe in omens.

  The path dead-ended at the edge of the Drummond lawn. Grass, trimmed to one hundred feet out from the hotel walls, maintained a fire buffer mandated by local authority. No trees or bushes were allowed to grow within reach of the building. No wood to fuel fire. No cover for a surreptitious dash to the back door.

  Lark checked to make sure the coast was clear, then sprinted to the back door. If Velof caught her skulking around, her mission was over. Despite the fact that she owned the hotel and had every logical reason to be there, hiding became a necessity.

  Muscles tense, senses alert, she scrambled down the back stairs and pushed through the door to the basement. Housekeeping was located in the bowels of the hotel. Pipes, painted gray to match the walls, lined the ceiling. Worn gray and burgundy carpet covered the floor.

  Cleaning carts overflowing with toilet paper, tissue, complimentary shampoo and conditioner, towels, and sheets lined up back to back stretched down one side of the hallway. Doorways opened off the other side: the laundry room, the supply room, the office.

  Inside the laundry, the rumble of the washers and dryers competed with women’s chatter. The air vibrated from the drone of the machines and smelled of fabric softener and bleach. Towels snapped in the air, and were folded on long tables in the center of the room. Two women appeared to dance as they folded sheets.

  Lark slipped past without being noticed and hurried toward the main housekeeping office at the end of the hallway. Little more than a cubicle, it housed the housekeeping manual, a desk and computer, and Lydia Escabola, a short, plump Hispanic woman. Lydia managed the housekeeping operation, dishing out cleaning assignments, ordering supplies, and maintaining the schedules. If a guest wanted an extra pillow, more hangers, or clean washcloths, they called Lydia. If a maid fell sick, they called Lydia. If Lark wanted special attention paid to a guest’s hotel room, she called Lydia.

  “Why Lark, what brings you over here this morning?” asked Lydia, glancing up from the computer screen. She offered a quick, friendly smile.

  “I need you to do me a favor.”

  Lydia’s eyes narrowed.

  “We have a couple of special guests staying with us. I want to be sure everything in their rooms stays well stocked.”

  “I gotcha.”

  “Can you pull up the room numbers for Jan Halloway, Norberto Rincon, and Katherine Saunders?” Lark already knew Buzz was in room 420.

  Lydia’s fingers flew over the keys. “Saunders is in 415, Halloway in 312, and Rincon in 314.”

  Lark jotted the numbers on the palm of her hand. “Who covers those floors?”

  “Brenda’s on four. Carlene’s on third.” Lydia looked up from the screen. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure they overstock the minibars and leave extra pillows.”

  “Thanks, Lydia. That’ll be a big help.” Lark slipped the pen back onto the desk, waved her ink-free hand, and breezed from the room.

  Now she had the room numbers. The next step was getting into the rooms. At the far end of the hall, women were loading carts into the elevators. Pushing, shoving, and grunting accompanied the task until eventually all the carts were loaded, and Lark was left alone in the hall. One cart remained, sitting unattended next to the wall.

  Lark slunk toward the cart. She found the passkey clipped to the clipboard on top of the cart. Too easy to pilfer. She made a mental note to talk to Velof and Lydia about coming up with a new procedure to make getting hold of one more difficult. A little more rummaging produced a pair of latex gloves.

  Now for the hard part. There was no way of knowing who of the targets might still be in their rooms. If she remembered correctly, there was a Migration Alliance breakfast starting in five minutes in the main dining room that Jan, Norberto, and Buzz were scheduled to attend. Katherine was still booked to speak, refusing to allow herself to be replaced, even in light of her partner’s murder. If breakfast lasted an hour, that gave Lark sixty-five minutes to check everyone’s rooms.

  Brenda’s cart blocked the elevator exit on the fourth floor. Lark reached to push it aside, but the darn thing weighed a ton. Leaning her shoulder against the metal frame, she gave it a shove, moving it far enough to slip past. Busy cleaning the room across from the service elevator, Brenda never looked up.

  Buzz’s room was at the far end of the hall on the right, and Katherine’s slightly this side on the left. Lark crow-hopped down to room 415, terrified of being caught.

  Here goes.

  Slipping on the gloves, she tapped on the door, then listened for a rustle, a footstep, anything denoting life. Hearing nothing, Lark tapped again. Still, no answer.

  The passkey slipped easily into the lock. The light flashed red, then blinked green. She glanced right, then left, then eased open the door and slipped inside. Clicking the door softly shut behind her, Lark flipped on the light.

  The room was in a shambles. Clothes were strewn everywhere, mixed with the covers piled at the foot of the bed on the carpet, draped over the bedside tables. Towels littered the bathroom floor. A pizza box, Pepsi cans, and miniature whiskey bottles overflowed the trash cans.

  Stepping over the clutter, Lark wondered if Katherine had thrown a party last night or had just been trying to drown her sorrows. To be charitable, she decided the later.

  The rooms on the fourth floor came complete with an oversized desk, two bedside tables, a dresser, TV, and a king-sized bed. Between the door to the hall and the bathroom was a closet with an ironing board and iron. Between the bathroom and the bedroom was an alcove with a microwave, a Mr.
Coffee, and a small, well-stocked—or, in Katherine’s case, severely depleted—minibar. The door that opened to Paul Owens’ adjoining room stood slightly ajar.

  Lark started searching in the bathroom, combing Katherine’s suite with meticulous care. Cosmetics littered the bathroom counter. Tissues littered the floor. Lark lifted the mattress, checked behind the headboard and in the stored luggage in the closet. If Katherine had the ledger, she’d hidden it well.

  Sneaking into the room was easier than sneaking out. Coming in, Lark had the luxury of knowing the room was empty and that no one had seen her enter. Now, she could only press her ear to the door and peer out a peephole broad enough to encompass the door across the hall. Straining her ears and seeing no one, she opened the door and stepped into the hall.

  Two people hailed her from the elevator. “Hurry up. We’ll hold it for you.”

  Lark held up her hand. “Oh darn, I forgot something.” She waved them off, turning back to Katherine’s room. “I’ll catch the next one.”

  The elevator doors banged shut, and Lark sagged against the wall. She could see the headlines in the Elk Park Gazette: “Hotel Proprietor Caught Rifling Guests’ Rooms.”

  Pulling herself together, she scurried down the hall to Buzz’s room and repeated the procedure. She’d used up fifteen minutes at Katherine’s. At this rate, she wouldn’t finish in time.

  Buzz’s room was immaculate, the exact opposite of Katherine’s. In fact, it looked so tidy, Lark wondered if it had even been used. She could have bounced a quarter on the bed, and there were no soiled towels or washcloths in the bathroom.

  Well, someone had been in here the night her house had been trashed. She remembered seeing the curtain move.

  A thorough search turned up nothing. The ledger wasn’t there.

  Slipping out into an empty hallway, she tromped down one flight of stairs to the third floor. Carlene’s cart was pulled up outside Jan’s room, number 312, and the door to Jan’s room was open.

  She’d just have to start with Norberto’s room. She rapped twice. No one answered.

  Norberto’s room looked unlived in. Not the unused look of Buzz Aldefer’s room, but unused as if the occupant felt uncomfortable there. The bed appeared rumpled, indented by someone sleeping on top of the covers rather than under the sheets. A single wet towel hung neatly on a hook on the back of the bathroom door, but the bath mat was untouched and still in place on the edge of the tub. The coffeemaker and the minibar remained untouched.

  Norberto’s clothes were neatly packed in a small suitcase sitting on top of the desk. Before searching there, Lark checked the dresser drawers, then moved to the bedside tables. One was empty, one contained a set of local White and Yellow Pages. She started to close the drawer, then stopped. Something was sandwiched between the two phone books. Lark grabbed a corner of the White Pages and pulled the book to one side. Underneath, she found what she’d been looking for. A plain, brown, leather-bound ledger.

  Flipping open the book, she leafed through the pages. Esther’s chicken scrawl leaped off the page, reassuring her it was the real thing. There was page after page of notes, but, after talking with Paul, the numbers made sense. They were Esther’s accounting of times and dates and weights, annotated as shipments of coffee made to the United States by Jitters Coffee Company, acronymed JCC. And the numbers were high.

  Higher than the 30 percent Jan had claimed Jitters purchased from Norberto. Lark added numbers, rounding up, rounding down. According to her addition, he’d actually sold Jitters over fifty-five thousand bags of coffee last year. Quite a feat, considering Mexico only produced sixty thousand bags of organic coffee. The question was, did Jan know, or was she merely the victim of Norberto’s get rich quick scheme?

  Spelled out in black and white, the truth of the coffee industry was a tragedy any way you looked at it. Coffee production paid for the livelihood of approximately three million people in Mexico. Modern techniques improved productivity and increased the crop yield but damaged or destroyed the environment. Unfortunately, those who cared the most about the people were the same ones who cared most about what happened to the land, to the bird habitat, to the environment.

  Lark’s gaze shifted to Norberto’s suitcase. She’d started with the bedside drawers and found what she was looking for. But there were still missing pieces to consider.

  Crossing to the bag, she carefully lifted the folded clothes out of the bag and set them on the dresser. A clean pair of black jeans, two clean black T-shirts. His underwear was white, plain briefs, Fruit of the Loom.

  Nothing.

  She repacked the case, taking care to put everything back where she’d found it. Checking one side zipper compartment, she found a toothbrush and toothpaste and miniature bottles of shampoo and conditioner. The other side pocket coughed up the goods. A photograph of Teresa standing in front of a shabby farmhouse wearing a native outfit—and a black mask embroidered with EZLN.

  A sudden spurt of harsh laughter erupted from the hallway and jarred her to life. Jan was back. A hand jiggled the door handle.

  Shit.

  Lark jammed the mask back into the bag and glanced around. There was nowhere to hide. The box the bed rested on was framed in. The windows only opened an inch. There was the shower, but it had a see-through glass door.

  “The maid’s still in my room. Do you want to go back downstairs with me for a minute?”

  Yes.

  “No, but you can wait in here.”

  No.

  The drawer where she’d found the ledger stood open. Quickly, she slipped the book back into its hiding place. She had to tell Bernie what she’d found and let him collect the evidence in the proper fashion. Besides, if she got caught inside, she didn’t want Norberto to know she’d found everything.

  It occurred to her to try standing behind the door when it opened. She’d seen it done in the movies. The door opens, the bad guys enter, the hero slips out. Clichéd, but a plan.

  Moving in that direction, she noticed that the adjoining door between Norberto’s room and Jan’s stood half open. Jan’s side was closed tight. A knock might get Carlene’s attention.

  By the sounds of it, the maid was still vacuuming the room. Lark scurried over and tapped on the door. The vacuum shut off. Lark tapped again.

  “Did you hear that?” Jan asked.

  Lark tapped again, more urgently this time.

  “It sounds like it’s coming from inside your room.”

  The deadbolt on the adjoining door clicked at the same time Norberto inserted his key in the lock. Lark shoved past Carlene, closing the door behind her and flipping the lock.

  “Ms. Drummond, what—”

  Lark cupped a hand over Carlene’s mouth, and alternated between pointing frantically at the door and pressing her finger to her lips. Carlene, wide-eyed and frightened, jiggled her head up and down.

  “How strange, Norberto.” Jan’s voice sounded muffled. Someone tried pushing against the door. “Maybe I should go check out my room?”

  Double doo-doo.

  Lark scooted around the bed and flattened herself against the wall. Carlene stared wide-eyed at her. Shaking her head, Lark pointed at her eyes, then toward the door.

  “Oh. You’re still in here.”

  Carlene faced forward. “Yes.”

  “Did you hear anything strange coming from my friend’s room?”

  “No.” Carlene glanced at Lark out of the corner of her eye, and Lark prayed Jan wouldn’t pick up on the gesture.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No.” Carlene stayed rooted in place, smiling and nodding like a jack-in-the-box doll.

  “How long before you’re finished in here?”

  “Soon.”

  “Well, do you mind hurrying up?”

  Lark heard movement, a door shut, then Carlene jerked her head sideways and mouthed the word Go.

  Quietly, Lark slipped from the room and scooted past Norberto’s open door. Bolting down the hall, she ya
nked open the exit door and bounded down the stairs two at a time. If there was a heaven, this was the time for prayer.

  At the second-floor landing, she heard a door open above her and slowed her pace, hugging the wall. As long as she stayed away from the stairwell opening, no one could see her. Besides, the idea that Norberto or Jan had followed her was ridiculous. The door closed again, and no footsteps followed. She breathed a sigh of relief and went on.

  Exiting on the first floor, Lark heard the elevator bell ring. The doors opened. Jan stepped off, smiled stiffly, and walked away.

  CHAPTER 18

  “Let me get this straight,” Crandall said, staring at her from behind his desk. “You broke into Norberto Rincon’s room and searched through his belongings.”

  “For the last time, Bernie, yes. I thought you’d be happy I found something.”

  “Oh, I’m happy.” He stroked his hands through his hair, tipped his head way back, and looked up at the ceiling. “I’m happy to know that Teresa’s, okay, and a felon is taking full responsibility for her whereabouts. I was happy to haul Peter Jacobs’ butt down here and arrest him for assault. I was happy to hear what your father had to say, and for the update on the coffee wars. But…” He leaned forward again. “I am not at all happy with the stunt you just pulled.”

  “Why?” She couldn’t believe he was angry. “You know you could never have gotten a search warrant. If I hadn’t gone in there, you wouldn’t have anything.”

  “I’ve got zilch now. Nothing I can use, and nothing that ties any of this directly to Esther’s or Paul’s murders.”

  Confused, Lark sat back in her chair. “What about the mask?”

  “Okay, the mask ties directly to the killing. But we only know it’s there because you illegally searched Rincon’s room.”

  “It wasn’t a big deal. I was spot-checking housekeeping. I became suspicious and looked around. You now have just cause to go in and collect the evidence.”

  He snorted like a frustrated bull. “You don’t get it, do you? How did you get out of his room?”