The Kiskadee of Death (12 page)

 

Chapter Fourteen

B
efore I could answer, the older woman in our group grabbed her companion's arm and loudly whispered.

“Look, everyone! Is that a Curve-billed Thrasher over there?” she asked the rest of us.

I hesitated only a moment longer before turning in the direction the woman was pointing. Perched on top of a lamp pole near the front drive to Quinta Mazatlan was a large, grayish-brown bird. Even though I thought I could see the downward cast of its bill, I lifted my binoculars to my eyes to make sure.

“It's the thrasher,” I confirmed to our group. “It's got the long thin bill that curves downward, and the eyes are yellow-orange.”

“He's also got the faint spots on his chest,” Mark said, his own binos to his eyes. “He's been here all week. You folks are getting the royal treatment, today, seeing all these birds.”

He lowered his binoculars and checked his wristwatch. “I need to wrap this up with you since I've got a student group coming. Third-graders. Noisier than a flock of Great Kiskadees, let me tell you. Enjoy your day and be sure to take a look around inside the mansion.”

With that suggestion, he turned his back on us and strode briskly away.

“What do you think of him?” Luce asked me, tipping her head in the direction Mark had taken back towards Quinta Mazatlan's main entrance. “I never would have imagined him as such a personable tour guide after his performance last night,” she added.

I nodded in agreement.

“He's a good kid, I think,” I said. “He's definitely a good birder, and he must have had decent references to land a volunteer position here.”

“But?” Luce asked. She could recognize the uncertainty in my voice as easily as she had identified the Orange-crowned Warbler during our birding walk.

“But he's got some issues with alcohol and accepting his uncle's help, I think. I got the impression he felt really badly about Birdy's death when that other birder brought it up,” I said, “but he covered it well and just went right on with the tour. Who knows? Maybe Birdy's death will make Mark realize life is short, and he needs to get his act cleaned up and make peace with his uncle.”

I slipped my fingers in my pocket to make sure the scrap of material Maddie had fetched for me was still there. Part of me wished I had taken it out and held it next to Mark's shirt to see if the print matched, and part of me was convinced I'd moved past suspicious to paranoid.

I hardly knew this kid. I hadn't even spoken with him at Buzz's place, and I was fairly certain he'd been oblivious to my presence on the driveway, seeing as he'd been so focused on railing at his uncle. And yet I thought I'd caught a spark of special attention on Mark's part when we told him we were from Minnesota—a spark, I considered, that may have led to his query about our having previously met.

A query which I was able to avoid answering, by the way.

So what in the world could Mustang Mark possibly hold against me enough to warrant a very early morning foray into a fenced yard to leave a threatening note?

I left the shred of fabric in my pocket and took my wife's hand.

“We've got a little time before we go to meet the chief,” I said. “Let's take Mark up on his suggestion and go check out the mansion. I want to see what a ‘mansion with a mission' looks like.”

 

Palatial, I'd say.

With its high-beamed ceilings, tiled floors, palm-lined courtyard, Grand Hall and airy light spaces, the mansion was about a zillion degrees nicer than my own place of work, which was a broom-sized cubbyhole in an ancient brick high school. Combined with the extensive outdoor spaces and gardens, the mansion was well-equipped to host a wide variety of events, and judging from their program listing of educational events and activities, the City of McAllen was putting Quinta Mazatlan to good use as a model for native habitat preservation.

I wandered into the gift shop alcove just inside and left of the mansion's main entrance while Luce made a stop at the ladies' room. I was considering buying us a matching pair of sweatshirts emblazoned with the Great Kiskadee and Green Jay when I thought I recognized a woman's voice coming from behind the registration desk and cashier's station across the entry area.

I leaned back to see across the entry, but a visitor was paying for his purchase at the desk and obscured my view of the woman. A moment later, he left the desk, and I recognized Poppy Mac, her red hair flaming, tending the register. Paddy's wife wore a Quinta Mazatlan name tag, though hers was marked with “Staff,” whereas Mark's had been labeled “Volunteer.”

“Bob White!” Poppy called as soon as she caught sight of me. “Welcome to Quinta Mazatlan. Did you take a bird walk this morning?”

I walked over to the counter and set the sweatshirts on the glass surface.

“We did,” I told her. “And our guide was Mark, Buzz Davis's great-nephew.”

“You want these?” Poppy pointed to the shirts.

I nodded and she entered the information on her sales terminal, looking down through the bottom half of the glasses perched on her nose.

“Mark is an excellent birder,” she said, tapping in the price. “Really, one of the most talented volunteers we've got. He's just such a loose cannon sometimes. That comes to $65.73. Do you want to use a credit card?”

She glanced up at me, and I handed her my card.

“Well,” she continued, “you saw him last night at Buzz's. Such a shame. Disgraceful, really. I was so embarrassed for both of them. I know Mark has a drinking problem, but he shouldn't be taking it out on Buzz. Buzz is only trying to help. And especially last night, what with Birdy's accidental death and all. Buzz and Birdy were so close, and I know that Mark knows that. I can't imagine why he was so awful to Buzz.”

She looked quickly around to see if anyone else was in the store, then leaned over the counter to confide in me.

“You know what?” she asked.

I started to say something, but I guess she'd already determined that I knew nothing, because she went right on without any prompting from me.

“I've heard that there are all kinds of secret drop-off places for drug deals in the area,” she informed me, “and Mark certainly knows his way around all the parks. Of course, he's young, too. Young people can do such stupid things, can't they? I think Mark's into drugs, if you want to know the truth.”

Actually, I didn't.

What I really wanted was to add Texas birds to my life list, enjoy a week of warmth and sunshine with my wife in January, and find out what it was like not to have to help anyone navigate a crisis for a few days. So far, I'd managed two of the three, but that last bit—about crisis—wasn't playing out too well in the last twenty-four hours, and I didn't have high hopes for it to magically go away in the next few hours, either.

But gee, you can't always get what you want, can you?

Especially when somebody decides to bring that crisis right to your front door.

Or, in my case, to my guest suite's front door.

I watched Poppy efficiently fold the sweatshirts and slide them into a Quinta Mazatlan Nature Store bag. Luce joined me at the counter and said hello to Poppy.

“How often do you have a shift working here?” my wife asked her, making polite conversation.

Poppy printed my receipt and slipped it into the bag. She looked at Luce over the top edges of her eyeglasses.

“I just started a month ago,” she told us. “Paddy and I bought a home here last month because we decided to settle down and live here year-round. We're officially retired, you know, but Paddy still takes an occasional temp job. I think he gets too bored, otherwise. He really loved working in collections, if you can imagine that. I thought working here at Quinta Mazatlan would be a good way for me to meet people, too. We've moved around so much during our marriage, that I've never really had the chance to connect with neighbors, so I'm really looking forward to it.”

She handed Luce our bag. I was ready to make a run for it to escape Poppy's life story—I could feel it coming—but Luce smiled at the woman, and I knew what that meant.

Poppy was going to keep talking.

“I love the MOB,” Poppy went on, “but sometimes I just don't want to talk about birds, you know? And now that the SpaceX project is underway, there are all kinds of new people moving into the area. Morning, Regina!” She waved at a woman who passed by in the hallway beyond the store.

Poppy leaned her elbows on the counter and removed her glasses from her nose.

“Really,” she told us, “it's just so sad that Birdy won't see the fruits of all his labor to get SpaceX up and running down here. He's brought so much hope to the region. You know, a lot of people associated this area with drug smuggling and illegal immigration, but now, the Valley will have a whole new bright future as a spaceport. People flying in space just for fun—people like you and me! I'd be thrilled beyond words to be on that first flight, wouldn't you? Imagine that!”

“I don't know if I can,” I said, because my imagination was already busy trying to figure out a way to make a graceful exit from Poppy's conversational clutches. “I'm so new to Texas, I'm still getting over not seeing cowboys and herds of longhorns everywhere. The whole citrus festival thing was enough of a surprise to me—I always thought of Florida, not Texas, when it came to oranges.”

“No kidding? And we have such wonderful citrus around here. The valley used to be filled with orchards. Speaking of which, you are coming to the parade on Saturday, right?” Poppy asked us as I edged Luce toward the store door. “We can always use last minute help with the float, you know. And I'm not sure who's going to be wearing our kiskadee outfit this year. You two are both so tall, maybe you'd be willing? You'd make great kiskadees!”

Poppy laughed, apparently delighted with her word choice. “Oh, my. Great Kiskadees! Get it? Our signature kiskadee is a Great Kiskadee!”

“I'm sure we'll be there,” Luce replied, waving goodbye. “Tell Paddy hello for us.”

She tucked her hand around my arm and steered me out of the mansion.

“She sure likes to talk,” Luce commented. “I wonder if Paddy used to get so immersed in his work that she never felt like she had anyone to talk to. He seems like a jovial kind of guy, but if he was into curating museum collections, maybe he wasn't a very good conversationalist while he was working. ”

“Or maybe he just got used to tuning her out,” I suggested. “She can really get going when she wants to.”

We walked back down the beautifully landscaped walk to the main driveway leading to the parking lot. The sky was blue and the sun shone brightly. Along the walk, cacti mixed with mesquite and a host of other native plants from which issued a variety of chirping and cheeping calls of hidden birds. Plain Chachalacas scooted around under the trees, while a continuous stream of visitors made their leisurely way up the drive, many of them stopping to take photos of the towering date palm trees and the occasional Great Kiskadee or Inca Dove that posed obligingly in the nearest trees.

The place was a playground paradise for birders and photographers. No wonder Quinta Mazatlan received thousands of visitors every year.

“I bet that moving around a lot was probably hard on Poppy,” Luce speculated, obviously still thinking about her conversational exchange with Paddy's wife. “Maybe she's never had close friends as a result, and that's why she just dives in and starts talking. And talking.”

“I think we should introduce her to Chief Pacheco, and she can talk to him,” I said. “She told me she thinks Mark is doing drugs.”

Luce slowed her step and turned to face me.

“Why would she say that to you?” she asked. “We don't know Mark, and even if we did, it's none of our business. That's more than just talking. That's malicious gossip.”

I opened the car door for her, and she got in. I understood, and agreed with, what she said about Poppy speaking badly about Mark. It was inappropriate and none of our business.

At the same time, I couldn't help wondering if Poppy's speculation might help connect some dots on the way to solving Birdy's murder. In particular, I was still thinking about Mark's comment to the Boston birder about how well he knew the hidden spots in Estero Llano. If Poppy's suspicion that Mark was involved with drugs was true, might he also be involved in some illegal drug activity?

Illegal activity that Birdy Johnson might have unknowingly interrupted during his regular Wednesday morning birding walk?

I couldn't forget how green Mark had grown at the reminder of Birdy's death just a short while ago. I'd attributed it to belated remorse over his thoughtless comments to his grieving uncle, but what if that remorse was… guilt?

Did Mark know something about Birdy's death that no one else knew?

Could Mark himself have killed his uncle's best friend?

“Gossip or not, Luce,” I said to my wife as I slid into my car seat and started the engine, “I'm telling the chief about it. Eddie's not the only one at risk here, remember. We've got a nameless note writer to worry about. The more leads I can pass along to Pacheco, the faster he'll solve his case, and then I won't have to keep checking for cars tailing us all the way back home to Minnesota.”

“You think trouble might follow us home?” Luce asked. “But the note writer wants us to leave. You know—what happens in Texas, stays in Texas.”

“That sounds like a line from a country-western song.” I exited the parking lot and turned right, back towards downtown McAllen. “I need some coffee. And doughnuts. I hope this place where we're meeting the chief has both because I have the feeling it's going to be a very long day.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that Luce was downloading the directions on her phone to our rendezvous with Chief Pacheco.