The Kiskadee of Death (11 page)

Schooner.

Gunnar.

Paddy Mac.

Poppy Mac.

Who among them would want Birdy Johnson to fly away permanently? And who was framing whom? Was one of those four trying to frame Eddie or Buzz? Or was Buzz the murderer and trying to frame Eddie?

And that meant I was back where I started when I first heard Luce's even breathing next to me—wondering who, among the cast of characters I'd met, had killed Birdy Johnson.

 

Chapter Twelve

T
wo hours later, I woke up with a start.

No, I didn't have the name of the killer delivered to me in a dream.

A dog was growling.

Very loudly.

Just outside our bedroom.

And then the growling was gone, replaced by crazy loud barking that was moving away across the yard.

I hopped out of bed and ran over to the window next to our door and peered out through the glass.

On the far side of Rhonda's expansive yard, Maddie, her resident English Labrador, was furiously barking at the six-foot-tall brick wall that enclosed the property. The big brown dog was practically dancing with excitement, rearing up to put her paws on the wall, then backing away, and all the while swiping her tail back and forth with what looked like dog-style gleeful abandon. I noticed that the lights in Rhonda's living room flicked on, and a moment later, she was out on the stone patio calling for Maddie.

I opened the bedroom door and called across the large patio that separated our suite from the main house.

“Rhonda, is everything all right?”

In the dim light coming from the living room windows, I could see that Maddie had returned to her mistress, although the dog was still clearly excited about her midnight adventure. Rhonda grabbed Maddie's collar and waved to me.

“We're all good, Bob,” she replied. “Some critter must have come into the yard and set her off. I'm so sorry she disturbed you.”

“No problem,” I called back. “Nice to know we've got a good watchdog looking out for us.”

I turned back towards the room and saw a piece of paper taped to our bedroom door.

I pulled it off and held it up in front of me to catch some moonlight to read it.

Go home, Minnesota, or you're going to get hurt,
I read.

Call me crazy, but I was fairly certain Maddie hadn't left the note. Last I'd looked, dogs didn't have fingers to write with, and in the absence of either dog paw prints or dog slobber running the ink, I could only assume we'd had an uninvited visitor in the yard.

One that could write.

Talk about topping off a bad day.

I walked back into the room and shut the door behind me.

“What are you doing?” came my wife's sleepy voice from under a mound of blankets.

“Just catching a little fresh air,” I told her. “Go back to sleep, honey.”

I checked the digital clock on the nightstand. It was two in the morning.

Ah. My mistake. The threatening note wasn't topping off a bad day, after all.

It was just starting a whole new one.

“Bobby,” my wife said, her voice more awake. I looked at Luce, who had pulled the blankets down to speak to me. “Next time, you might want to put on some clothes when you go out for air. Just sayin'.”

I looked down at my bare feet… bare knees… bare…

“Good idea,” I said. “I'll try to keep it in mind.”

As I got back in the bed, I really hoped Rhonda was nearsighted.

Or had a really, really short memory.

* * *

Six hours later, I was ready to give the new day another shot. This time, it wasn't a menacing growl outside our door that woke me but the light sighing of wind chimes on the other side of the house. I took a quick shower and surrendered the bathroom to my wife, pulled on some clothes (yes, I can be taught!) and walked out to explore the yard.

A quick scan of the treetops yielded a flycatcher taking a moment's rest from feeding. I listened for a moment, hoping the bird would vocalize, since both the Couch's Kingbird and the Tropical Kingbird were residents in this southern edge of Texas and virtually identical in plumage. The Couch's Kingbird has a much smaller range, though, and is rarely found south of Mexico, while the Tropical branch of the family spans almost the full length and width of South America. The bird I was watching let out a cry just as it took to the air again, confirming with its nasal
pik-pik-pik-pitweer
that it was, indeed, a Couch's Kingbird, giving me a new bird to add to my life list.

Nice score for right outside my door, I reflected, as I also watched a Black-Crested Titmouse flitting among the branches of a bougainvillea bush near the corner of our suite. From the top of one of the large mesquite trees in the middle of the yard came the cackling of grackles. Two birds hopped from branch to branch, and I was able to get a good look at their long, broad tails; these along with their low-pitched buzzing call mixed in with their cackles confirmed they were Great-tailed Grackles.

A panting sound behind me had me turning to greet Maddie as she bounded from the patio to join me in my exploring. Her brown coat glistened in the morning sunlight. As soon as she reached me, she leaned her solid body against my leg and lifted her nose to snuffle at my hand.

“So,” I said to the dog, scratching behind her velvety ears, “who did you chase away from my door last night?”

She wagged her tail enthusiastically and leaned even more heavily into my leg.

“Don't tell me you didn't get a name,” I scolded her. “I need a name.”

To my surprise, Maddie ran for the portion of the brick wall where I'd seen her jumping in the night and buried her nose in the grass near a thorned tree laden with golf-ball-size Key limes. A moment later, she was back at my side, with a shred of cloth between her teeth. She dropped the scrap at my feet and sat, her eyes looking adoringly into mine.

A clue?

I picked up the shred of material and examined it. I could have sworn its faded colors looked familiar.

Like a tropical print.

“Good morning, Bob!”

Rhonda waved to me from the patio. Maddie took off towards her mistress, leaving me alone in the middle of the back yard.

Did the shred of cloth come from last night's intruder, or was it a scrap dropped by birds as they collected trimmings for nests?

I looked up at the dead tree trunk near the corner of the yard that Rhonda had pointed out to me on our first morning at the Birds Nest. She said she referred to the tree as the Bird Condo, since it was filled with holes drilled by birds for nests. According to Rhonda, the tree had housed a family of Black-bellied Whistling-Ducks last spring, and I'd seen pictures of trios of Eastern Screech-Owls perching on another tree limb on Rhonda's acre of suburban bird sanctuary. Knowing many birds scouted far and wide for nest-building materials, it wasn't a stretch of my imagination to think the slip of fabric in my fingers could have come from almost anywhere in the neighborhood, or that it had been lying on the ground for weeks.

At the same time, the shred's location close to where Maddie had barked so vigorously last night seemed too coincidental to completely disregard, so I tucked the bit of fabric into my jeans pocket to hand over to Chief Pacheco in case he wanted to see it.

Now all I had to do was decide what to do about a threatening note taped on my guest suite door in the middle of the night.

Go home, Minnesota, or you're going to get hurt.

Not exactly a whole lot of options there: go home, or get hurt. Why couldn't I have had a few more choices like “Open Door Number Three” or “Pass Go and Collect $200”?

Of course, the more interesting matter to consider was why I had received the note in the first place. Call me suspicious, but I had the uncomfortable feeling my activities of the day before had unwittingly tangled me and Luce into a murder plot that wasn't finished. The fact that my wife and I had now landed on someone's anonymous threat list didn't fill me with a warm and fuzzy feeling, either.

It sort of made me angry.

No. That wasn't right.

No “sort of” about it.

I was angry.

As in
really
angry.

Who did our secret letter writer think he—or she—was? Luce and I had as much right to be here in the Lower Rio Grande Valley as anyone else on the planet. We'd come for a warm vacation and a birding extravaganza, which was the same reason a lot of people headed to south Texas in January. And even if we had blundered into a murder scene as after-the-fact witnesses… well, so had a small flock of MOB members. Unless all those folks likewise received a special invitation during the night to get out of Texas, that meant we'd been singled out for a reason.

My angry train of thought came to a screeching halt.

There were only two reasons I could think of for telling a murder witness to leave town: to stay safe to testify later, or to make any possibility of testimony disappear.

It all depended on who did the telling—the law or the killer.

I was pretty sure Chief Pacheco wouldn't resort to taping a message on my door for my protection, nor could I imagine him creeping across Rhonda's lawn to leave me a threatening message. If the chief wanted to get rid of me for any reason, I was confident he had more effective ways to do that; a restraining order could probably do that trick just as easily as coming up with some false reason for arrest.

If, on the other hand, the killer wanted me out of the way, I could only conclude it was because I knew something that could help finger him as Birdy's murderer.

Great.

What did I know that I didn't know I knew, but that the killer did know I knew?

I started walking back to the patio where Luce had joined Rhonda. Both of the women were smiling while they talked, but before I reached them, our hostess vanished into her home, the valiant watchdog Maddie at her heels.

“Rhonda said she was glad to see you were dressed this morning,” Luce said, trying to suppress a smile. “For the weather,” she added a beat too late. “It's supposed to be a little on the cool side for January along the Rio Grande.”

I felt a tiny roll of heat slide onto my cheeks and narrowed my eyes at my wife.

“She didn't… last night… this morning,” I stammered, my cheeks feeling hotter by the moment.

Luce gave me a big kiss smack on my lips and stopped trying to hide her grin.

“No, she didn't,” Luce assured me. “Rhonda said she was practically night-blind. She only knew it was you at our door because you called out to her first. She wanted to apologize again for the disturbance.”

“It wasn't her fault,” I told Luce, handing her the folded note that I'd slipped into my back pocket when I'd gotten dressed after my shower. I watched her face as she read the line of warning.

I tapped the note in her hand.

“This is whose fault it is,” I said. “And we're not leaving Texas until we know who wrote it… and why.”

Luce's beautiful blue eyes turned ice cold.

“Lead the way, Bobby. I think Rhonda was wrong about today's forecast. I have a feeling it's going to get plenty hot after all.”

 

Chapter Thirteen

C
hief Pacheco, his assistant informed me when I phoned, couldn't meet with us before ten in the morning, so Luce and I decided to make a stop at Quinta Mazatlan, another of the World Birding Centers right there in McAllen. I'd heard a few of the birders the night before talking about the Curved-bill Thrasher they'd seen there earlier in the week, and I hoped we could repeat their find.

Ten minutes later, I parked the car in the big lot in front of Quinta Mazatlan's regal entrance driveway that was lined on both sides with lush formal gardens. At the top of the drive stood a white adobe mansion that would have been right at home in a sprawling Hollywood mini-series. According to the brochure we picked up at the entrance desk, the mansion was built in 1935 in the Spanish Revival Style and remained a private luxury estate until the city of McAllen bought it in 1998. Eight years later, the historic property was repurposed as a “mansion with a mission,” and it was now operated by the city's Parks and Recreation Department as an urban sanctuary dedicated to connecting people with nature through its programs about birds, plants, and environmental stewardship.

Not to mention that the property also offered excellent birding with its native plants and twenty acres of tamaulipan thornforest, which is the ecological biome of that part of Texas and northeastern Mexico.

In birding terms, it meant birds I'd never see in Minnesota.

Luckily, a small band of birders was just about to set out on a morning birding walk around the Quinta Mazatlan grounds with one of the staff guides, so Luce and I trotted out of the impressive tiled entryway to join the group outside on one of the garden paths that opened onto the palm-lined driveway. We said hello to the other three people and then turned to greet our volunteer guide as he came out of the building behind us.

It was the kid from last night.

The drunk driver of the Mustang.

Buzz Davis's great-nephew.

I glanced at his name tag as soon as he got close enough for me to read it.

Mark.

Yup, that was the boy.

Mustang Mark, Schooner had called him.

Although, in the bright light of morning, Mustang Mark didn't look so much like an underage drinker, but more of a much younger version of his uncle Buzz.

A young Buzz with a blond ponytail and somewhat blood-shot eyes.

He introduced himself to our little group, and it was clear from the lack of recognition in his eyes when he looked my way that Mark had no idea we'd almost crossed paths the night before, let alone become casualties of his impaired driving.

“Welcome to Quinta Mazatlan,” he said, his voice surprisingly steady and strong. “If you've never birded here before, you're in for a treat. We've documented over 160 species right here on the property, and today I think we're going to see some vireos and warblers, along with our usual suspects of Green Jay, Great Kiskadee, and several varieties of hummingbirds. Situated on the convergence of the Mississippi and Central flyways, we've got one of the best spots on the planet for birding right here in McAllen, Texas.”

I couldn't help myself. I nudged Luce with my elbow in her side and whispered, “Imagine that—this is where the Mississippi and Central flyways converge—you learn something new every day, don't you?”

She gave me a small grin and pushed my elbow away.

Mark proceeded to ask each of us in the group where we were from and whether we were new visitors to the area. Of the five of us, two—a man and a woman—were older residents of McAllen who had recently taken up birding as a hobby. Another woman, who was probably in her mid-twenties, was on vacation from Boston on her first birding trip to south Texas. When Luce and I mentioned we were from Minnesota, I thought I detected just a twitch of heightened interest on Mark's part, but he immediately moved on to begin our bird walk by directing us onto the Thornforest Trail.

“This is one of my favorite trails here at Quinta Mazatlan,” Mark told us, walking backward to face us, his voice hushed as we followed the trail away from the main driveway. “We have thirty native species of trees…”

He stopped mid-sentence and tilted his head in a listening pose.

I heard the call then, too, and looked over Mark's left shoulder towards a cluster of tall scrappy bushes. A fast flitting noise accompanied a tiny yellow-gray bird with two white wing bars as it darted from branch to branch.

“Look at those spectacles,” Mark whispered to us, his own neck moving back and forth as he tracked the bird hopping from limb to limb. “It's a White-eyed Vireo. They're generally hard to find, let alone being able to get a good look at, since they move so fast.”

All six of us peered into the shrubbery as the tiny bird continued to forage for insects.

“This is the vireo's wintering grounds,” Mark informed us. “Both the male and female sing, and if we're lucky, maybe we'll hear them. The birds are fairly secretive, so generally birders hear them more often than see them.”

He turned around and led us along the pathway that wound through the forest, stopping occasionally to point out Golden-fronted Woodpeckers, Yellow-bellied Sapsuckers, Inca Doves, and White-winged Doves perched in trees. At one spot on our walk, a small flock of house sparrows were making so much noise in the bushes lining the path that I had to raise my voice to ask our guide a question about the property.

“With all the native plants and trees here,” I commented, “I'm guessing you must teach some landscaping for wildlife classes here at the Center. Do you get a lot of people interested in that?”

Mustang Mark nodded enthusiastically. “It's part of our mission. We call it our ‘Backyard Habitat Steward' program, and its goal is to help people restore their backyards into natural habitat. We have so many beautiful birds and butterflies in this region that it's fairly simple to attract them into your own yard with native plants. Visitors come from all over the world to see our wildlife, but people who live here can enjoy it every day if they know what to put in their own yards.”

“That's true everywhere,” I told him. “If you plant the native trees and flowers, you'll get the wildlife that goes with it. All it takes is a little education about natural environments.”

“Over there,” Luce said, touching my arm to catch my attention. “An Orange-crowned Warbler, about fifteen feet up in that tree.”

I followed her pointing finger and caught sight of the warbler. As I looked, a Rufous Hummingbird flew by right in front of me.

“Good eye,” Mark complimented Luce as we moved on. “You know your birds. You said you were from Minnesota, right?”

I wondered if he was beginning to connect us with the MOBsters working on last night's float in Buzz's garage. I recalled that Schooner had distracted the boy with his enthusiastic greeting, thereby interrupting the mounting tension between Buzz and his nephew. Taking charge of the inebriated boy, Schooner had pulled him into the house and away from his uncle, at which point I could almost hear a collective sigh of relief from the assembled float workers. I knew I was appreciative of Schooner's fast thinking because it had meant I hadn't had to step up to the plate and resort to my own crisis management experience of breaking up fights.

Granted, most of my experience was with fights that took place in high school hallways or cafeterias, but I figured the basic elements were the same.

Although, Lord knows, there would have been plenty of limes and lemons in Buzz's garage for ammunition.

“We're just in town for the week,” I heard Luce tell Mark. “We're trying to visit all the World Birding Centers, but I don't know if we'll be able to fit them all in. There's just too much to see.”

“Did you get out to Estero Llano Grande State Park yet?” the young woman from Boston asked. “It's amazing.”

Mark agreed. “It's got the largest wetlands of any of the Centers. And I've found some excellent trails in the woodlands that a lot of people miss. It's almost like you've got the whole place to yourself… and the birds. Very secluded. I highly recommend it.”

Interesting.

Mark knew the trails of Estero Llano.

I wondered if he'd learned them from his uncle, since Rosalie had indicated that Buzz and Birdy were well-known birders at the park. Last night, I hadn't even considered that Mark might be into birding, but this morning, I'd learned otherwise—Mustang Mark was extremely knowledgeable and skilled as a birder. To my surprise, he was also very likeable; he laughed easily with our little group of birders and engaged everyone in conversation.

All in all, Mark seemed like a pretty good guy. He reminded me a lot, in fact, of his uncle Buzz, who also seemed like a pretty good guy.

Unfortunately, also like his uncle, Mark had a disease he needed to address. For everyone's sake, I hoped that happened sooner, rather than later.

“I heard somebody found a dead man out there yesterday,” the older fellow in our group volunteered as we returned to the main drive of the estate. “One of our Winter Texans. I think he had a heart attack.”

“That's right,” his companion said. “He was DOA at the hospital.”

For a split-second, I thought
oh my gosh, another body out there?
Does the park have a quota system or something?

But then I realized the two birders were referring to my own discovery of Birdy Johnson's body, and that, like Buzz and the other MOB members last night, no one was privy to the details of the death the chief had shared with Eddie, Luce, and me. I stole a quick glance at Mustang Mark and was surprised by his reaction to the local man's statement—I could have sworn our guide's tan went green around the edges.

Again, interesting.

Based on Mark's bad boy behavior and insults to his great-uncle last night, I would have assumed the younger man was no admirer of either Birdy Johnson or Buzz Davis, blood relation or not. Yet just now, the colorful addition to his skin tone immediately struck me as a visceral reaction, something Mark had virtually no control over. If he hadn't seemed so focused as our guide, I might have thought he was having a morning-after bout of nausea, but aside from his bloodshot eyes, Mark seemed no worse for his overindulgence the night before.

In fact, unless I missed my guess, the reminder from the birder that Birdy Johnson was dead hit Mark right in the gut, and my counselor instinct told me Mustang Mark was experiencing a physical reaction of intense remorse.

He'd virtually tossed Birdy's death into his uncle's face during his drunken rant.

Pulling a stunt like that would make anyone feel sick… once you realized what an insensitive jerk you'd been.

Now, on the sober side of that scene, Mark must have been kicking himself for the way he'd acted, knowing that no amount of apologizing could ever completely undo the hurt he'd caused his uncle. If that were the case—and I hoped it was for Buzz's sake, because it would mean that Mark wasn't a total moron—then maybe the bad boy behavior was just that: bad behavior, and not evidence of a bad boy.

A loud scratchy cry of
kis-ka-dee
called a halt to my rumination as a flash of yellow, black, white, and reddish-brown flew over my head and settled to perch in the upper branches of a tree.

“Great Kiskadee,” Mark said, his tan back to its previous shade, his voice smooth and professional. “One of the largest members of the Tyrant Flycatcher family and a Texas specialty. That black mask he wears?”

He pointed at the bird that continued to make its raucous call.

“It works like the black smears athletes apply under their eyes: it reduces glare,” he explained. “That gives the kiskadee an edge for hunting insects in bright light or snatching small fish or snails. A great example of natural adaptation.”

A light gasp escaped the lips of the Boston birder.

“It's only got one eye,” she said.

“Great Kiskadees are aggressive,” Mark replied. “They'll attack larger animals, like snakes or raptors, that try to raid their nests. It's inevitable that they might sustain injuries. Protecting what's yours is a key to survival in the natural world, but it doesn't make it any less dangerous. Or deadly.”

I found myself staring at Mark as he spoke.

More precisely, I was staring at his shirt.

His Hawaiian shirt.

With a tropical print.

That was clearly ripped along one side.

I realized Mark was watching me stare at him.

“Have we met before?” Mark asked.