Death of a Songbird

Death of a Songbird by Christine Goff Page A

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Authors: Christine Goff
short-sleeved shirt, the tall Norwegian looked like he'd stepped out fo an Abercrombie & Fitch advertisement. A light breeze ruffled his brown hair, molding a thin cotton shirt against his well-formed pecs. Blue eyes gazed at her down a long, thin nose.
    His gaze traveled her length. Lark’s heart pounded beneath her silk blouse. Self-consciously, she raised her hand to her throat. It had been a while since a man had looked at her that way.
    An elbow jab to the ribs nearly doubled her over and jolted her back to reality. What had she been thinking? Eric Linenger was the most eligible, most sought-after bachelor in Elk Park. Why would he be interested in her?
    “Go ahead, dear,” Cecilia said, tucking her arm back to her side. “Tell us.”
    “Well,” Lark coughed and patted her chest. “I’ve never seen a bird like it. It was some kind of warbler, small, with a red throat, a red face, and a black cap.” She expounded on the details, recalling the markings as best she could without her field notebook. She’d left it at Bird Haven. She made a mental note to retrieve it later. Bernie Crandall needed to see it.
    “You’ve just described a red-faced warbler,” Harry said.
    “That’s impossible,” Andrew Henderson scoffed, popping a miniature egg roll into his mouth and tugging at the belt around his extra-wide girth. “There’s never been a sighting in Colorado.”
    “You’re wrong,” Harry said. “Schottler and Stachowiak spotted one in Wheat Ridge in 1993. Schottler even got a picture.”
    Lark felt vindicated. Leave it to a biology professor to collect that kind of data.
    “Okay, one sighting,” Henderson conceded. “One.” He held up a pudgy finger. “Elk Park’s just too far out of the red-faced warbler’s northern range to make it feasible.”
    “What is the range?” Cecilia asked. Lark was wondering the same thing.
    “Southwestern New Mexico,” Harry answered, uncrossing and recrossing his ankles. “However, it seems obvious Schottler’s bird didn’t know that.”
    Cecilia dug inside the heavy black leather purse she kept draped over her arm. “Wait. I have a guide book.” She ran a finger down the index and flipped the book open to the photo plates. “Is this your bird?”
    She held up the picture for Lark to see.
    “That’s it!”
    “I’m telling you, it can’t be,” said Henderson, cramming another egg roll into his mouth. “Did anyone besides you and Rachel see this bird?”
    Lark winced. She knew where this was going. Rachel was a novice birder. Her corroboration wouldn’t satisfy anyone. “No.”
    He flung open his arms. “There you have it.”
    Lark ignored him. “I still want to know what the book says.”
    Cecilia skipped to the next page and scanned the text. “Found in Mexico and Central America in pine-oak forests. Reaches northern limit of range in Arizona and New Mexico.” She glanced up, said, “Not exactly true,” then glanced back down. “Usually seen in mountain canyons at six thousand five hundred to nine thousand feet elevation. It prefers yellow pine, spruce, or Douglas fir and is often sighted near streams.”
    “Where did you say you spotted it?” Eric asked.
    “On the peninsula.”
    “There are lots of pine trees on the peninsula, and it’s near the stream’s inlet,” Cecilia said. “Plus Elk Park falls within the right zone, just a skosh north.”
    “Wishful thinking, if I ever heard it.” Andrew spoke around a mouthful of egg rolls.
    “It’s been so hot, maybe the bird thought he was in New Mexico,” countered Lark. “All I know is, I saw it, and it looked like that.” She jabbed a finger at the guide book picture.
    “You know,” Harry said, straightening up. “Lark may be onto something.”
    “What? With the weather theory?” Eric asked, taking a swig of beer and winking at Lark.
    Harry nodded. “With global warming, ecosystems change, and the creatures inhabiting those ecosystems change. Sometimes it happens over long

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