Death Shoots a Birdie (10 page)

Rachel scribbled a note for Lark, thumbtacked it to the message board, and then hailed a cab. She and Dorothy didn’t talk on the way to the hotel, and neither of them acknowledged the protestors. Rachel freshened up while they waited for room service to deliver them lunch. Now, seated at the small breakfast table in her room with the food barely touched, she couldn’t help but wonder why Saxby had left the Nest without them.

“Doesn’t it seem odd that he would just leave us in there with someone shooting a gun? He had to have heard you call out.”

Dorothy looked shocked. “He wasn’t even in there. He said the guard wouldn’t let him through.”

Then who had she heard sneaking away?

Rachel sipped her coffee, setting it down with a bang. “Think back, Dorothy. The scuffle came before the shot, before the glass shattered. I’ll bet the shot came from outside.”

Dorothy face paled. “That means we fingered Guy by telling the police we were there to meet him. We dropped the dime on him. We flushed him out.”

“If he didn’t do it,” Rachel mused.

“Of course he didn’t do it!” Dorothy’s eyes flashed. “Any more than we did!”

Rachel wasn’t so sure. Saxby was territorial, if that was a reason to kill Becker. Still, she reassured Dorothy. “If he’s telling the truth, the guard at the doors will remember turning him away, just like he did us.”

“But we got inside. They’ll just say he entered the same way we did.” Dorothy crumbled a piece of toast into a mini sand dune on her plate. “We’re going to have to help clear him.” She dusted her hands together. “We can help the police.”

“How?”

“By giving them a list of suspects.”

“Like who?” asked Rachel. “We don’t know who might want Becker dead.”

“How about those who are for the land swap?” said Dorothy. “Becker was against it.”

“That gives us the Andersons. They’re the only ones we really know are pro-trade.”

“It’s a start,” said Dorothy. “Becker said he had found a ‘treasure,’ remember. What if he was about to reveal something that would stop the deal?”

“Then the Andersons would be out a golf course.” Rachel reached for her coffee again. “And how bad could that be? They already have a nine-hole course. If they don’t get to expand, it won’t be the end of the world.” Rachel took a sip, then cradled her coffee against her chest. “I’ll admit, eighty acres of prime land next to the hotel would be an improvement over ten thousand acres of swampland, but it’s not worth killing anyone over. And either way, they make out.”

“Then suppose what he discovered impacts the Carters? Those boys seemed pretty upset when Becker mentioned finding something out there.”

“But Fancy didn’t seem worried. The same goes for Dwight and Dwayne. Either the state wants their land, or the developers do. Either way, they come out ahead. It’s win-win.”

“Unless the state would no longer need access,” said Dorothy.

“In which case, they wouldn’t want the trade to happen and we’re back to the Andersons as our only suspects.” Rachel tapped her finger against her mug. “Doesn’t it seem odd that both Guy Saxby and Paul Becker seemed to have big revelations on tap?”

“What are you suggesting?” asked Dorothy. “Are you thinking it was the same revelation? It couldn’t be.”

“It might be related,” said Rachel. “Remember what a big deal they made about which one of them got the Saturday keynote slot. They both wanted it.”

“And Guy gave the slot to Becker, even though it cost him.” Dorothy drew herself up. “Let’s get one thing straight, missy. Guy Saxby is not a killer. I’m a good judge of character. Besides, even if he was a murderer, he wouldn’t kill somebody over a better keynote slot. He said himself that he hoped to be able to unveil his next big adventure on Friday.”

Rachel took a sip of her drink. “I wonder if Guy will tell us what he’s up to, reveal his big secret, now that all this has happened.”

Dorothy narrowed her eyes. “If you’re looking to give your boyfriend some front-page news, isn’t the murder of Paul Becker enough?”

The truth hit home. Rachel’s cheeks started to heat, and then guilt set in. Her friend was really worried about this man. Setting down her cup, she reached for Dorothy’s hand. “I’m sorry. So what could Becker have discovered that could possibly be big enough to kill him over?”

Neither of them could think of a thing.

B
efore they could take up the subject again, the hotel room door swung open and Lark and Cecilia burst into the room.

“With all the excitement over there, how could you leave?” The sweat gleaming on Lark’s forehead was the only indication she had run up the stairs. “Or maybe you didn’t hear. Somebody killed Becker.”

Rachel nodded. “We know.”

“We found him,” announced Dorothy.

Lark and Cecilia gasped.

Cecilia hurried over and fluttered around her sister. “Oh my, oh, Dot.”

“Are you two okay?” asked Lark.

“We’re fine,” said Dorothy, batting Cecilia away. “But the cops have Guy. They took him downtown and everything.”

Cecilia pulled up a chair and patted her sister’s thigh. “That’s what everyone was saying, so when we couldn’t find you, of course we thought . . .” She let her sentence dangle, but Dorothy jumped to the bait.

“You thought they had dragged us off, too?”

“Of course not.” Cecilia sounded indignant. “We thought you might have gone with him.”

That seemed to mollify Dorothy. “They did question us. I talked with a very nice young man. I suppose he was the good cop. I guess Rachel got the bad cop. She got the same one who dragged Guy away.”

“Guy went willingly, and the detective, he was okay,” said Rachel. “He kept asking me the same questions over and over, but that’s his job. He was nice about it.”

“Give us details,” said Lark. “We want to hear everything that happened.”

With the detective’s admonition to keep quiet playing in her head, Rachel gave her rendition of the story, then Dorothy gave hers.

“It fits,” said Lark. “The buzz at the festival is that Saxby is the main suspect.”

“Rubbish.” Dorothy looked pointedly at each of them. “He’s innocent, and we plan to prove it.”

“How?” asked Cecilia. It was like hearing an echo of herself, thought Rachel.

“Why?” asked Lark.

“Because I know he’s innocent, and the police think he’s guilty because of us. Besides, it’s not like we haven’t solved a murder before.”

“No, we’ve solved three,” said Cecilia.

“Or two, in my case,” said Rachel. She had been in Elk Park for the murder of Esther Mills, Lark’s late partner in the coffee company, and for the murder of the reporter from
Birds of a Feather
magazine, who was doing the exposé on her aunt’s late husband. That one had struck too close to home.

“So far we have the Andersons on our list,” said Dorothy. “Can you think of anyone else who might want Becker dead?”

“What about his wife?” asked Cecilia.

Dorothy frowned. “Why would she want to kill him?”

“Because most murders are crimes of passion, committed by someone close to the victim,” Cecilia replied. “Usually someone from the immediate family.”

She’d been watching too much
CSI
.

“I knew that,” said Dorothy.

“Did you ever want to kill Roger?” asked Lark.

Rachel looked up sharply. She met Lark’s stare and had to admit the thought had crossed her mind. “Before or after the divorce?”

They all laughed at her joke, but Rachel wasn’t laughing too hard.

“I need to get out of here,” she said, rising to her feet. “Anyone up for a walk on the beach?”

“I’ll go,” said Lark.

Cecilia looked at Dorothy, who hedged. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to wait here.”

 

Cecilia stayed behind with Dorothy. Lark and Rachel took the car. Lark drove, honking and waving merrily at the protestors as they sped out the gate. The dark-haired hippie type smiled and waved back.

Lark parked the car at the soccer fields, at the north end of south beach, and they walked the boardwalk, their binoculars looped loosely around their necks. Exiting the forest, they found themselves over the dunes. Carolina willows, smartweed, and a large clump of Hercules’ club lined the boardwalk. The farther they walked the shorter the oaks, buckthorn, and other shrub-forest trees became, while the wax myrtles increased in numbers. Then they were across the beach meadows and onto the beach.

Birds flitted in the bushes, hidden from sight except for brief flashes of color, but Rachel didn’t know her bird-songs well enough to identify any of them. Besides, she wanted to be on the beach. Pushing on, they crossed the meadows, reached the shore, and headed off to the south-west, their feet churning the sand. Up ahead someone allowed their dog off leash, and it bolted into the dunes.

Lark snorted. “We should report them.”

“If we get close enough we can yell at them.” That might relieve some of the tension building in her neck and shoulders. Dogs and people were the dunes’ worst enemies. High seas and heavy winds did enough damage. Not only that, but the dog chased the birds off the beach, giving Lark and Rachel little chance of seeing anything.

They ambled along, enjoying the sun and air, until Rachel picked up some movement in the sand. She stopped. A small, sandy-brown bird with white underparts, orange legs, an orange bill with a black tip and a black neckband harvested shells along the edge of the dunes. “Is that a piping plover?”

Lark raised her binoculars. “It sure is. Good spotting.”

They watched it for a few moments, then passed by near the water’s edge to afford the bird plenty of room.

The sighting spurred them to birdwatch, and they had soon added two handfuls of other species to their list. Sanderlings, a ruddy turnstone, a spotted sandpiper, laughing gulls, ring-billed gulls, and herring gulls came first. Then a flock of brown pelicans buzzed the surf, like B-52 bombers on a surveillance run, and a flock of black skimmers passed by, their white bellies skimming the surface of the sea. A grouping of terns and gulls clustered at the surf’s edge turned up three new species. The Caspian terns were the largest, their thick orange bills, black crowns, and black legs distinctive against the white sand. Then came the royal terns, with their white caps and yellow bills. Tucked in among the others Rachel spotted a sandwich tern, its black beak and black crown making it stand out among the giants.

By then they had walked nearly to the tip of the south beach. There, picnickers dotted the sand, while a group of wood storks and egrets fished the surf. Farther out, four men seined for shrimp.

“Ready to turn around?” asked Lark.

Rachael lifted her face to the sun, relished the feel of salt spray on her face, and rolled her shoulders. “Ready.”

 

The hike in and out had taken nearly two hours. They dallied on the boardwalk, treated to the antics of a painted bunting and his ladies along the rail, and then they made a quick stop at the conference center to see what—if anything—had been altered on the program. A stack of notices announced a change of keynote speaker for Saturday night, and it wasn’t Guy Saxby. Instead, the committee had chosen the filmmaker Chuck Knapp.

Lark snorted. “I’ll bet that frosts Saxby. That makes him last choice.” She seemed almost gleeful.

“I wonder whose decision it was,” said Rachel. She presumed Evan Kearns. As much as Saxby hadn’t liked the idea of switching keynote slots with Becker, Kearns had quickly jumped on the idea.

 

Back at the hotel, Rachel knocked on the adjoining door and handed a copy of the notice to each of the sisters.

“I see they’re doing a tribute to Becker,” said Cecilia. “That’s nice.”

Dorothy jabbed her finger at the note about Saturday night. “I imagine ‘the committee,’ ” she intoned sarcastically, “didn’t want to give Guy the best slot because he’s under a fog of suspicion.”

Lark rolled her eyes and flipped her hair back. “Who knows anything about this Knapp guy?”

Rachel saw Dorothy wince. Was it Lark’s use of the word
guy
, or because Knapp’s name triggered a reaction?

“He’s the digiscoping teacher.” Rachel set her binoculars on the dresser. “I’m taking his class on Thursday, and they’re showing his film,
A Bird’s-Eye View
, that night. It costs ten dollars, and everyone’s invited. I’ve heard it’s a great film.” It had been showing at the Esquire Theater, but Rachel hadn’t had the chance to go. “According to the write-up in the festival brochure, all proceeds are being donated to the conservation of painted bunting breeding territory.”

She may as well have been talking to the wall, for all the reaction she got.

Dorothy crossed to the window. “I’ll bet Guy is disappointed at not getting back the Saturday slot.”

That drew a reaction from Cecilia. “Maybe they thought he wouldn’t be around on Saturday.”

“That’s downright mean,” said Dorothy.

“Oh my, it was meant to be a joke.”

“A bad one,” Dorothy shot back.

“That’s right, I forgot he was your boyfriend.”

Was Cecilia jealous
? Rachel wondered. She had been the one pushing Dorothy to engage.

“He’s not my boyfriend. He’s my friend.”

“Whom half the people here think is guilty of killing Becker,” added Cecilia. “Who knows, with that kind of a rap I might cut out early.”

 

Judging from the gaggle of admirers surrounding him in the hotel lobby, being a suspected murderer hadn’t lessened Saxby’s cachet. But he did look up, directly at Dorothy, as the women descended the stairs to head for the banquet. Dorothy’s face glowed.

Cecilia made a small noise in her throat, and then said she had to get some water.

Rachel moved closer to Lark.

“I think Cecilia may be a little jealous,” said Lark, giving voice to Rachel’s earlier assessment. She sounded critical, which Rachel thought funny, seeing as how Lark had never wanted Dorothy and Guy to hook up in the first place.