Death Shoots a Birdie (11 page)

Below them, Rachel could see Saxby pushing his way through the crowd. He seemed unhurried, but clearly on a beeline for Dorothy. He stopped to exchange a few words with one person or to pat another on the shoulder, but when he reached Dorothy he placed both hands on her shoulders and ignored the rest of the room.

“What is he up to now?” asked Lark.

“Don’t be so suspicious,” said Rachel. “I think he really likes her.”

“Or else . . .” Lark dropped her voice. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe he did kill Becker, and that he thinks Dorothy knows something.”

“I was there, too. He’s not trying to cozy up to me,” said Rachel.

“Still, I’m not convinced we should let them out of our sight.”

“Cecilia seems to agree with you,” said Rachel, pointing to Cecilia approaching stage left. When she reached Dorothy, she linked her elbow with her sister’s and hung on, thwarting Dorothy’s valiant attempts to extract her arm.

“For what it’s worth,” said Rachel, “I don’t think he killed Becker.”

“Why not?”

“Even if he wanted to, I don’t think he has the guts.”

 

Saxby joined them on the ride to the convention center, and tagged along toward the ballroom. It was adjacent to the Nest, which was open for business. Rachel noted that extra guards had been posted at the doors. The murder scene had been cleaned up, the removable walls were gone, and the vendors plied their wares with zeal. They’d missed out on half a day’s sales. No one seemed too overly concerned with Becker’s death, though it was the topic on everyone lips.

“So what are you planning?” asked Lark. “Are we taking Dorothy’s case?”

Rachel thought about feigning ignorance, and then capitulated. “For Dorothy’s sake, I think we have to help clear him. She is over the moon for him . . .” She raised her hand to keep Lark from speaking. “And it’s my fault. It’s also our fault he’s the prime suspect.”

“Like you have that much control. Dorothy seemed destined to fall for him anyway, and he would have been the prime suspect no matter what. He’s the only one with a motive. Stop beating yourself up.”

Rachel looked at her friend. “You’re right, but I’d still like to know who killed Becker.”

Lark shook her head. “Rae, it’s one thing to solve a murder when you’re in familiar territory and all you have to do to clear somebody is, say, scale a mountain or two. But here—”

Rachel interrupted by grabbing Lark’s arm. “Is that who I think it is?”

A woman in a black tank tap and black shorts stood next to a Lucy Bell foot massage chair.

“If you think it’s the grieving widow.”

Rachel watched the woman take a chair. “You know what? They’ve got two chairs set up, and there isn’t a line. I think I’m in the mood for a Lucy Bell foot massage.”

Lark groaned.

L
ark disappeared to find Cecilia and Dorothy, while Rachel made for the empty pedicure chair. She forked over ten dollars before peeling off her shoes and socks and climbing up in the chair next to Sonja.

“Talk about feeling self-conscious,” said Rachel. Now she knew how Reggie and Beau’s birds must feel. A few women cast longing glances, but most of the birders heading into the ballroom gawked and whispered to each other as they passed by, no doubt wondering why the grieving widow was getting a pedicure. Sonja Becker seemed to be handling this by keeping her eyes shut while her feet soaked.

Rachel had to admit that the warm, oiled water felt very relaxing.

“Mrs. Becker,” Rachel said, almost hesitantly. “Sonja, isn’t it?”

The dark-haired woman didn’t open her eyes. “Do I know you?”

“We met at dinner the other night,” Rachel said. “I’m here on a freelance basis, working up an article for
Birds of a Feather
magazine, and I wanted to convey my condolences.”

“Thank you,” Sonja Becker replied without much interest.

Rachel gritted her teeth. Now what? She’d made a fool of herself, not to mention exaggerated her connection with
Birds of a Feather
magazine and all she had gotten for it was a faint “Thank you.”

Well, what had she expected? That the grieving widow would pour out her soul while a redheaded Lucy Bell conventioneer in a pink smock rubbed cinnamon-scented foot oil into her soles?

“This is nice, isn’t it?” said Rachel. “Although I think they could have put up a curtain or something. It’s kind of weird to get a pedicure in public like this.”
Especially weird when your husband has just been murdered.

Shouldn’t she be making funeral arrangements or something?

“It’s all the same to me,” said Sonja, without opening her eyes. “They can stare if they want.”

Rachel decided she was using the kindergarten approach. Nobody could see her if she kept her eyes shut.

“Excuse me.” A different Lucy Bell lady handed Rachel a color wheel of nail polish, and tried pushing another into Sonja’s hands. “While you’re soaking, you can pick your colors.”

“Black,” Sonja said, pushing the color wheel back. “I’ve just lost my husband. Black for the widow.”

The Lucy Bell lady opened her mouth, and then turned to Rachel with a helpless look that seemed to ask if Sonja was for real. Rachel nodded confirmation.

“That’s awful!” said the redhead. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” said Sonja. “Paul was an idiot.”

“He was a highly respected birder,” said Rachel, trying to say something positive. “Plus a leader in the environmental movement.”

“An idiot,” repeated Sonja. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he wasn’t killed by an irate husband—except the sort of thing he was attracted to wasn’t even old enough to be married.”

Rachel swallowed. “Are you saying he took an interest in his students?” She wondered if Sonja realized that gave her a motive for murder.

“Them, too,” Sonja said.

“Ma’am,” said the redhead. “I know this is a difficult time, but begging your pardon, could I recommend something a little more subtle than black? There is this nice neutral shade called Bare Maximum.”

“Whatever,” Sonja said. “Although it’s not much of a mourning color, is it?”

The Lucy Bell shot a horrified glance at Rachel.

“I’ll try it,” said Rachel, handing back her color wheel. “I normally go with red, but then I’ve never had a Lucy Bell pedicure before.”

“I don’t see what’s wrong with black,” said Sonja. She lifted a sports bottle and took a deep draft, then leaned her head back again. “Did you ever wonder why doctors always tell you to drink water? Whatever climate you go to, it’s the same. If you go to Arizona they say, drink lots of water, it’s a dry climate, and you’ll lose body fluids. If you go to the coast they say, drink lots of water, it’s a humid climate, and you’ll lose body fluids. Where can you go where you don’t lose body fluids?”

“You’ve got me there.” Rachel glanced at the sports bottle. She had a sneaking suspicion the liquid inside it wasn’t water. Well, people dealt with serious loss in different ways.

“What were we talking about?” asked Sonja. “Oh, yes, how Paul was an idiot. Let me count the ways.”

Rachel’s pink-smocked Lucy Bell lady began sawing away at Rachel’s heels with a file. The sensation was not unpleasant—in fact, it tickled. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth and concentrated on what Sonja was saying.

“He couldn’t get ahead. He always let people take advantage of him. You could always count on Paul to be on the side that got shafted.”

“I was under the impression he’d done pretty well,” said Rachel. “He seemed to be well-respected.” Or had she already said that? She thought she had.

“Oh, sure. He and his trust fund did fine. Inherited money is always a mistake. It makes you soft, afraid to stand up for yourself.”

This didn’t sound like the Paul Becker that Rachel had seen insisting on being the Saturday keynote speaker. It didn’t sound like the people she knew who’d inherited money, either.

“He always opened his big mouth too early, jumped on the wrong bandwagon,” continued Sonja. “Of course, he would eventually realize it, then backpedal. Like flipping on that land trade.”

“I thought he was against it.” If he was for it, that might change the suspect list.

“He
was
against it,” said Sonja. “But then, after he went out with Chuck, he was all for it.”

“Chuck Knapp?”

“The filmmaker.”

Now Rachel knew who Becker had gone birding with, but she still didn’t know what their great discovery in the swamp was. She wondered if he’d told Sonja. “Did they find something out there?”

“I’ve got no idea,” said Sonja. “Did I mention that Paul was an idiot? Given enough time, he probably would have flipped back. That was his nature, wishy-washy. But he ran out of time.”

Rachel thought about that as the Lucy Bell lady at her feet delivered an excellent massage. Wishy-washy, Sonja had said. He would have flipped back, but he ran out of time. Maybe that was the point?

“Speaking of backpedaling,” said Sonja. “This is not to say that Paul wasn’t excellent at the one thing he did well. Do you know, he had spotted more birds than anyone in the history of the world. At that, he was supreme.” She took another swig from her sports bottle. “He was better than anyone. He was a hell of a lot better than that boss of his, that’s for sure. It’s just a very odd thing to be really good at, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been working hard to get better at it myself,” said Rachel. She watched as the Lucy Bell ladies rubbed cinnamon-scented foot cream into her feet and Sonja’s.

“Of course you’d be one of them.” Sonja sounded tired. “I just don’t understand it. If you’ve seen one bird, you’ve seen them all. Oh, and Paul wasn’t half bad at golf, either. Another thing I don’t get. I guess if there’s a place in heaven for idiots there will be a golf course with lots of birds on it.”

“I don’t get golf either,” admitted Rachel.
And I don’t get you.
Roger was an idiot, and Roger loved golf, too. But, if someone had killed Roger before she’d had a chance to divorce him, she’d still have been sorry. Wouldn’t she?

“Don’t twitch,” Sonja’s Lucy Bell lady ordered. “You’re twitching.”

“Well
excuuuuse
me,” replied Sonja.

Rachel tried to relax. “I’ve heard Paul was working on a book. Do you think it will still be published?”

“I’m thinking it ought to be published very soon,” Sonja said. “But here’s a case in point. Here is a perfect opportunity for some great publicity. But did he get the damn thing finished in time for it to be in print. Can you imagine what a signed copy would bring now?”

Rachel drew in her breath. Any sympathy she might have felt for Becker’s widow evaporated.

“Of course, he would have finished it, it his department head hadn’t stolen his original research,” added Sonja. “The creep even stole the title. Luckily, you can’t copyright titles, so we’re using it anyway.
A Sacrifice of Buntings.
Doesn’t that sound more like a baseball book? Another sport I don’t get.”

Rachel wanted to pop right out of her chair and e-mail Kirk. “Are you talking about Guy Saxby?”

It had to be. That was the title of Saxby’s book.

“The one and only,” said Sonja. “He even stole the title. Luckily you can’t copyright titles.” She repeated, word for word, what she’d just said, except this time she called it
A Sacrifice of Puntings
.

“There you go!” chirped the redhead. “Now don’t put on your shoes for half an hour!”

Rachel’s Lucy Bell lady patted her calf.
Great
, so now she was supposed to wander around the Nest barefoot, holding her hiking boots?

“If you want something to do while you wait, we have a small display set up,” suggested the Lucy Bell lady. “Or you could get a facial! That will give you plenty of time for your polish to dry. Here’s a coupon!”

Sonja had finally opened her eyes and was staring at her feet. “Good grief, she did it. She really did it. She painted my toenails black!”

 

Rachel passed on the facial and vacated the chair for the next client. She weighed the risks of ruining her pedicure versus sharing her news, and decided she could always repaint her toenails at a more propitious moment. Nobody was going to see her toes anyway.

Under the glare of the Lucy Bell lady, she slipped on her socks and stuffed her feet into her boots, while Sonja sacheted barefoot toward the ballroom. Rachel headed to the Nest, and found Lark, Cecilia, and Dorothy admiring a Leica scope across from Beau and Reggie’s Birds of Prey exhibit.

Rachel looked for blood on the floor, or any sign of what had happened there just a few hours ago, but the booth was whitewashed.

“The show is starting in eight minutes,” Cecilia said. “We thought we’d catch it this time. We may not get another chance.”

“Guy asked me to wait for him here. He had some business to attend to with Evan Kearns.”

I’ll bet he did, thought Rachel.

She signaled a huddle. “Paul Becker had changed his position on the land trade.”

“So?” said Dorothy. “Lots of people change their minds about things. Besides, what’s it matter? He’s already dead.”

“Except that it changes our suspect list,” said Rachel.

Lark frowned. “How so?”

“Because he was against the trade before, which is the premise we used when we started to list everyone. Now we need to look at people who might be against the trade and or be angry because he switched sides.”

“What would have changed his mind?” asked Dorothy. “He seemed dead set against it the other night. He said he’d always been against it.” Dorothy attempted to mimic Becker. “ ‘While one area would be protected, the other area would lose its protection.’ ”

“It must have to do with the mysterious treasure,” said Cecilia.

“Or maybe he found out who was making the other offer to the Andersons, and it changed his mind,” said Dorothy. “Maybe what the developer plans to do to the swamp is worse than losing eighty acres of nesting habitat for the painted bunting on Hyde Island.”