Death Shoots a Birdie (20 page)

“We found this. ” Rachel pushed the four-inch flat film canister across the desktop towards him. “It’s Knapp’s movie.”

He looked confused. “That’s the one he claimed was missing last night?”

Was it just last night?
Rachel nodded

“And you found it?” He seemed skeptical.

“Yes.” Rachel lifted her chin. It wasn’t exactly a lie. She had discovered it when she wasn’t searching. Still, she couldn’t meet his gaze.

“Care to tell me where?”

Now came the tricky part. “It was in Guy Saxby’s possession.”

“Does he know you have it?”

“We hope not,” said Lark.

Rachel started to explain, but Detective Stone waved his hand in the air. “I don’t want to know. Anything you say may incriminate you, and it doesn’t matter anyway, since I can’t prove it was ever in his possession.” He glared at them through small dark eyes. “Did it ever occur to you, when you were stealing this treasure,” he held up the tape, “that you were interfering in a police investigation?”

“Yes,” admitted Rachel and Lark in unison.

Detective Stone sighed. “But that didn’t matter.”

It was more of a statement than a question, but they both replied. “No.”

Rachel shrugged. “You couldn’t look for it. We could. Now that we know he stole the film, the question we all want answered is, Did Saxby kill Becker and Knapp?”

“Why kill Knapp if he already had the film?” asked Stone.

“Maybe to shut Knapp up about who he thought had stolen it,” said Lark.

Detective Stone shook his head. “You women are a piece of work.” He rubbed his short curly hair, and flashed them a bright smile.

Rachel leaned forward. “Can you tell us what time Knapp was murdered?” It was a reasonable question, and he had no reason to hide the answer.

“The coroner estimates between nine-thirty and eleven.”

“Then he’s in the clear,” said Lark. “Are you satisfied now, Rae?”

“How do you now Saxby’s in the clear?” asked Detective Stone.

At that point, Rachel confessed. She told him everything about her adventure the night before. Detective Stone didn’t even try not to laugh.

Once he’d gotten control of himself, he said, “I’m ready to hear your theories now. Who remains on your suspect list?”

Rachel held up a finger. “Victor Wolcott.”

“The head of the Hyde Island Authority?” Detective Stone jotted his name on a pad of paper. “What makes you suspect him?”

Lark filled him in on Wolcott’s development plans.

“He and Nevin Anderson might even be working together,” added Rachel. She explained how the discovery of a rare species on the swampland might have derailed the sale.

“But it helps with the trade,” Detective Stone pointed out.

“Maybe not,” said Rachel. “If the state doesn’t have to sacrifice the eighty acres because the swampland is protected under federal law, the state comes out ahead. They keep their land, their money, and the swampland remains undeveloped.”

He scratched his head again. “Anderson and Wolcott are hunting buddies. Both of them know their way around a weapon, and either one of them could have taken potshots at you from the golf course.”

“Then there’s the Carter brothers and Fancy.” Rachel told him about seeing Dwight with a rifle the day of the Swamper’s Island fiasco.

“Why would he care what happens?”

“Fancy stands to make a lot of money if the land trade or a development happens. She makes nothing if both deals fall through. Her sons might be protecting their interest.”

“I’ve talked to those boys,” said Detective Stone. “And their mother. She wants to sell the land. Those boys would be happier with the status quo.”

Well, that ruled out the Carter boys as suspects. As for Fancy, Rachel couldn’t imagine her using more than her wiles to try and finagle a deal. That left Anderson and Wolcott. Were they in this together, or was each man out for himself?

“You’re going to stay out of this,” said Detective Stone as if reading her mind. “Thanks for bringing this in.” He picked up the film can, and then shook it. Popping it open, he showed them it was empty.

Rachel’s stomach tightened, and her skin tingled. “It was there last night. I put it in the nightstand.” She looked at Lark.

“I didn’t take it.”

“How about your friends?” asked Detective Stone.

“No,” said Rachel. “They’d have no reason to take it.” Then a sickening thought crept into her mind. “When we came back up from breakfast our room was made up.”

“Why would the maid steal the film?” asked Detective Stone.

“She wouldn’t,” said Rachel. “But Nevin Anderson would. Maybe one of the Andersons took it, and made up the room to make us think the maid had been there. We were in the restaurant for at least an hour.”

“Okay,” he said, closing the canister and setting it aside on his desk. “I’ll check into it. Now, you two, go back to the hotel, pack your bags, and go home. No more digging around. No more hiding under beds. You leave tomorrow, right?”

“Monday,” said Lark.

“Then go bird-watching. That’s what you came for.”

 

They followed his advice. Back at the hotel Dorothy was still in a funk, so Rachel took matters into her own hands. They all wanted a chance to see the bird of a lifetime, and even if the festival was canceled, the Carters were offering the Okefenokee Swamp Tour. Rachel secured the last four spots on the bus. The next morning, she climbed out of bed before the alarm went off.

“Rise and shine,” said Rachel. “It’s six A.M.”

Lark rolled over and stretched. “Oh boy, another bus ride.”

“Yes, but this time we’ll actually get to see something,” said Rachel. She knocked on the door connecting their suite to Dorothy and Cecilia’s. “Rise and shine.”

“Watch out,” Lark yelled, “it’s Tour Guide Barbie. I think the Lucy Bell gals have gotten Rachel in their clutches.”

“Oh my,” said Cecilia. “Are we having fun yet?”

“We’d better be,” said Rachel. “It’s our last day.”

By six-thirty, Dorothy was the one all put together. After adding finishing touches to her hair, she started packing her backpack. “Okay, ladies, we need sunscreen, water, field books, cameras, sunglasses, binoculars . . .”

“Don’t forget bug spray,” said Cecilia.

“Can you believe it? We’re going out to see a bird thought to be extinct,” said Dorothy. “I may not be having a Big Year, but if we spot the ivory-billed, it will be one of the best.”

“There are no guarantees, Dot.”

“No, but I have a feeling.”

Rachel was pleased to see Dorothy in such a good mood, and her enthusiasm was contagious. Everyone on the bus seemed to catch her spirit. Everyone’s hopes for seeing some unusual species were high.

The bus ride was uneventful. Lark dozed. Cecilia and Dorothy compared field notes from the week. Rachel enjoyed the view from the windows. The marshes dissipated, and tall pine forests lined the roads.

She sat up straighter when they passed the turnoff where they had idled on Friday. The spear of land called Swamper’s Island tapered off to the west, cut off from the mainland by a large swath of brackish water. A small wooden bridge behind a wire fence bridged the gap—one side supported by Swamper’s Island, the other supported by Carter land.

The turn-in for the Okefenokee Swamp Tours camp was a half mile farther down the road. A small trailer sported a large sign declaring it the Okefenokee Swamp Tours Convenience Store. The cutout of a large alligator waving a safari hat stood on its hind legs supporting the sign. Several outbuildings were scattered about, and several motorboats were tied up to the docks. In the distance, she could see the National Wildlife Refuge building.

“Look who drove themselves rather than travel with the hoi polloi,” said Cecilia as the bus jolted to a stop.

Rachel glanced out the window. Nevin Anderson and Victor Wolcott were unloading gear from the back of a beige sedan.

As their group moved en masse toward the small convenience store, Wolcott and Anderson headed for the canoes. Rachel watched them negotiate with Fancy, before loading their gear into a dark green canoe.

Were they going out on the field trip, or did they plan to venture into the swamp alone?

The last case that Anderson stowed looked long and padded. A rifle case?

Rachel’s heart beat faster. “Did you see that?” she asked Lark.

“See what?”

“Nevin Anderson just loaded a gun into that canoe.”

A
gun?” echoed Lark. “Maybe it was fishing gear.” “In a gun case?”

“Let’s go, ladies,” interrupted Kearns, shepherding them toward the convenience store. “We haven’t got time for you to stand around and yak. Make sure you have everything you need before heading to the boats—bottled water, snacks, and wet bags.”

Lark, Cecilia, and Dorothy did his bidding. Rachel hung back and watched Anderson and Wolcott push off from shore. Wolcott sat in the middle, hunched over, his portly physique covered in khaki. A fishing hat covered his head, shielding his nose from the hot sun. Anderson, on the other hand, looked like he was headed off for a round of golf. He wore a collared short-sleeved shirt and shorts. A Hyde Island Club Hotel visor shaded the angles of his face.

Steering them into open water, Anderson looked up, smiled, and waved.

Rachel scampered to catch up to the others. Perhaps they’d see them out on the water. She was curious to know where they were headed.

The four of them bought four waters, a box of granola bars, and what amounted to four giant Ziploc baggies. Rachel bought a map. After stuffing their belongings into the bags, they stopped and used the bathrooms, and then headed for the canoes. By the time they arrived at the boats, Wolcott and Anderson were out of sight.

“Is hunting allowed in the swamp?” she asked Dwayne while he and Dwight measured their party for oar lengths and handed out orange life preservers.

Dwayne’s head snapped up. “No. Why?”

“Ah, I . . .” She wrestled with her answer, and then chose the truth. “I just thought I saw someone loading a gun into one of the canoes.”

Dwight and Dwayne exchanged glances. Dwayne made a slight gesture with his head, and Dwight took off toward the store.

“Thanks for the heads-up,” said Dwayne, bending back over the life preserver ties. “Hunting is restricted to private property and special shoots. The deer population can get out of hand. But we’re not in deer season. And this ain’t private property.” He smiled his dazzling smile, and gestured toward a canoe. “Now, let’s get you seated.”

Dorothy and Cecilia were assigned to one canoe, Lark and Rachel to another. The rest broke into pairs.

“This is how it works,” said Dwayne, with a wink at Rachel.

Either he had an eye condition, or he was a flirt. She made a mental note to tell him about Kirk.

“Stay seated in the canoes. The person in front steers, the person in back paddles. Together you’ll find your rhythm. You first.” Dwayne pointed at Lark and Rachel.

“You steer,” said Lark.

Rachel stepped forward.

Dwayne grabbed hold of her elbow, and helped her into the canoe. “The long narrow construction makes the canoe a little tippy. The person steering sits near the front.” Once Rachel was settled he pointed at Lark. “The paddler is going to push off, and jump in. You need to get your fanny on that seat there.” He pointed to the seat behind Rachel. “Put your oar in the boat, and steady yourself by keeping two hands on either side.”

Lark shoved off and missed getting in the canoe. Rachel floated out a ways and struggled to paddle back on her own. On the second try, they both managed to get into the boat, but the canoe tipped side to side and threatened to take on water.

“Sit down,” ordered Dwayne.

Lark sat. It took a moment for the boat to steady itself, and then they were floating free. The canoe drifted, and bumped into one of the powerboats tied up at the docks.

“Push off,” said Dwayne. “Now turn around slowly. That’s right.”

Rachel and Lark found their rhythm quickly. Paddling and steering was easier than mounting and dismounting. The biggest challenge was not running into another member of their small flotilla. Cecilia and Dorothy hit the water like old pros.

There were sixteen canoes in all, plus one for each of the Carters joining the group on the water. Dwight Carter had never come back. Dwayne took up the middle and Fancy Carter—in skintight khakis, a white tank top, and a safari hat—acted as their tour guide.

“Indian tribes used to live in the swamp,” she explained. “The last being the Seminoles, who were driven into Florida around 1850. In 1891, the land was purchased by the Suwannee Canal Company. Their intent was to drain the land for logging and to grow crops. Their leader, Captain Henry Jackson, and his crew spent three years digging the Suwannee Canal. When economic recession led the company to bankruptcy, the land was sold to the Hebard Cypress Company, and a railroad was built into the west edge of the swamp. In just under thirty years, over four hundred thirty-one million board feet of Cypress was removed from the Okefenokee.

“Nowadays, we work to preserve the natural wonders of the swamp. Research has been done on everything from bacteria to black bears. Prescribed burns help maintain a natural vegetation process, and trees are being replanted.”

“What about endangered species?” asked a woman sharing a canoe with her young daughter.

Dwayne looked perturbed.

“Special emphasis is placed on the two
known
species in the swamp,” said Fancy. “The red-cockaded woodpeckers and the indigo snakes.”

“Snakes?” said Lark.

“Indigos are large blue-black snakes that grow up to nine feet long,” said Dwayne. “They’re not dangerous. It’s the other snakes you need to watch out for.” He seemed to take pleasure in Lark’s obvious distress. Rachel felt a little squeamish herself.