Death Shoots a Birdie (7 page)

“What do you say we perch over there for a few minutes?” She pointed toward the lunch area. The service counter was shuttered, but a long buffet table stacked with hors d’oeuvres cut a swath through a number of tables.

“Sure, why not?” Lark agreed.

Dorothy gripped Rachel’s arm in a viselike hold. “Wait! There’s Guy.”

Rachel’s eyes flickered over the linen-draped tables, the metal chafing dishes, and the crowded groupings of diners until her eyes flitted over Saxby. He was seated at a table near the back with Paul Becker, Evan Kearns, Dwayne Carter, Patricia Anderson, the brunette from the parking lot, and four people Rachel couldn’t identify.

Lark flipped back her braid. “For what it’s worth, it looks like his table is full.”

“Maybe, but there are open seats at the one beside it,” said Cecilia, prying Rachel’s arm loose of her sister’s fingers. “Dorothy and I will go save them. Why don’t you two go and get us some snacks?”

Before either of them could respond, Cecilia dragged Dorothy away. Lark rolled her eyes. Rachel reached for a dish.

“I feel like I’m back in high school,” said Lark, scooping some spicy chicken wings onto her plate.

Rachel heaped hers with crab cakes. “I think it’s kind of cute.”

“That’s because it gives you a way to help Kirk get his story.”

Rachel stopped mid-pinch on a tongful of pickled shrimp. Was Lark angry with her because Dorothy had a crush on Saxby?

“What are you saying? It’s not like I’ve done anything to encourage her.” And so what if she had? Rachel dropped the pickled shrimp on her plate. “Why are you so against Dorothy liking him, anyway?”

“She’s a sixty-five-year-old spinster. He’s a fiftysomething-year-old ladies’ man.” Lark stabbed some cocktail meatballs onto a toothpick, and then repeated the process. “I just don’t want to see her get hurt, that’s all.”

“She’s a big girl, Lark. Maybe she’s just interested in having some fun.” Rachel moved onto the tricolored tortellini skewers, her mouth watering at the savory smells of the buffet—Cajun spices mingled with oregano marinara and fresh-cooked fish.

“Right, but admit it. It makes your task easier.” Lark scooped up some Cajun popcorn chicken and slopped it onto her plate.

Rachel jabbed at the honey-pecan chicken bites. “Okay, I admit it. So what?”

“It’s not like Saxby’s inaccessible,” said Lark. “There are a lot more subtle ways for you to approach him than flinging our spinster friend at the target.”

Rachel stopped mid-jab. “Tell me one thing I’ve done to encourage her?”

Lark moved onto the vegetarian offerings. “I’m just saying we need to discourage her, that’s all.”

“Then maybe you should be talking to Cecilia, not me.”

Lark didn’t say anything more, and they scooped their way through the rest of the chafing dishes in silence. Why had Lark taken such a dislike to Saxby? Rachel could understand her feeling protective of Dorothy, but Rachel couldn’t see the harm in Dorothy’s flirting with the man.

Trula’s warning about
hudu
flitted through her brain as she rounded her plate with spinach-and-goat-cheese baguettes, toast points topped with Parmesan-artichoke soufflé, vegetarian pinwheel sandwiches, and crackers with a Southern pecan and Cheddar cheese ring filled with strawberry preserves. By the time she reached the end of the buffet tables she knew one thing—Southerners knew how to eat.

Plates heaping, the two of them wound their way through the tables toward the back. A couple from the Sapelo trip tried waving them over, but they forged ahead. By the time they arrived at where Dorothy and Cecilia were sitting, Saxby and the others had joined tables, and the sisters were ensconced in the group.

“Sit,” said Saxby, waving them into the empty chairs. “Do you know everyone here?”

Rachel shook her head, while Lark set down the plates.

He started the introductions to his left, with the brunette from the parking lot. “This is Katie Anderson, the daughter of Patricia and Nevin Anderson, owners of the Hyde Island Club Hotel. Katie is a senior in high school this year.”

And the spitting image of her mother, thought Rachel. She was maybe a few inches shorter, and her brown hair hung to her waist rather than at her ears, but the hazel eyes were the same and her attitude matched. With her blossoming figure overflowing her small camisole, and aware of her effect on the men at the table, she waved her hand like a princess. “Hello.”

“Katie.” Rachel waved with her fingers, and wondered what Patricia Anderson was thinking under her mask. She nodded curtly, while her husband, Nevin, barely acknowledged them. Instead, he nudged his wife in the ribs, and kept his rheumy eyes fastened on Katie.

“How could you let her go out wearing that outfit?” he muttered.

Saxby ignored the exhibit, and moved on to the next man. “This is Victor Wolcott, president of the Hyde Island Authority.”

Wolcott, a portly man of average height with a shock of gray hair and a bulbous nose, flashed a smile of perfectly straight, white teeth.

“The Hyde Island Authority?” said Rachel, accepting his handshake. “What’s that?” It sounded like a transportation district.

“The Authority is the governing body of the island,” explained Wolcott, “The whole island is owned by the State of Georgia. Simply put, the Authority acts as its agent.”

That sounded official.
“I think I remember reading something about that,” said Rachel. “About how some millionaire deeded the land to a trust.”

“In 1946,” said Wolcott, with little prompting. “The island was owned by one man, Mr. Harry McKinlay. Finally tired of the upkeep and of running the Hyde Island Club, McKinlay retired and deeded the island to the State of Georgia. Whereby, the state of Georgia quickly passed a law requiring that 65 percent of Hyde Island remain in a natural state. The state then formed the Hyde Island Authority to oversee the land eligible for development. Among its other duties, the Authority negotiates long-term leases with business owners and residents, and approves any and all types of development. We—”

“Thank you, Victor,” Saxby broke in. He gestured to the next in the circle. “I imagine you remember Evan Kearns, the conference coordinator.”

Evan dipped his head.

“And Paul Becker.”

Becker frowned.

“Beside Paul is his lovely wife, Sonja.”

Sonja smiled. An exotic-looking woman with dark brown hair, she wore a fitted salmon-colored top, linen slacks, and her foot worked back and forth, kicking a stiletto slipper.

“And last, but not least, we have Fancy Carter and her two sons, Dwight and Dwayne. You remember Dwayne from the Sapelo trip. The Carter family owns and operates the Okefenokee Swamp Tours. They let us use their bus today.”

Rachel nodded, pinching her lips together. Fancy Carter looked nothing like Rachel would have expected Dwayne’s mother to look like. For starters, she didn’t seem old enough to be the mother of an almost-thirtysomething-year-old man. Poured into her blue jean shorts, she wore her blonde hair Farrah Fawcett-style, while her hot-turquoise shirt exposed the upper half of a pair of doubleD breasts.

Dwight, on the other hand, looked just like Dwayne. Tall, good-looking in a rough sort of way, with a buzz cut, a tattoo, and the “come hither” smile of a man who thinks he’s all that with the ladies.

Becker cleared his throat. “Now that the introductions are over, can we rejoin our conversation?”

“I was listening, Paul,” said Katie. She leaned forward suggestively and gave Becker her full attention.

Sonja glared.

Dwayne smiled.

Katie ignored them both.

“You were telling us about your great swamp adventure,” she prodded, preening for full effect, then she softly started rubbing her belly.

Rachel wasn’t sure what the gesture was for, or for whose benefit—Becker’s or her mother’s, perhaps? Rachel stole a glance at Sonja, who appeared to be on fire, and then in Patricia Anderson’s direction. The woman seemed not to notice. Dwayne watched Katie intently.

“I made a trip out there two days ago,” announced Becker. “I wanted to see for myself what was so special about that piece of land you’re proposing to trade.”

Rachel glanced at Lark, then at Dorothy and Cecilia.

The others looked just as confused as she felt.

It must have been evident none of them knew what the others were discussing because Nevin Anderson leaped to the rescue. “Patricia and I are trading ten thousand acres of swampland for eighty acres of land on Hyde Island adjacent to the golf course.”

So that’s what all the protest was about.

“Tentatively trading,” corrected Wolcott. “The land swap is still pending the approval of the Authority.”

“I take it you want to expand the golf course,” said Lark.

Nevin Anderson smiled. “Sharp lady. You’re the hotel owner, right?”

Lark nodded.

“It’s a land swap I have been firmly against,” announced Becker, reclaiming the spotlight. “The land adjacent to the golf course is prime habitat for the painted bunting, a species already endangered by Eastern Seaboard development. I see no reason to continue that trend on Hyde Island.”

“Is there even land to be had?” asked Rachel. “Mr. Wolcott, didn’t you say that 65 percent of the island has to remain in its natural state?”

Saxby grinned and stroked his beard. “Two sharp ladies.”

“Call me Victor. And the answer to your questions are no and yes, but the Hyde Island Authority does have some wiggle room. Since it’s the state that approached us to allow the trade, they are willing to let us increase the percentage of developable land by a fraction.”

Becker cleared his throat. “After being out there, I can see why the state would want the swampland. It’s certainly full of treasures.” His mysterious tone drew everyone’s attention. Dwayne and Dwight exchanged glances. “Suffice it to say, I had an interesting day.”

“What kind of treasures are you talking about?” asked Dwight, craning forward to get a better look at Becker.

“He must mean he found some interesting birds,” said Saxby.

“Indeed we did.”

Fancy chuckled. “What did you think, Dwight? That he meant he’d found one of your lost swamp treasures?”

Dwight glared at his mother, and Dwayne bopped him on the backside of his head.

“Are there really lost swamp treasures?” asked Katie.

Fancy leaned forward, her shirt dropping open to reveal more cleavage. “Of course. Take my great-great-great-great-grandmother Aponi Carter, for example. Aponi was a Seminole princess, the daughter of a war chief. According to family history, her father was murdered during the Second Seminole War, and Aponi escaped into the northern swamp, bringing with her a family treasure. Some say it was a gift to her ancestors from a Spanish conquistador. Others say it’s part of ‘Caesar’s Treasure,’ the booty of a pirate who came ashore near her ancestral home.”

The crowd had stilled. Even Katie had stopped rubbing her belly, and the neighboring tables were listening. Fancy played to the audience. “When she died, Aponi took the treasure to her grave. Her husband, honoring her wishes, constructed a burial mound deep in the swamp. On his deathbed, he confided in his sons the treasure’s whereabouts, but due to his failing memory or the changing face of the swamp the treasure was never found.” Fancy’s voice dipped, like someone telling a ghost story around a camp-fire. Rachel felt shivers creep along her arms, and everyone else had leaned in close.

“You say there are other stories?” asked Lark.

“Hundreds,” said Fancy, sitting back in her seat. Crossing her legs, she flipped her sandal with pink frosted toes. “The swamp has always been a favorite place for thieves and killers. Runaway slaves brought treasures off the plantations. Planes full of drugs have gone down and never been found. Hell, in the early l900s, there was this bank robbery in Jacksonville where the robbers netted—”

“Excuse me,” interrupted Becker. “But most of us are more interested in the birds.”

Several people nodded their heads. Several others looked disappointed. Sonja rolled her eyes.

“That’s why we’re all here, after all,” he continued.

Did Rachel detect a slur in his voice? Earlier he had banged down several drinks, and now he seemed agitated.

“You want to talk birds,” said Saxby. “Let’s talk birds. I went out to the Okefenokee Swamp myself, yesterday, and discovered a red-cockaded woodpecker on the nest.”

“Which warrants some consideration when deciding the trade,” said Wolcott. “Certainly the red-cockaded woodpecker is more endangered by forestation practices than the painted bunting is by development on Hyde Island.”

Rachel cocked her head. Based on the spin, Victor Wolcott must be pro-trade.

“I would agree with that,” said Kearns, speaking up for the first time. “The swamp acreage is prime habitat for a number of species. And as the state has indicated they will purchase an additional fifty acres of dry land access for building a new welcome center and parking lot, the entire acerage will remain in a natural state. It’s enough to make a difference. A big difference.

“How many groups of red-cockaded woodpeckers do you have in the Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge?” asked Dorothy, looking at Saxby.

Lark leaned sideways, and whispered in Rachel’s ear. “It takes anywhere from one hundred to five hundred acres of pine forest to support a group of red-cockaded woodpeckers.”

“Twenty-nine at last count.”

“But won’t the swamp acreage stay in its natural state regardless of the trade?” asked Rachel. Knowing what she did about swampland, she found it hard to believe it was in great demand.

“That’s one of the reasons we approached the Authority,” said Nevin. “We’ve been contacted by a company with a special interest in the swamp acreage. The deal they’re offering is even more lucrative for us than making the trade. If the Authority doesn’t back us, we’re going to sell.”