Sacrifice of Buntings (5 page)

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

“The Authority is the governing body of the island,” Wolcott explained. “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,” Rachel said. “About how some millionaire deeded the land to a trust.”

“In 1946,” Wolcott said 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 sixty-five 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 and 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 a-thirty-something-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 double-D 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,” Wolcott corrected. “The land swap is still pending the approval of the Authority.”

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

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

Lark nodded.

“It’s a land swap I have been firmly against,” Becker announced, 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?” Rachel asked. “Mr. Wolcott, didn’t you say that sixty-five percent of the island has to remain in its natural state?”

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

“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?” Dwight asked, craning forward to get a better look at Becker.

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

“Indeed we did.”

We?

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?” Katie asked.

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 campfire. Rachel felt shivers creep along her arms, and everyone else had leaned in close.

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

“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 1900s, 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,” Saxby said. “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,” Wolcott said. “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,” Kearns said, 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 acreage 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?” Dorothy asked, 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?” Rachel asked. 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.”

He made it sound like a threat.

“What company?” Dwayne asked. “For what purpose?”

“I don’t see where that’s any of your business.”

Dwayne’s biceps bunched. “It sure as hell affects us.”

Fancy reached out and patted his arm. “Let it go. He’s bluffing. Besides, it doesn’t endanger our deal. They’ll still need dry land access.”

The pieces dropped into place, along with the Carters’ interest. No wonder Dwayne seemed worried.

“You’re all missing the point,” Becker said. “Either way, the land trade is detrimental. Either way, something precious is lost. It’s been left up to us—you and me—to determine what’s better sacrificed and who—or what—will prevail.”

On that ominous note
, Becker pushed away from the table. “We have an early start tomorrow. I’ll see you all then,” he said.

Katie was the next to leave, and Patricia Anderson quickly followed. Didn’t she trust her daughter?

The Carters left next, then Evan Kearns departed.

Within moments, Rachel saw Lark give the high sign that it was time for them to depart.

“We should go too,” Rachel said. “We all have workshops the morning.” She nudged Cecilia, who nudged Dorothy, and the four of them stood to go.

“Mind if I tag along?” Saxby asked. He slid back his chair and stood. “Perhaps I can even buy you ladies a nightcap?”

Cecilia raised an eyebrow at her sister. “Oh my.”

Dorothy turned beet red.

Lark glared.

“Why not?” Rachel said, covering an awkward silence. Heck, it might be her last opportunity to get the skinny on Saxby. “It’s apt to be a little crowded, but I think we have room for one more in the car.”

Now Lark scowled. Rachel didn’t want to know what she was thinking.

With Saxby settled into the backseat between Cecilia and Dorothy, Lark drove and Rachel rode shotgun. Lark rolled down the windows, which discouraged conversation, so Rachel leaned her head against the headrest and absorbed the hum of the cicadas, breathing in the sweet scent of magnolias and letting the soft breeze ruffle her hair.

The protestors were out in force, and Rachel could hear them before she could see them. “No Land Swap! No Land Swap!” She felt a pang of sympathy for their cause. The painted buntings were beautiful birds, and it seemed a shame to wipe out their nesting area for nine more holes of golf. Death shoots a birdie on the eighteenth hole.

She smiled at their leader, and the man smiled back. Today he wore a white T-shirt with the image of a golf green circled and slashed, and multiple strands of love beads.

Once they were headed up the drive of the Hyde Island Club Hotel, Cecilia spoke up. “I’m exhausted. I think I’ll bow out and head straight up to bed. Anyone care to join me?”

She plucked at Rachel’s sleeve, and Rachel batted her hand away. What she had to say wouldn’t make Cecilia happy. “I could go for a coffee and Baileys.”

Regardless of how ridiculous she considered Lark’s attitude toward Saxby, if Lark thought Dorothy needed chaperoning, far be it from Rachel to abandon ship.

Lark thawed a degree. “Sounds good to me.”

It ended up being the five of them. Cecilia had grudgingly changed her mind and traipsed after them into a cozy bar off the dining room. Inside, fishnets loaded with stuffed sea bass and conch shells decorated the walls, candles under glass flickered from bare-top tables, and a bluegrass band picked “Li’l Georgia Rose” from a CD player behind the bar.

The place was practically empty. One well-lubricated gentleman mumbled into his drink at a corner bar stool, and several couples whispered at moonlight-draped tables near the windows. One extra-large table sat open near the crackling wood fire, and Saxby guided Dorothy into a chair. He claimed the seat beside her, and Cecilia the seat beside him. Lark plunked down opposite, leaving Rachel a seat next to the screened-in window.

Once they were situated, conversation stalled. Rachel peered out and drank in the Georgia night. Palm trees rustled in the sweet-smelling breeze. Moonlight dappled the water. And farther out, a large cruise ship floated at the edge of the horizon where the deep blue of the sea met the slate blue-black of the sky.

“Ten thousand acres of swampland for eighty prime acres of golf course,” Rachel mused. “Now that sounds like a sweet deal.”

“You’ve never been there, have you?” Saxby asked.

“The swamp? No,” she admitted. “We’re going on Friday. It makes me think of that old joke. You know the one: ’I have some swampland I’ll sell you.’”

“It’s a unique habitat, and quite a resource,” Saxby said without cracking a smile. He was interrupted by a waitress in a crisp white shirt and denim skirt who took their drink orders. When she left, Saxby resumed the conversation with a monologue on birding coastal Georgia.

“The state has a wide variety of habitats and more than three hundred bird species,” he droned. “We’ve just developed a coastal birding trail running all the way from Fort Pulaski National Monument to the Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge.”

Rachel watched the big ship cruise out of sight while Saxby gave detailed descriptions of the eighteen birding sights. His ability to breathe in mid-sentence shut off any opportunity for someone to break in, and it unnerved her. She began to wonder if anyone could ever succeed at getting a word in edgewise.

“More coffee?” the waitress asked, talking over the top of him, brandishing a fresh pot of coffee.

Saxby held up his cup. “The only problem is they failed to include Hyde Island on the list. It has some of the best birding in the state, yet they neglected to list it as a featured stop.” He breathed and said, “Thank you.”

Rachel took advantage of the lull.

“So, Guy, tell us—what comes next for you?” she asked, hoping that in his talkative mood he’d spill the beans, and she’d have something to report to Kirk.

“Subtle,” murmured Lark.

Rachel shot her a glare.

Saxby narrowed his eyes and bounced a glance between them. “I’m sorry, did I miss something?”

Rachel pasted on a smile and shook her head.

Saxby looked bemused. Tiny crow’s feet crinkled at the corners of his eyes, and a crease furrowed his brow.

Rachel bit her lip and waited for his answer.

Finally, after rubbing his jaw between thumb and forefinger, he twirled the spoon in his coffee and said, “I’m not sure I follow.”

Rachel didn’t buy the act. “Your adventures are legendary. Take your last one. Weren’t you in Australia?”

“Ah.” His eyes lit up. “You read about that?”

It was a rhetorical question, so she didn’t answer.

“We didn’t get the bird.”

“I read that, too.”

“What a shame,” Lark said. Her voice dripped as much sarcasm as the live oak next to the patio dripped Spanish moss. Rachel kicked her under the table.

“Surely you have something else in the works,” Rachel said.

Saxby cupped his hands around the ends of the armrests like he meant to get up, but instead settled back in his chair. “I’ll admit, I have a plan.”

Here it comes
. Rachel scooted her chair closer.

“Unfortunately, you’ll have to wait.” He grinned and turned his palms up. “I was set to unveil it on Saturday, but of course that’s been changed.”

“Why not tell us now? We can keep a secret.” Rachel hadn’t come this far just to give up.

Dorothy shot Rachel a glare and placed her hand on Saxby’s sleeve. “She’s joking. Why not unveil it on Friday night?”

Saxby patted Dorothy’s hand. “Would that I could. Unfortunately, it’s out of my hands. It all depends on whether or not the others can be ready in time.”

“What others?” Rachel pressed.

Saxby clucked at her from the corner of his mouth. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait just like everyone else.”

“Whatever it is, it sounds intriguing,” Dorothy said.

Rachel tensed. Dorothy, normally quick-witted and sharp-tongued, had become positively cloying.
This isn’t good
.

“Then tell us something you
can
talk about,” Lark said, who seemed equally agitated by Dorothy’s manner. “Like, explain what’s really going on between you and Paul Becker. He seemed pretty intent on putting you in your place.”

Dorothy’s face blanched. “Lark!”

“No, it’s okay,” Saxby said, reaching for his coffee. He took a quick sip, then set it down and traced his finger along the rim of the mug. “Paul Becker used to be my teacher’s aide at the University of Georgia. When he left academia, I stayed. Now he’s back, and he and I are colleagues again.” Saxby looked up and met Lark’s gaze. “What can I say? I have a better office.”

The evening wound down quickly after that. Everyone was scheduled to attend early morning workshops, so after a little more banter, they bid Saxby goodnight. Dorothy followed Cecilia into their room and banged the door sharply. The adjacent room door remained latched.

“I’m going to shower,” Lark said.

While she was in the bathroom, Rachel tried calling Kirk.

“You’ve reached Udall. I can’t come to the phone right now…”

She listened through the message, allowing his rich baritone to embrace her, then hung up before the beep. He was, after all, in Sri Lanka. She had no idea what the time difference was, but if she wanted to connect with him, her best bet was through e-mail.

Setting her laptop up on the desk, she plugged it into the Ethernet and checked her messages. There were at least twenty from her office. She answered the important ones, then typed out a message to Kirk.

You’ll never guess who I had drinks with tonight. Guy Saxby!

He admits he has a new project, but refused to give any details. I’ll keep working on him. He seems enamored with Dorothy MacBean.

She paused, and then continued:

Wish you were here. Rachel

Hitting the Send button, she shut down the laptop and stretched out on the bed, listening to the pounding of the shower. She allowed her mind to drift and conjured an image of Kirk. In khaki shorts and Hawaiian shirt, he stood surrounded by the devastation of the tsunami, staring at the surf. She thought she heard him wondering how in the heck he could focus on the birds.

• • •

“Rise and shine.”

Rachel’s eyes fluttered open. What time was it?

Dorothy stood over her, wearing a light pink shirt with a band of yellow warblers flitting across the chest. Exaggerated by the humidity, her hair curled tightly around her face like a clown’s wig and accentuated her pale gray eyes. “We are going to be late.”

“For what?” Rachel realized she was sprawled under the comforter wearing the same clothes she’d had on yesterday.
Shoot
. She must have fallen asleep. “What time is it?”

“Seven o’clock. And you and I are scheduled for the warbler identification class this morning at eight, remember?”

Rachel kicked off the blanket. “Where are Lark and Cecilia?”

“At breakfast. They don’t have to be there until nine. Now get moving!”

Rachel showered and dressed in record time. She toweled her hair dry, threw on a pair of pants, a T-shirt, socks, and tennis shoes, and grabbed a long-sleeved shirt from the dresser. Her backpack still held all the necessities—binoculars, field guide, sunscreen, tissues, and Chapstick.

“Are you ready?” Dorothy called out while Rachel was brushing her teeth.

“Two minutes,” she answered. It took her that long to French braid her hair. “Done, with a half hour to spare.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

They pounded downstairs to the foyer, where a coffee kiosk beckoned. The scent of dark French roast coffee and warm Danishes mingled in the air. Rachel started toward the display, and Dorothy grabbed her arm.

“You can get coffee at the convention center.”

“Not good coffee.” Rachel glanced at her watch and stood her ground. “We have time.”

Dorothy looked down at her feet, and Rachel’s morning fog lifted.

“I get it,” she said. “You want to catch Guy Saxby before classes begin.”

Dorothy snapped her head up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Admit it. You have a crush on him.”

“I’m sixty-five. I am too old to have a crush on anyone, especially someone ten years my junior.”

“You can’t fool me. Admit it. He is sort of sexy.”

“Rachel!” Dorothy tried acting shocked, then broke down and giggled. “Okay, I’ll admit, he makes me think of 007.” Growing serious, her eyes darted toward the dining room entrance. “Now, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to get over there before Lark and Cecilia catch on.”

That made sense. “But we only have one car.”

“I left a note for Ceese saying we took a cab.”

Am I an accomplice or a dupe, Rachel wondered. Either way, she abandoned the idea of coffee and followed Dorothy outside. A wave to the protestors and a three-dollar cab ride landed them in front of the convention center five minutes later, with twenty minutes to spare.

With no field trips scheduled, the place pulsed with life. Birders mingled in the entryway, coffee cups in hand, and Rachel felt jealous.

“Did you make plans to meet somewhere?” she asked, figuring that if Dorothy hadn’t, there was no way she would find him in this crowd.

“We’re meeting up by the Leica display.”

The two of them pushed their way across the lobby to the vendors’ area, where they were promptly stopped by a beefy security guard.

“No one’s allowed into the Nest until eleven o’clock,” he drawled. Laying on the Southern charm, he flashed a bright white smile and cocked his head.

“But I’m supposed to meet someone inside.”

“No one’s allowed,” he repeated, crossing his arms and using his elbow-to-elbow girth to block the doorway.

“Thanks,” Rachel said, pulling Dorothy aside.

Dorothy started to protest.

Rachel reasoned with her. “If we can’t get in, he can’t either. He did say nobody gets in.”

“But the vendors can,” Dorothy said. “And I’ll bet the presenters can too.”

Rachel pondered, weighing the risks, and then said, “I know another way.”

“How?”

“Follow me and try to act natural.” She guessed she had now assumed the mantle of accomplice. Flashing the security guard a smile, she led Dorothy past another set of locked double doors to a hallway on the right. “The public bathrooms are down this way, and there’s another entrance to the vendors’ area,” she said in a hushed voice. “That entrance can’t be locked off. Let’s hope it’s not guarded.”

The entrance to the bathroom was halfway down the hall. Rachel glanced around to make sure no one had followed them, then scurried past the door to the ladies’ room. At the end of the hallway, a moveable wall blocked the entry to the vendor’s area.

“Keep your eyes open,” Rachel said, leaning her shoulder into the wall. It moved slightly but took a second shove before sliding back far enough for Rachel to slip through. “The coast is clear,” she whispered.