Sacrifice of Buntings (9 page)

Rachel jumped in to head off an argument. “Let’s stay focused on the list, okay? Who else had a motive to kill Becker?”

“The Andersons,” Lark said.

“Again, like Wolcott, only if they didn’t know he had switched camps.” Rachel scribbled another note. “check out offer on swampland.” Maybe there was something there that would give them a clue.

“Then again,” Lark said, “either way they come out ahead. Maybe they don’t belong on the list.”

“How about the Carters?” suggested Cecilia. “Those boys seemed quite protective of their swamp treasures.”

Rachel scribbled the names on her pad and then nibbled the end of her pen.

“Fancy didn’t seem too worried,” Lark said.

“Of course not,” Dorothy said. “Like the Andersons, either way she sells her land for a profit.”

“It’s not always about money, Dot.”

Rachel wrote, “check on market price at carters’ acreage.” That should be easy enough. A local real estate site on the Internet should give them a close approximation.

Lark twisted her braid and turned to Rachel. “What about someone other than Guy who might have a reason to want him dead?”

“I have Sonja on the list.”

“But what about someone else?”

“How about Beau and Reggie?” Dorothy stood and paced the length of the floor. “Maybe Becker figured out they were obtaining their birds illegally.”

Lark looked as skeptical as Rachel felt. “I’ll add them, but I think that’s a stretch.” Her notes were getting extensive.

“I don’t buy that either,” Lark said. “I know what Aunt Miriam has to go through to maintain the licensing for the Raptor House. Those two would be under a lot of scrutiny, especially if they have questionable backgrounds.”

“check out beau and reggie’s birds of prey foundation.”

“Maybe we should add the protestors.” They seemed peaceful, but they were passionate in their beliefs, passionate enough to stand outside 24/7 and picket in front of the Hyde Island Club Hotel.

“What about Chuck Knapp?” Lark asked.

What about him?
He and Becker both had an interest in the film. Had he and Becker been arguing about the tape?

“And don’t forget the developer who wants to acquire the swampland,” Cecilia said.

And ex-lovers or current lovers
. There was any number of people who might want Becker dead.

Rachel reached for her computer. “Let’s start with who we have. Let’s see what we can find out about Wolcott.”

“Have we researched Becker?” Cecilia asked.

“And how about Guy?” Lark added, with a glance at Dorothy.

Rachel had done extensive research on Saxby. Kirk had done even more. She had read nearly every magazine article ever written about the man. Of those, none had suggested he’d stolen his grad student’s research, but then, most were meant to be favorable. She wondered what Kirk would think when she told him the truth about his icon.

“Why not,” Dorothy said. She shot Lark a glare, the kind that had made generations of high-school students go quiet and attentive. “Look him up.”

“Who? Saxby?” Rachel said.

“Sure, maybe we can find a shot of him without a shirt on!”

Cecilia’s mouth dropped open. Lark and Rachel laughed—Rachel a little nervously. She was afraid Dorothy was serious.

She started typing “Victor Wolcott” into the search engine, but Dorothy insisted.

“Try Guy first.”

Cecilia and Lark nodded. Were they calling her bluff?

Rachel started over, aware that the others had gathered around her. Three heads leaned toward the screen of her laptop.

“Oh my,” Cecelia said. “He’s taught at Stanford, and—”

“Died five years ago,” Dorothy said dryly.

“There must be another one,” Cecilia said.

“You think?” Lark drawled.

Rachel scrolled through the entries.

“That’s him!” Dorothy pointed to the screen.

Rachel clicked on the link, and they waited as his photograph loaded. He still had his shirt on, but it was a nice shirt with a tie, and he was smiling at a woman who looked very familiar.

“The
Today Show
.” Dorothy sighed. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who’s been on the
Today Show
before.”

Rachel clicked on another Web page and scrolled down.

“Sure you have,” Cecilia said. “Remember? We met that basketball player, Magic something, and we saw Liz Taylor eating in the restaurant at the Drummond. And what about that bicycle rider? He was eating at the Drummond too. Not with Liz, but—”

“Okay, I surrender. Let’s just say, I’ve never had drinks with anyone who was on the
Today Show
before. That was a first for me.”

“Stop there,” Lark commanded. “Isn’t that Guy with Paul Becker?”

Rachel expanded the image. Becker sat on a stage just behind Guy, who stood in front of a microphone addressing a crowd. Guy’s mouth was open and one hand was extended before him. Becker studied him with a scowl.

“Can you read the banner behind them?” Lark asked.

“Not any better than you can.” Frankly, Rachel was having trouble seeing around Cecilia’s head. “I only see two letters, and they probably aren’t the most important ones.” Rachel clicked on the text.

“Oh my, that’s too small to read,” Cecilia said.

“It’s a review of Guy’s book,” Dorothy said. “It looks like a wonderful review too.”

“But what’s going on in that picture?” Lark asked. “Becker doesn’t look happy.”

Rachel ran her hands through her hair. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. Let me try Wolcott.”

“Try Becker,” Dorothy said.

Rachel complied.

“Oh, he’s got a nice bod,” Cecilia said when a picture of a body builder flashed on the screen. “Maybe you’ll get a picture of him with his shirt off.”

“It’s a common name,” Rachel said, suppressing a laugh. No way did she want to egg Cecilia on.

There were a lot of Beckers. They ran track in high schools, addressed Lions Clubs in obscure cities, and had Web pages featuring their teenaged angst.

“Try adding the word
bird
,” suggested Lark.

This popped up with a Web page with the same photo of Saxby and Becker, but this Web page guided her to a discussion forum. She clicked on that before the photo had loaded, and at the top of the page was a thread discussing Becker’s death.
Now that’s more like it
.

“He seems pretty well-regarded,” Lark said, as Rachel scrolled through several messages expressing sorrow and surprise.

“That’s interesting.” Cecilia leaned her head in closer, blocking Rachel’s view altogether. “Someone is saying Paul Becker’s book would have been published years earlier except his department head at the time stole all his research, forcing Becker to start over from scratch.”

Rachel shifted uncomfortably. “That’s exactly what Sonja told me. She said he’d even stolen Becker’s title.” What Rachel didn’t rub in was that, according to Sonja, the department head in question was Guy.

“Oh my, that’s bad.” Cecilia pointed to the next post. “It says here—”

Dorothy cut her sister off. “It’s an opinion on a message board, that’s all. It doesn’t make it fact.”

“Wait! This is getting interesting, Dot. Rachel, scroll down.”

“Let’s come back to it later.”

Before Cecilia could protest, Rachel hit the Back button and bookmarked the page. It was clear Dorothy wasn’t ready to hear the message. Then again, at some point she would have to face the music that Guy Saxby wasn’t all that he was cracked up to be.

The others called it
a night, but Rachel stayed up and checked out a few more Web sites before going to bed. She learned a couple of interesting things.

The real estate Fancy and her boys were sitting on was worth somewhere in the range of thirty-five hundred to over six thousand dollars an acre, maybe more if the stakes for access to Swamper’s Island were high enough. That meant, provided the Carters got top dollar, they would walk away with between one hundred seventy-five thousand to over three hundred thousand dollars. Not bad for fifty or so acres of undeveloped swampland, and enough money to serve as motive.

The search on Wolcott turned up his resume, address, telephone number, what hotels and ice cream shops he lived close to, and not much else.

As expected, Beau and Reggie checked out clean.

Aware it was late, Rachel finally logged off and turned out the light. She dreamed of Geechee houses, Trula, and
hudu
warnings, and awoke in the morning still tired, with the nagging feeling that Paul Becker had been trying to tell her something.

• • •

With very little sleep the night before, the morning session of the digiscoping workshop came early. Everyone was abuzz with the talk of the murder, and Rachel arrived with time to spare, coffee in hand, prepared to eavesdrop. She ended up at a table next to the protest leader.

He was cuter up close, she decided, and his hazel eyes twinkled when he realized she recognized him.

“A birder by day,” she said.

“Protestor by night.” He reached out a strong, lean hand. “Liam Kelly.”

They shook, then Chuck Knapp arrived and all conversation ceased.

She found the information he gave them on cameras and scopes interesting, but she found she already knew most of what he had to offer on framing a shot, composition, and color.

“Do you find this boring?”

Was it that obvious?

Realizing that the person who had spoken wasn’t her tablemate, Rachel was startled out of her stupor to find everyone filing out for a break and Chuck Knapp standing in front of her table.

“No,” she stammered, facing his glower. “I just…” How not to sound like an idiot? “I work in graphics, so I know a lot about what you were teaching. I’m looking forward to getting out in the field this afternoon.”

“Good. I was worried.” He smiled then, and it softened his looks. Dark, curly hair bumped the collar of his beige shirt, and his blue eyes were sharp and appraising. “One question: If you know all of this, why take my class?”

“You’re a legend.” She smiled, hoping he would bask in her flattery. Instead, he acted annoyed.

“And here I thought maybe you were interested in photographing birds.”

“I am,” she said, realizing her mistake. “Very interested. I just spent two days in the field, first on Sapelo Island, and yesterday on Little St. Simons. On Friday, I’m canoeing in the Okefenokee Swamp. I’d like to be able to take some pictures using my scope.”

She noticed his eyes widened when she mentioned the swamp. Maybe now was the time to ask him about his adventure with Becker.

“I hear you had a great day birding the Okefenokee last week.”

Knapp’s face shuttered.

“I’m sorry about your friend.”

“He was a good birder. We had some luck.”

“What did you see?” She tried sounding nonchalant, and didn’t succeed.

“Why do I get the impression you’re prying?”

Rachel had the good sense to look down. “Let me be straight, Mr. Knapp. I am here to learn how to digiscope, but you’re right, I am prying.” She explained about Dorothy’s infatuation with Saxby and her own worry that she was partly responsible for getting her friend mixed up in something sinister.

“You should worry. Guy Saxby’s a thief.”

“Why do you say that?” When he didn’t answer, she filled in the blanks. “Because he stole Becker’s thesis and published it as his own?”

His blue eyes met hers squarely. “If you know, why do you trust him?”

“I didn’t say I trusted him. I’m just not convinced he’s a murderer. Are you?”

“I don’t know what I think about that. I do know I have something he wants.”

On that note, Knapp clammed up and refused to say anything more. After lunch, he led them out to the golf course.

Standing at the edge of the ninth hole, he pointed toward the shrub habitat, which stretched toward the ocean in the distance. “This is the prime nesting habitat of the painted bunting on Hyde Island.”

Behind them a golfer yelled “Fore!” and Rachel instinctively ducked. She noticed several others did the same. Knapp remained upright.

“Isn’t this the land the Andersons are hoping to trade for?” Rachel asked, raising her head in anticipation of his answer.

“Yes.” He drew the group closer in, either to make it easier to talk or to protect them from the golfers, then asked, “How many of you know how much land is needed to support one hundred breeding pairs of painted buntings?”

No one offered a guess.

“Twelve hundred acres.” He paused to let the number sink in.

“Any twelve hundred?” asked a man wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with Lydia Thompson’s painted bunting. A local artist, she had a knack for realism.

“No,” answered Knapp. He waved his arms at the tangle of trees at the edge of the green, like a magician revealing a hidden treasure. “The painted bunting can utilize a variety of habitats. But territorial males occur in highest density in open, grassy areas with abundant shrubs and a few scattered trees.” His hands painted the landscape in front of them. “Painted buntings like open pine-oak forests with some canopy remaining.” He pointed to the treetops. “Forests with abundant grasses and shrubs.” He pointed to the ground. “That’s what the birds eat, wild grasses and weed seeds. That’s why this habitat is so important for shrub-scrub nesting birds such as the white-eyed vireo, northern cardinal, and painted bunting.

“Another thing, pay attention to the water. Painted buntings breed where there are wetlands or salt marshes nearby. Here a small creek runs to the sea, and there are salt marshes right over there.” He pointed. “This land is so exceptional, it supports double its share of nesting painted buntings.”

He had made a great case against the trade.

The man whose shirt Rachel had admired earlier nodded in agreement. Rachel made a mental note to purchase a shirt just like his before leaving for home.

A young girl in a tennis visor asked, “What does a painted bunting nest look like?”

Knapp seemed pleased with the question. “They’re a deep cup nest made of woven grass, usually found in a bush or vine tangle about three to six feet off the ground. Rarely, you might find a nest buried in Spanish moss at heights up to twenty-three to twenty-six feet, but the ideal territory is characterized by enough vegetation to support and conceal the nest, several singing perches, and a feeding area for the breeding pair.”

“Does their plumage vary?” asked someone else.

“It takes two years for a male to become the brilliantly colored songbird on this man’s shirt.” Knapp pointed to the gentleman in the Lydia Thompson T-shirt. “The young males and females are green and much harder to spot.”

The questions came faster.

“How many eggs does a painted bunting lay?”

“What is their survival rate?”

“Three to four eggs, and not very good,” he answered. “The female incubates the eggs for about eleven to twelve days. Nestlings leave the nest at eight or nine days, and then the male may feed the fledglings if the female begins building a new nest. Last year’s study estimated only twenty percent of the breeding pairs produced fledglings.”

“Why?” several people asked in unison.

“Predators, weather, and development.” His emphasis on the last word seemed driven by anger. If he had found an endangered species on Swamper’s Island, it hadn’t seemed to sway him from his determination to save the painted buntings’ habitat. “That is why we must protect this acreage at all cost and document its rightful owners making use of the land.”

“Fore!”

The word came off like an emphasis, and Rachel didn’t have time to duck. A golf ball whizzed past her head. It ricocheted off a tree trunk in front of her and flushed a colorful bird out of the bushes.

“That’s one way to pish,” mumbled Knapp.

Then another ball whizzed past. At least she thought it was a ball. With a dull
thunk
it struck the tree, spraying bark in its wake.

That was a bullet.

“Get down,” Rachel yelled. It wasn’t just golf balls they were dodging. Someone was shooting at them.

Most of the birders dropped to the ground. Another bullet whizzed overhead. Flat on her stomach, she took shelter behind a bush and tried to peer through the branches and see who was firing. She spotted the muzzle of a rifle in a thick copse of trees on the far side of the green.

By now the golfers had realized someone was trying to shoot one of them. They lay prone on the grass, cell phones in hand. Rachel heard sirens in the distance, and the muzzle was gone.

Who was the person shooting at? Chuck Knapp? That seemed the logical conclusion. It made sense that whoever had killed Paul Becker would be after Knapp too. After all, he had been in the swamp, and he had film to prove it.

The police investigation disrupted the workshop. Each attendee was talked to and dismissed, except for Knapp, Liam Kelly, and Rachel.

“This is ludicrous,” Kelly said, waving his sinewy arms. “How can I be standing over here taking fire, and be over there shooting the gun?”

The cop remained deadpan, arms crossed over his chest, his legs spread in a
V
. “It could have been one of your protestor friends.”

“Then he was shooting too close for my comfort.” Liam shook his head. “Unless you have a reason to detain me further, I’m outta here.”

The cop shrugged, pivoted, and opened the way, allowing Liam Kelly to pass.

The skinny black cop was talking to Knapp.

Rachel set up her scope while she waited her turn and snapped a few pictures. A male painted bunting perched on the highest branch of a nearby bush and belted out his song. She took a myriad of pictures, including some of the painted bunting, common yellowthroats, northern cardinals, the cops digging the bullets out of the trees, the copse where the shooter had stood, and some close-ups of Knapp.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Rachel recognized the black cop’s voice and let her camera rest. “I figured I might make use of the time, Officer.”

“Detective Stone. Why is it you’re always where trouble comes?”

“Just lucky, I guess.” She told him what she had seen.

“You’re sure it was a rifle?”

“Rifle, shotgun. I don’t know exactly what type of gun it was, except that it wasn’t a handgun. It had a long barrel.”

“And a long range,” mused Stone. “Listen, you be careful.”

Did he think the shooter might be after her? Maybe the shooter thought she had seen him that day in the Nest when she and Dorothy had found Becker dead. If so, Dorothy would be in danger as well.

“Are you saying I was the target?”

Detective Stone shrugged. “I’m not saying anything, just suggesting you take care.”
Oona mus tek cyear
.

• • •

“Did you learn anything?” Dorothy asked the minute Rachel entered the room. The adjacent door to the suites was open, and Cecilia, Dorothy, and Lark were gathered around the table in the sisters’ room.

“Only that someone either wants Knapp, me, or one of the birders in our digiscoping class dead.” She told them about the shooting.

“Thank God no one was hurt,” Lark said.

Dorothy looked pale. “If he was after you…”

Rachel patted her hand. Dorothy had put two and two together. “More likely the shooter was after Knapp. He claims he has something Guy Saxby wants. It isn’t inconceivable that the shooter wants it too.”

“The film footage?” Cecilia guessed, excitement humming in her voice.

“He refused to say, but it would be my guess.” Rachel dropped the tripod she was lugging on her bed, along with her backpack, and then set her camera on the dresser. “The main thing is we can eliminate some suspects from our list. Chuck Knapp and Liam Kelly, for two.” She told the others about sitting next to Liam in class.

“Who else?” Dorothy asked.

“Guy has to stay on the list,” Lark said.

Rachel felt sorry for Dorothy, but Lark was right. Saxby wasn’t in the clear yet.

“How about the rest of you?” she asked.

“Cecilia and I learned how to properly handle our lists.”

“Oh my, are you going to start that again, Dorothy?”

“Admit it, I was right. You can’t count a bird until you are able to identify it when you see it.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve seen the painted bunting and identified it any number of times in the past three days.”

“How about you, Lark?” Rachel asked, hoping her answer might spare them more of the sister act. “Did you learn anything?”

“I did.” She toyed with the end of her braid, and the sisters stopped bickering.

Dorothy scooted her chair forward.

“I took the Waterfowl Identification course, and we were down on the beach. It turns out, according to the workshop leader, the eighty acres included in the land trade extends from the golf course all the way to the sand.”

Knapp had indicated the same thing.

“So?” Dorothy said.

“So they’re not going to expand the golf course all the way to the beach. It seems there is a plan in the works to develop a boardwalk along the dunes, complete with golf shop, retail stores, restaurants, and bicycle rentals.”

“Let me guess,” Rachel said. “Wolcott is one of the investors.”

“Not technically, but, according to the workshop leader, Wolcott’s son-in-law is the developer and his wife will control the concessions.”

“In a resort community like this, that could mean a significant sum of money,” Cecilia said.

Rachel bobbed her head, as if maybe the motion would help shake the pieces in place. “But how could the Hyde Island Authority allow him to get away with that? Didn’t Wolcott say that the Authority has to vote on the land swap? Surely they won’t turn a blind eye to any pork tacked onto the deal.”