by J. R. Ripley
JJ Fuller was this year’s American Birding Expo’s guest of honor and keynote speaker.
And I had insulted the guy. Bird poop.
At the registration desk, an officious young woman printed out American Birding Expo badges for each of us. I grabbed a handful of lanyards and some welcome swag bags and carried them to the booth.
Floyd lowered a bottle of water from his lips. “Derek ran out to the van.”
“And Karl?”
“Tagging along.”
“Okay. We should be done here soon. Here’s your ID. You’ll need to wear it the entire time we’re working.”
Floyd strung his lanyard around his neck.
“You, too, Esther.”
Esther looked at her badge. “At least they spelled the name right.”
“I suggest we head back to the hotel, freshen up and enjoy what Philadelphia has to offer.”
“Karl’s gonna like that. He brought a wad of cash.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Define wad.”
“Four grand.”
“Cash?” I gasped.
“Sure.”
“Floyd, I don’t think it’s a good idea for Karl to be wandering around town with four thousand dollars in his pocket. Pockets,” I amended. How many pockets did one require to haul around four thousand dollars?
Floyd threw up his hands. “Tell him that.”
“Karl is a stubborn old coot.” Esther put in her two cents. The money kept piling up.
“Are you still planning on hitting the casino with us, Esther?”
“Yep.”
“Well, you can count me and Derek out.” I had no idea how much money Esther was intending to gamble and did not want to know.
“We weren’t counting you in,” Esther deadpanned.
“Floyd, why don’t you—” I froze.
“You okay, Amy?” Floyd asked.
“What? Yes.” JJ Fuller was strutting up the aisle. He was the last person I wanted to see. Nor did I want him to see me. I placed my hand on Floyd’s shoulder and shielded myself behind him. “How about taking a look for Derek and Karl? They should have been back by now.”
“Okay.”
“Ask them if they can scrounge up an extra chair or two.” We had been given three six-foot tables and three chairs. We had arranged one table in front and one on each side, leaving the drapery covering the rear.
Floyd saluted. “Sure, Chief.”
I made myself busy unboxing and sorting Barbara’s Bird Bars. We had several trays of the sample size bars to give away.
“What’s this?” I heard a now all too familiar voice bark. I didn’t dare turn around. It was Fuller.
“Those are special copies of Hummingbirds and Their Habits,” Esther explained. “Each one personally autographed by the author himself, Dr. Mason Livingston.”
Fuller harrumphed in reply.
“He’s dead, you know,” Esther said.
A small shiver went up my spine. Mason’s death had been both untimely and unpleasant.
I heard the sound of pages turning and, figuring JJ Fuller was intent on the book, I dared a peek out of the corner of my eye. He flipped the heavy pages, making unflattering remarks and sounds as he did so.
Fuller read the inscription on the title page aloud. “To my friends at Birds and Bees. So.” He slammed the cover on the coffee table-sized book. “This man was a friend of yours?”
“Not me. I barely knew the man,” Esther replied as she straightened the book on the pile. “But Amy here, she and Mason were best friends.”
I flinched.
“Isn’t that right, Amy?”
“You!” Angry eyes flared at me. “I might have known.” Fuller rolled his head side to side. “You were friends with that—that fraud, that plagiarist!” He aimed his finger accusingly at the cover of Mason’s book.
I stormed to the front table and dumped a handful of bird bars in the woven basket on the table beside Esther. “Professor Livingston may have had his flaws,” and then some, “but he was a brilliant man.
“And this,” I said, grabbing the book and clutching it to my chest, “is a brilliant piece of work.” The last work that Mason Livingston would ever do.
I had bought out the supply from our now defunct local bookstore. I thought I might be able to sell a few of the autographed copies at the Expo. I had a personally signed copy that I kept on my bookshelf at home.
“The only thing brilliant about that book is the coloring of that blue-throated goldentail.” Fuller’s chest puffed out like a greater sage-grouse at mating time. “And he probably photoshopped that.”
Okay, so the man knew his hummingbirds. He was right, it was a blue-throated goldentail on the cover. Anybody with a bit of birding knowledge could have figured that out. The unique hummingbird boasted a long, sharp bill that was distinct for being red except for the dark tip and a golden fan for a tail. “Lucky guess.”
Esther pressed her knuckles to the table and leaned toward Fuller. “Are you planning to buy anything?”
He looked at her with something between incredulity and amusement. “I do not buy anything. Do you see who I am?” He tugged at the lanyard now draped around his neck and jammed his thumb against his badge. “JJ Fuller, Guest of Honor.”
“People give me things.” He snatched a bar from the basket and began unwrapping it from its plastic covering quickly, his fingers moving deftly. “People pay me to endorse their products.”
“Well, you aren’t any guest of ours.” Esther wrestled the bird bar from his fingers before he managed to sink his teeth into it. “If you want something here, buster, you are going to have to pay for it. Those bars are four dollars each!” She stuck her hand out, palm up.
Fuller sneered and reached for a fresh bar.
Esther slapped his hand. He drew back with a sick laugh.
“I admire your spirit, Ms. Pilaster.” He shook his red fingers. “However, if you lay a hand on me again, I shall have you removed.”
Esther’s fist lashed out for Fuller’s nose like a heat, or in this case, flesh-seeking missile. “Remove this from your—”
“Now, now, Esther.” I clamped my hand over hers and forced her to lower her arm. “Esther gets a little cranky when she’s off her meds. Don’t you, Esther?”
“What?” Esther was seeing red. “I don’t—”
Fuller snorted triumphantly but triumph turned to venom as a flash of light went off in his face. “What do you think you are doing?”
We spun sideways to see a photographer snapping pictures. An action shot of Esther taking a poke at the guest of honor.
The photographer, a lanky man in his early forties with short dark hair, brown eyes and a big smile, said, “Thanks for the shot, JJ. This will look great in the daily Expo blog.” He lowered the fancy camera around his neck.
“I’ve warned you before, Lisbon,” Fuller growled.
“Great,” I sighed, feeling my world collapsing all around me. “Just what I need, a photograph of us fighting with the Expo’s guest of honor.”
“We might never get invited back,” mumbled Esther. “Not that I care.”
“We might not last the weekend,” I whispered.
“If you post that, Lisbon,” Fuller warned, “I’ll walk. And then I’ll sue.”
“Okay, okay. It was just for fun.” The photographer waved his hands in surrender then snatched up the camera once more. “How about a shot of the three of you standing in front of your booth?”
The man named Lisbon squinted at the sign. “Birds and Bees?” A lopsided grin formed on his face. “I love it. Come on, JJ. What do you say?”
JJ Fuller thrust his hands in his pockets and stomped past us, hopefully never to be seen again. A little voice inside my head told me it might be best to avoid the keynote speech he was sched
uled to give tomorrow night.
The photographer smiled. “I guess that’s a no, huh?”
“I’m afraid so,” I answered.
“One shot of him probably would have shattered your lens.” Esther grabbed the basket.
“What did you stop him from taking a bite for?” I asked.
“He’s nasty.” Esther rewrapped the bar and dropped it in the basket. She wiped her hands on her apron. “Somebody ought to give him an attitude adjustment. Preferably with a baseball bat.”
Satisfied with her handiwork, she angled the basket so it would be within easy reach of passersby.
“It was bird food, Esther. I’d have paid to watch him eat it.”
Esther chuckled. “Wish I’d thought of that. Next time I see him, I’ll apologize and give him one as a peace offering.”
“Let’s get a shot of you ladies, anyway.” Lisbon held up his camera. “Okay?”
“Great.” We could use all the publicity we could get.
Esther ran from behind the table. She slipped between me and the photographer and marched off.
“Esther! Where are you going?”
“Bathroom break.”
I shrugged for the photographer’s sake. “Old people, right?”
The photographer extended his hand. “I’m Dennis Lisbon.”
“Amy Simms. A pleasure meeting you. Are you with the local paper?”
“No.” He shoved his camera to one side, revealing his badge. “Dennis Lisbon, freelance photographer for the ABE.”
I posed in front of the booth while he took several pictures for the Expo’s daily blog.
After his departure, I wandered the aisles, checking out the other exhibitors. The Expo was bigger than the one I’d attended previously. Founded by Bill Thompson, III, of Bird Watcher’s Digest magazine and hosted with its partners, the American Birding Association, and the John James Audubon Center at Mill Grove, it really was a one-stop shop for all things bird with over a hundred vendors including conservation groups, clubs, nature and birding tour companies, optics firms, birding equipment and supply firms, booksellers, bird- and birdwatching-related clothing retailers, artists, photographers and more.
There was still no sign of Esther. I sat in our booth and stretched my legs. The next thing I knew, or didn’t know, I’d dozed off.
“Wake up, sleepy head.”
I opened my eyes to the sight, and lovely feel, of Derek planting a soft kiss on my forehead.
“You are back.” I grinned and kissed him back.
“Ahem,” Karl cleared his throat theatrically. “Sleeping on the job already, Chief?”
I jumped to my feet. “I was waiting for my deputies.”
“We’re here now. What do you need?” Floyd asked.
“How about rehanging the sign?” It had fallen to the floor not long after Dennis Lisbon snapped his pictures.
“What about me, Chief?” Derek slung his coat over his shoulder.
“Did Karl ask you about the chairs?”
“Yep. We talked to Maury. He said he would see what he could do.”
“Would you mind running out to one of the stores and picking up some snacks and drinks? A number of the exhibitors have candies and drinks, that sort of thing, for people passing by. I thought we should do the same.”
“No problem.”
“Where’s Esther?” Floyd eased himself into a chair as Derek headed off.
“I don’t know. She’s been gone quite a while.”
A group of four, arms full and dressed in matching khaki shirts and olive pants, bustled into the booth next door like storm troopers. One of the two young women waved in our general direction after setting down a pair of bulging black duffel bags.
I set a business card holder on the front table. Esther had brought a stack of her own business cards as well: Esther Pilaster, Birds & Bees, Assistant Manager. I moved hers a little behind my own.
There was a sudden crash, and somebody shouted, “Heads up!” Another yelled, “Watch out!”
I spun around as a retractable aluminum stand crashed down on our front table. The drapery sagged.
“Sorry about that,” an apologetic brunette with short locks said. “Be more careful, George,” she added, turning her attention to an abashed young man clutching a five by eight-foot banner in his hands.
“Sorry. You okay over there?” George had a boyish face, made more so by the longish dirty blond hair dangling untidily around his head.
“I’m fine.” I handed him the fallen stand. “Are you okay, Floyd?”
“Tiptop.” Floyd looked a little flustered but otherwise uninjured.
The young woman thrust out her hand. “Robin Tork, Back to Nature Tours.”
Strong fingers gave mine a squeeze. My hand felt like a dishrag in comparison. Robin had a pert nose, a tanned complexion and jungle green eyes.
“I’m Amy Simms. That’s Floyd and that’s Karl.”
Robin pointed to her coworkers, who included clumsy George Dolenz, stunning Romena Jones with her bouncy brown locks in a ponytail, and an easy on the eyes young man with a swarthy complexion and charcoal eyes called Harry Nesmith. “We’ll try to set up our booth without knocking your booth down. Won’t we, people?”
George and the others pledged to be more careful in the future.
“I’ve got your extra chairs.” Maury wheeled up with a handcart stacked with chairs.
“Thanks.” I asked Floyd and Karl to hold down the booth until I got back.
“Will do,” Karl had crossed over into neighbor territory and was lending the lovely Romena, who had a sultry Spanish accent, a hand unboxing postcards.
“Let’s meet up here in an hour. We’ve done all we can today and we’ll want to be here bright and early tomorrow.”
“What about Esther?” Floyd looked forlorn.
“I’ll tell you what, Floyd. Let’s split up and look for her.” I knew he’d been hoping for some Esther time. “I’ll take this half of the hall.” I indicated with my hands. “You take the other. Whoever finds her first, comes back here and waits for the other to return in an hour.”
“You don’t suppose anything has happened to her, do you, Amy?”
Floyd’s wife had passed suddenly. And he hadn’t been there to say goodbye. I knew that experience still left a hole in his heart.
“Of course not, Floyd. You know how Esther is.”
Honestly, I didn’t think any of us knew quite how Esther was. Though always more than willing to make her opinions known when it came to the rest of us, Esther was secretive in regard to her personal life and her past. “I’m sure she’s only lost track of time.”
“She never wanted to come in the first place.” Floyd tugged his moustache. “You don’t suppose she went home, do you?”
“To Ruby Lake?” I wasn’t surprised at the idea but I was surprised that it had crossed Floyd’s mind as it had mine. I hoped for his sake she wasn’t right this minute standing at a freeway onramp trying to thumb a ride back to Ruby Lake.
“Can you keep a secret?”
Floyd nodded.
“Esther is playing hard to get.”
Floyd wrinkled his brow. “Hard to get?”
“Sure, Floyd. Esther likes you. She really likes you. But…” I shrugged. “She doesn’t want you to think she’s being too easy.”
“She doesn’t?”
“Nooo. Esther is afraid that you will think badly of her if she comes on too strong.”
“I’d never think anything bad about Esther, Amy.”
“Of course, you wouldn’t.” I smiled broadly. “Let’s find Esther and get out of here. I’m ready for some fun.”
“Me, too.”
“Remember, what I said?” I pressed my finger to my lips. “Our little secret, right?”
F
loyd nodded then turned on his heels to begin the search for Esther.
I prayed Floyd could keep a secret because if he mentioned a single word of what I had said to Esther the Pester she would kill me.
3
I wandered slowly through the expo hall looking for signs of my missing assistant manager. Spotting a frizzy gray head bobbing in the distance, I squinted.
“Like to borrow a spotting scope?” a deep-voiced man asked.
“No, thanks. That won’t be necessary. False alarm.” The frizzy gray head belonged to a man in black suspenders.
The speaker looked down at his badge then held out his hand. “Irving Shipman, Ornitho Optics.”
“Amy Simms, Birds and Bees.” Ornitho Optics was a small, yet prestigious Zurich-based optics firm that had been around for a hundred years or more.
“Looking for a bird to add to your life list?” he teased.
“Looking for an employee who’s already on my ‘making life difficult’ list. She appears to be missing in action. I don’t suppose you’ve seen her?”
“What’s she look like?”
I described Esther down to her orthopedic sneakers.
“Sorry, I can’t say I have.” He dutifully looked up and down the aisle. “I’m sure she’ll turn up. Stay in one spot long enough and everybody passes by, a dozen times or more.”
Irving Shipman reached for a business card from a modest stack on his front table and handed me one. “First timer?”
“Yes,” I answered as I fingered the thick linen card with blue foil accents on a white background. “How did you know?”
“You’ve got that look. Like an owl caught in the glare of a spotlight.”
“I hope my eyes don’t look that big.” I chuckled.
“Speaking of eyes, take a look over there.” Irving Shipman chinned to his left.
I slowly turned. JJ Fuller stood arguing in the far corner. I might not have recognized JJ during our first confrontation but, even from a distance, I knew who the woman was. The statuesque blonde in the tight green slacks, hiking boots, and taut tan top was Ilsa Skoglund, a world-famous birder and filmmaker. Her production company was responsible for a number of bird-related adventure programs.