Death Shoots a Birdie

by CHRISTINE L. GOFF

  She swung her glasses to locate the bird, but spotted another. “Gray kingbird.”

  “Where?” demanded a chorus of voices.

  “That’s a rare sighting for here,” said Saxby.

  Rachel pointed to the bird perched on a utility wire running alongside the road. She only knew what it was from a trip she’d taken with Kirk to the Florida Keys. Whitish below, grayish above, with a heavier mask, a notched tail devoid of white, and a heavy black bill, it trilled pe-teerr-it , followed by a few other guttural and metallic sounds.

  “By God, it is!” Saxby exclaimed, clapping her on the shoulder. “Well done.”

  Rachel kept her hands to herself.

  Chapter 4

  A half hour later, the group stopped for lunch in Hog Hammock, a dusty little town with small houses and an open-air market. The houses were brightly colored, and old women sat in rocking chairs on small covered porches. Tables had been set up in the shade, and younger women speaking a mixture of African and Elizabethan English served them a traditional meal of fish perlo—a one-pot rice dish made with a vegetable and/or meat, and traditionally seasoned with pork.

  His plate filled to the brim, Saxby had made a beeline for the table where Rachel, Lark, Dorothy, and Cecilia sat under a spreading oak. Pleasantries were exchanged, and then Dorothy asked him what he knew about the people.

  “They’re part of the Geechee culture,” he explained, “which dates back more than two hundred years. Of course, this community only dates to 1950, when R. J. Reynolds instituted his land-consolidation plan.” Saxby set down his fork, and used his hands to gesture. “There were black land holdings spread out all over the island,” he said, carving the shape on a map in the air. “But Reynolds wanted to consolidate his holdings. He offered a trade, a plot of land and a house in Hog Hammock”—Saxby pointed to a spot on the fictional map—“for each black landowners’ property.” His hands swept over the imaginary island. “Needless to say, Reynolds came out ahead.” Saxby picked up his fork. “The black landowners often ended up trading for less than they gave in the exchange.”

  “Then why did they trade?” asked Lark.

  Saxby shrugged. “It’s hard to say. The Geechee have a family-oriented culture. For example, it’s customary for newlyweds to move into the husband’s parent’s home and live there until they can afford to build a home of their own. You can imagine how many multiple generational households there are. Plus, community grievances are settled in praise houses or churches.” Saxby forked some more perlo. “Maybe it made sense to them to live closer together.”

  Or maybe they had felt some outside pressure to take the deal. Tired of listening to Saxby, Rachel dabbed her mouth with her napkin, and excused herself. Crossing the soft grass, she browsed the stands the crafters had set up, and found herself drawn to the baskets of a beautiful dark-skinned woman in orange.

  “E be fanner,” the woman explained, handing Rachel a paper. “De basket be used to throw de rice.”

  Rachel read the description.

  A fanner is a traditional basket used to throw threshed rice into the air, allowing the wind to carry off the chaff. Originally made of bulrushes, today’s baskets are made from sweetgrass taken from the dunes. Longleaf pine needles are used to make decorations, and palmetto leaves hold the coils together.

  “Dat one be beautiful,” said the woman, bestowing approval on the one Rachel held in her hands. “Dat one be fifty dollars.”

  “It’s a good price,” said Dwayne, materializing beside her. “It’s an old art, and Trula’s one of the best.”

  “Tank oon.”

  Dwayne nodded.

  Rachel watched him walk away, before hemming and hawing over the price. She had no idea what a basket like this was worth. She only knew she wanted it. Finally, she dug out the money.

  “Oona be happy,” said Trula, wrapping the basket in plain paper, and slipping it inside a plastic bag. Then her expression changed, and she signaled for Rachel to move her head closer. “Come, lady.”

  Rachel leaned in, bumping her hip against the table.

  Trula slipped Rachel the basket, but kept hold of one edge, whispering close to her ear. “Oona mus tek cyear.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Trula’s orange dress swirled about them in the breeze, her sleeve softly brushing Rachel’s face. “Me sense hudu.”

  “Hudu?”

  “Bad luck,” she whispered. “Oona mus tek cyear.”

  Rachel had to admit, the woman’s premonition creeped her out. Still, they’d had good luck with the birds in the afternoon, and her spotting of the gray kingbird was voted the best catch of the day. Dusty and dirty, the busload of birders had arrived back at the Hyde Island Convention Center minutes before the kickoff festivities began, with no time to return to the hotel and change.

  “I need to find a ladies’ room,” said Rachel, swatting dust from the legs of her pants.

  “Okay,” said Lark. “How about, we’ll meet you at the bar?”

  Dorothy, Cecilia, and Lark headed into the convention hall, while Rachel sniffed out a bathroom. A few minutes later, she checked out the damage in the bathroom mirror. Dust powdered her face, blotting out her freckles, and her hair feathered her white cap in a riot of curls. Wiping down her face with a paper towel, she stuffed her cap into her back pocket, and finger-combed her reddish hair into a French twist. Rolling her long-sleeved shirt into a belt, she cinched it around her waist, turned up the cuffs of her pants, and then waded back through the crowd. She found Lark standing at the bartender’s station clutching a twenty-dollar bill in one hand.

  “There you are,” said Lark, her braid draping her shoulder like a thin, feather boa, tufts of blond hair sticking out at odd angles. “What do you want to drink?”

  “A Pepsi.”

  “One Pepsi, two white wines, and a Coors light,” ordered Lark, flashing the bartender a smile.

  Rachel glanced around and sized up the crowd. “I swear your numbers are off. There are nowhere near twelve hundred people in here. Five hundred, maybe.”

  “Not everyone shows up opening night,” said Lark, snatching a handful of napkins off the counter and wafting them through the air. “A lot of these people are vendors and presenters.”

  “Along with a few hard-core birders,” said Cecilia, coming up behind them. “Like us.”

  Like you. Rachel knew she didn’t fit the category. At best, she could be called an advanced beginner bird-watcher. One who sometimes got lucky.

  “It also gives anyone interested a chance to rub elbows with the stars,” said Dorothy, panning the crowd.

  “Mostly it gives potential buyers a chance to check out the stuff without pressure to buy.” Lark handed Rachel her Pepsi, and nudged her into the aisle. “The vendors aren’t allowed to ring up sales tonight.”

  As they wandered “The Nest,” Rachel decided the event was a smart marketing plan. She had no doubts that most of these people would come back tomorrow to buy things. There was tremendous interest in the big-ticket items—the binoculars and scopes. Booth after booth carried brands from Bausch & Lomb to Zeiss. People waited in lines to focus demo scopes on the bird pictures taped high in the rafters, while more people pawed through display racks of clothing, bird feeders, books, artwork, sculptures, jewelry—anything imaginable that had a bird, insect, or wild animal on it.

  “Check this out.” Rachel pointed to a camouflaged exhibit spanning the south wall. A banner emblazoned with BEAU AND REGGIE’S BIRDS OF PREY stretched high above a twelve-tree stump display, camouflaged to depict a woodland scene. Various birds sat on the stumps, among them an American kestrel, a peregrine falcon, a prairie falcon, a bald eagle, a golden eagle, a great-horned owl, a northern harrier, and a red-tailed hawk. The birds eyed the crowd with a mixture of deference, disdain, and fear.

  Lark swigged her beer and studied the peregrine. “I’ve seen this exhibit before. It’s run by Beau and Reggie.”

  “Obviously,” said Rachel. Lark’s
statement seemed redundant with the sign.

  “They’re considered the Siegfried and Roy of the raptor world.”

  “First it’s the Indiana Jones of the birding world, then it’s the Siegfried and Roy?”

  Lark ignored her. “As I recall, they put on a pretty good show.”

  “They claim their birds are unfit for release,” said Dorothy, punctuating her words with a sniff.

  “Let me guess,” said Rachel. “You don’t believe them.”

  Dorothy shrugged. “I’ll concede some of the birds may be injured, but wait until you see most of them fly. Beau and Reggie claim they were all donated from wildlife centers like the Raptor House.”

  Rachel felt her attitude shift at the mention of the Elk Park wildlife rehabilitation center. Once owned by her aunt Miriam and now run by the National Park Service, the Raptor House occasionally used birds for educational purposes, but most were rehabilitated into the wild. She couldn’t imagine her aunt ever allowing them to be used in this type of display.

  “Not only that,” said Dorothy. “But the two of them are felons.”

  Cecilia, Lark, and Rachel turned to stare at her.

  “I’m not kidding. I heard they both served time for trafficking wild birds. Parrots, to be exact.”

  “Oh my,” said Cecilia. “Are you suggesting they have obtained these birds in a questionable manner?”

  Lark scoffed at the whole idea. “Come on, Dorothy. If they were felons, how would they get a license to put on this type of show?”

  “That’s a good question. Don’t ask me. I’m just the messenger.”

  “Well, if they are felons,” said Cecilia. “I think it’s admirable they’re now devoting their lives to educating people about the beauty of raptors.”

  Dorothy sniffed louder. “It’s not like they’re hurting for money.”

  Rachel didn’t know what to think. She would have liked to see the show, but a plastic clock attached to the tree stump beneath the bald eagle indicated the next show wasn’t scheduled to start for over an hour.

  “We can come back,” said Lark.

  The women sauntered on, and for every stranger they encountered they met someone who either knew Dorothy, Lark, or Cecilia. Finally Rachel, her face muscles aching from smiling through all of the introductions, looked for a place to sit down.

  “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 M
cKinlay. 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.