Too bad he was dead.
Exhausting her search on the creatures at the swamp, Rachel turned to researching Knapp. She read his bio in the program, read his bio on his Website, but otherwise couldn’t dig up much more than the fact that he was both a wildlife filmmaker and photographer. Something she already knew.
Rachel checked her e-mail and found a message waiting from Kirk.
find out anything more on saxby? the birds are thriving here, but the species have changed some. sort of like what happens when there’s a wildfire. wish I was there. kirk
Rachel pictured him in his khaki shorts, and then typed:
I’m not so sure. Paul Becker, one of the keynote speakers, was murdered. Dorothy and I were questioned. Saxby is the prime suspect. He obviously has something big to reveal, but he refuses to dish. Becker had something big up his sleeve, too. I’m beginning to wonder if it’s one and the same. There’s a filmmaker named Chuck Knapp who might know something. I’m going digiscoping with him tomorrow. I’ll be in touch.
She paused, and then added:
Thinking of you. Rachel
and hit Send.
The others came back from dinner with Saxby’s tales of the interrogation. The detective had grilled him relentlessly, convinced he had been there. Saxby had stuck to his guns, and insisted he never made it inside the Nest. Finally, they had released him.
“I told you, he didn’t do it,” crowed Dorothy.
“He’s still their prime suspect,” Cecilia pointed out.
“Thank you for your input,” snapped Dorothy.
“Why?” asked Rachel. “If the guard turned him away, and they can’t prove he was there . . .”
“The guard doesn’t remember talking to him,” explained Dorothy. “And we said he was there, or he was supposed to be there.”
“The detective admitted to Guy . . .” Rachel noticed Lark used his first name. “. . . That the shots came from outside,” she continued. “He thinks the person arguing with Becker might have slipped out the doors and shot him back through the glass.”
“That’s absurd,” said Dorothy. “We would have heard the door open.”
“Maybe, or maybe not,” said Rachel. “That would have been about the time I bumped into that rack, and the scuffle came before the shot.”
“He didn’t do it.” Dorothy’s voice verged on tears.
Rachel patted the end of her bed. “Sit down. I’ve been doing some research.”
She told them what little she had discovered, and then asked them what they thought of her endangered species theory.
“It makes sense,” said Dorothy quickly.
Too quickly? Rachel wondered.
“Oh my,” said Cecilia. “I think you girls are grasping at straws.”
“Seriously, Cec,” said Dorothy. “A find like the ivory-billed woodpecker would give someone lot of notoriety. Look at the man who found the one in Arkansas. If Knapp and Becker had one clearly on film—”
“It would upstage Guy,” said Lark, “giving him an even stronger reason to have it out for Becker.”
Dorothy stiffened. “Are you insinuating that Guy Saxby would kill Becker to steal his film?”
“I don’t think that’s what she was saying,” said Rachel. “If that were the case, he’d have to kill Knapp, too. But”—How to divulge this?—“Sonja Becker did say that years ago Saxby had stolen her husband’s work, and then published it as his own.”
Dorothy stiffened. “That is a lie!”
“There is no way to prove it, one way or the other,” said Rachel. “Especially with Becker dead.”
The four of them fell silent. Lark perched on her bed, sitting opposite Dorothy. Cecilia sat in a chair by the window. Dorothy stared at her hands in her lap, and Rachel could feel her heart breaking.
“Look, Dorothy, I’m with you,” said Rachel. “I don’t think Guy killed Becker either.” Now she was calling him Guy. What she didn’t say was that she didn’t believe Saxby had the backbone to kill anyone. “Let’s make a suspect list, and this time let’s write down the names and their motives.”
Rummaging around on the bedside table, Rachel produced a pad of paper and a pen, and poked Dorothy with the end of the pen.
Dorothy drew a deep breath. “There’s Wolcott,” she said.
“Except I think he wants the trade,” said Lark. “Remember how he acted at dinner the other evening? He played it cautiously, but he seemed firmly in the Andersons’ camp.”
“Agreed,” said Rachel. “He might not have known Becker switched sides. We didn’t know until Sonja let it slip.” Rachel wrote down Wolcott’s name.
“He’d need a strong reason to want the trade,” said Lark. “Strong enough to kill over.”
Rachel couldn’t think of anything.
Dorothy’s head came up. “What if he has some development plans no one knows about?”
“That’s good,” said Cecilia.
“What are we talking about?” asked Lark. “More hotel beds. I’ll bet the Andersons would be against that.”
“Unless they were working with him,” said Cecilia.
“Like in Murder on the Orient Express.” Rachel recalled Agatha Christie’s famous novel made into a movie in 1974 starring Albert Finney and Lauren Bacall. Maybe it was a conspiracy. She scribbled a note beside Wolcott’s name: CHECK OUT ULTERIOR MOTIVES.
Lark kiboshed their excitement. “I don’t see Wolcott as the murdering type.”
“There’s a type?” asked Dorothy. “If so, Guy certainly doesn’t fit, yet everyone seems willing enough to suspect him.”
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,” said Lark.
“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,” said Lark. “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,” said Lark.
“Of course not,” said Dorothy. “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,” said Lark. “I know what Aunt Miriam has to go through to maintain the licensing for the Raptar House. Those two would be under a lot of scrutiny, especially if they have questionable backgrounds.”
CHECK OUT BEAU’S 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 twenty-four/seven and picket in front of the Hyde Island Club Hotel.
“What about Chuck Knapp?” asked Lark.
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,” said Cecilia.
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?” asked Cecilia.
“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,” said Dorothy. She shot Lark a glare, the kind that had made generations of high-school students go quiet and attentive. “Look him up.”
“Who? Saxby?” said Rachel.
“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,” said Cecilia.
“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,” said Cecilia. “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,” said Cecilia.
“It’s a review of Guy’s book,” said Dorothy. “It looks like a wonderful review, too.”
“But what’s going on in that picture?” asked Lark. “Becker doesn’t look happy.”
Rachel ran her hands through her hair. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. Let me try Wolcott.”
“Try Becker,” said Dorothy.
Rachel complied.
“Oh, he’s got a nice bod,” said Cecilia 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,” said Rachel, 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,” said Lark, 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.
Chapter 10
The others called it a night, but Rachel stayed up and checked out a few more Websites 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. The murder was a buzz on everyone’s lips, 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 with her background in graphic production the stuff on how to frame a shot, composition and color, she already knew quite a bit.
“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 fl
attery. 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 an 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.
Death Shoots a Birdie Page 10