Death Shoots a Birdie

by CHRISTINE L. GOFF

  “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.” 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 20 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,” yelled Rachel. 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 firing a gun. 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,” said Kelly, 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 vee. “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, 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. 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 the cop. “Listen, you be careful.”

  Did he think the shooter might be after her? Maybe he 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 the shooter was shooting at me?”

  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,” said Lark.

  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 unconceivable that the shooter wants it, too.”

  “The film footage?” guessed Cecilia, 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?” asked Dorothy.

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

  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 star
t 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.

  “Oh my,” said Cecilia. “Why didn’t you say something earlier, dear?”

  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?” said Dorothy.

  “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,” said Rachel. “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,” said Cecilia.

  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.”

  “Unless the Authority thinks it’s all part of the golf course concessions,” said Lark.

  “The important thing,” said Dorothy, “is it gives Wolcott a vested interest in seeing that this trade goes through.”

  The banquet that night was a festive affair, even if the main topic of conversation was Becker’s murder and the shooting on the golf course this afternoon. A band had been hired to play Georgia bluegrass while the festivalgoers dined on Cornish game hens and rice pilaf. Rachel noticed Lark and Cecilia both bopped to the beat, but Dorothy spent her time looking around. Most likely searching for Saxby. It wasn’t until they were lined up to get into the theater to see Knapp’s movie that Saxby appeared.

  Placing one hand on Dorothy’s shoulder and the other on Rachel’s, he said, “You ladies are coming along tomorrow on the Okefenokee field trip, right?”

  “We wouldn’t miss it,” replied Rachel.

  Dorothy beamed at the man. “I can hardly wait.”

  Cecilia and Lark nodded. Rachel noticed that Cecilia had set her mouth in a hard line.

  “Good, very good. But there’s been a change at plans. A positive one, I’m sure you’ll agree. We’re organizing everyone into five-man teams and having them compete to record the highest number of species within a specific amount of time. I think with all the knowledge and experience among you, you will be perfect to join with me.”

  “You mean, to be on your team?” Dorothy looked like she might burst.

  “I thought we were taking a canoe trip,” said Rachel. Disappointment edged her question. She had been looking forward to paddling in the swamp.

  “Not tomorrow. The conference coordinators have agreed to let me take the group to explore Swamper’s Island. Canoe trips will be rescheduled for Saturday and Sunday. But when you hear the rest of the details I’m sure you’ll agree it’s a positive change.”

  Swamper’s Island. That was the piece of land designated for the land trade.

  “You will be especially pleased,” he said, directing this last bit at Dorothy. “We’re going to bag some highly unusual species, trust me. Plus, I’ll let you in on a secret—there’s a special prize for the team with the most sightings.”

  “A prize?” said Lark. “What kind of prize?” She flipped her braid over her shoulder, skepticism written all over her face.

  “That will all be explained, but everyone gets a free T-shirt, in any case.”

  Lark made a face.

  “If you don’t want the prize, you don’t have to accept it,” said Saxby. “Provided we win.” He gave Dorothy’s shoulder an extra squeeze, and then turned back to Lark. “If you don’t want to participate, I’ll try and round up someone else for the team.”

  “She’ll do it,” Rachel said promptly.

  “Good, very good.” Saxby smiled, and moved away.

  “What he said about experience,” Cecilia said. “I think he was referring to our collective ages. What do you think?”

  Lark whirled around to face off with Rachel. “What have you gotten me into this time?”

  “I have no idea. Honest.” She raised her hands, palms up, fingers spread wide. “You know as much as I do. However, you do realize where we’re going tomorrow, don’t you?”

  “The Okefenokee swamp.”

  “No! Well yes, but no,” said Rachel. “We’re going to Swamper’s Island, as in ‘land trade’ island.”

  “Oh my.” Cecilia’s eyes grew wide.

  It was clear Lark hadn’t realized. “Then maybe we can figure out what’s so important about that piece of swampland,” she said.

  “Right,” said Rachel, grabbing hold of Lark’s arm. “That’s why I opted you in. Because there was no way I wanted Saxby opting you out. The four of us make a pretty good team, not to mention we share the same goal.”

  “Plus we get free T-shirts.” Lark struck a pose.

  Cecilia made a tsking noise. “That’s not why Dorothy is in.”

  Rachel shifted uncomfortably and let go of Lark’s arm.

  Dorothy blushed, ducked her head, and then raised it defiantly. “You know, I kind of like the competitive aspect,” she said. “Of course, some of us are going to have to be careful about making things up.”

  Rachel figured she wasn’t referring to Saxby.

  Chapter 11

  At last the line started moving. Filing into the theater, they found seats near the front. The film was incredible. The shots of birds in migration, the sense of flight, combined to leave viewers breathless. Chuck Knapp stood to one side of the screen and talked into a microphone, a black silhouette against his movie. Occasionally he commented on how he’d gotten this or that shot or dropped a nugget of interest about wildlife photography in general. At the end, when the lights came up, he offered to take questions.

  Hands shot up throughout the theater.

  “Do you shoot your films using digital?” asked a woman near the front.

  Knapp swept his hair back from his face. “No, I only use digital for still photographs. For my movies, I prefer shooting with old-fashioned film. There is a quality to film that you don’t get with video—a richness in color, a depth, a dimension. Plus, what you shoot is real. It’s very easy to manipulate digital images.”

  “Rumor has it you and Becker found something unusual in the swamp. Can you confirm it?”

  Rachel swiveled around to see who had asked the question.

  Liam Kelly sat on the edge of his seat.

  Had he overheard Becker talking in the Nest, or overheard her conversation with Knapp at lunchtime?

  A murmur raced through the crowd.

  “That is outside the scope of this discussion,” answered Knapp. He seemed uncomfortable, and his gaze swept over the audience.

  “Was it the red-cockaded woodpecker, or something else?”

  Rachel wondered if, like her, they were all thinking ivory-billed woodpecker.

  The crowd refused to let the question rest. “Did you see the actual bird or just foraging signs?” someone else shouted.

  “Did you get it on film?”

  Knapp stood silent until the audience fell quiet. The tension in the room was palpable. “I will only take questions relating to my film or technique,�
�� he stated.

  Behind Rachel, a woman said, “He must have gotten it on film. Why else would he be so evasive? I’ll bet that’s what we’ll be seeing on Saturday night.”

  Knapp pointed to a young man in the front.

  “The word is out that you’re filming a new TV show about birding. Can you tell us if there’s any truth to that?”

  Annoyance or discomfort flickered across Knapp’s face. He started to open his mouth when Guy Saxby appeared from the opposite side of the audience and took the stage.

  “I can address that one,” said Saxby. “Can everyone hear me? You, in the back?”

  “What the hell—” Knapp pushed forward to center stage.

  Satisfied with the crowd’s answer, Saxby basked in the spotlight. “I was going to wait and announce this tomorrow night, but since the word is out.” He nodded toward the young man, and Rachel wondered if the boy was a plant, possibly one of Saxby’s current graduate students. “It’s my pleasure to inform you that one of the major networks has picked up my new series, Extreme Birding. We’re going to be filming the pilot tomorrow.”

  “What the . . .” Knapp’s face turned the shade of sweet beets.

  Another murmur rippled through the crowd.

  “Film crews will accompany tomorrow’s swamp trip into the Okefenokee, where we’ll be turning five teams loose on Swamper’s Island. The goal will be for each team to list the most birds, and the most unusual species, within a specified amount of time.”

  “What’s the prize?” someone shouted.

  “Fifty thousand dollars to the winning team, and a matching donation to the birding organization of the winning team’s choice.”

  Rachel’s heart started pounding, and she raised her hand to her chest. Fifty thousand dollars. Dorothy, Cecilia, and Lark could be counted on to tally up birds, but she was out of her league. My God, what had she gotten herself into?

  The crowd clapped, as Knapp’s voice boomed through the speaker system. “This is not the time or the place, Guy. How many times are you going to pull this sh—”

  When he realized he was talking into the mike, he cut himself off and addressed the crowd. “It seems Mr. Saxby has stolen my thunder. I, too, have a televised series in the works.”