It was definitely Saxby’s voice, Rachel heard, and it must have been Lark’s warning call. Nice timing, Drummond.
Of course, she couldn’t really blame Lark for her predicament. It had been her own brilliant idea, and now she was stuck under a bed in a man’s room, and she might have to stay here all night. She would have to stay awake. Not that there was the remotest chance she would ever sleep, but if she did she might snore, or talk in her sleep, or do something that would give her away.
Maybe he would snore. Then she would know it was time to bolt.
Stay calm, Wilder. By now Lark had to know Rachel was in trouble, and she would do something. Maybe set off the fire alarm? Or maybe something more subtle, like coming up and knocking on the door. Lark could say Dorothy needed him, and lure him down to the second floor.
Rachel lay under the bed for what seemed like hours. Finally, she forced herself to relax. She was glad when Saxby found a movie he wanted to watch—a remake of Sabrina, starring Harrison Ford. Rachel followed the script with the dialogue, pleased at least that the housekeeping staff had been diligent about sweeping under the bed. There was no dust, no cobwebs, nothing to make her feel like sneezing. Or coughing.
A giggle bubbled up in her throat.
Or crying.
All of which seemed like distinct possibilities. In fact, Rachel began to feel like she might fall asleep under there, given a long enough stay.
Guy Saxby’s feet hit the floor with a soft thump, and he padded into the bathroom.
A shower! That’s what you need. Instead she heard what sounded like a gallon of water being poured from a great height. At least he’d be facing away from the door.
She started to slide out from under the bed when she heard the shower start up. He must have picked up her urging. Drawing a deep breath, she prepared herself to make a run for it, when she heard him come out and slide open the closet door. Flattening herself out, she waited for him to return to the bathroom.
Why didn’t he close the door? She would have shut the door if she were taking a shower, even in a room where nobody else was supposed to be. Then she heard his voice again.
Was he talking to himself? No, he was singing!
Rachel inched out from under the bed. She could only hope he had his face turned away from the door. He belted out a Billy Joel song, “The Longest Time,” alternating between the lead singer’s line and the backup, making it impossible to judge in which direction he stood.
Just go for it, Wilder.
She rolled over the wing tips by the bed, resisted the temptation to peer into the bathroom, and felt grateful this time that the light in the room was dim. Making it past the open bathroom, she yanked on the door. Saxby had been cautious, and had fastened the night latch. The door opened a half inch, and then stopped with a clank.
Rachel bit her lip as the singing stopped.
“Hey!” came from inside the shower. “Who’s there?”
Rachel shut the door and backed into the closet, her hand touching his jacket. A small, round object the size of a can of chewing tobacco dented the inner pocket. The film!
She heard him climb out of the shower. Lifting the small tin from his pocket, she bolted for the door. Sliding the chain out of its track, she swung open the door, bolted out into the hall, and slammed the door shut behind her.
Talk about not choosing your moment!
Fortunately the hallway was empty. Racing down the stairs, she skidded around corners and didn’t stop until she was in front of her own room. Banging noisily, she ran through a quick scenario of how she would be caught. Saxby would catch up to her, the maid who had let her in upstairs would choose just this moment to come down the hall, and security would storm the stairways. And then Lark yanked open the door.
Behind her, Cecilia and Dorothy sat, open-mouthed, on the beds. “Oh my.”
Rachel burst inside, and slammed the door behind her. “Bad news,” she gasped. “Guy Saxby’s a thief!”
It took her a few moments to catch her breath, and to listen to Lark’s apology.
Dorothy and Cecilia had appeared at the door with Saxby shortly after Rachel had gone upstairs. Lark had done her best to keep him occupied, and had called as soon as he left. Unfortunately, Dorothy had wanted to know who she was calling and Lark had let the phone ring too long.
Up until then, Dorothy had sat stoically at the end of Rachel’s bed. Now she wanted answers. “What were you thinking, going up to Guy’s room?”
“I was thinking Knapp might have been right with his accusations.” Rachel pulled the small tin from her pocket.
The others gasped. Dorothy’s eyes looked shiny and wet.
“Oh my,” whispered Cecilia.
Dorothy’s expression hardened. “We don’t know what’s in there.”
“We can guess,” said Lark. “Open it.”
Inside was a small reel with inch-wide film.
Chapter 15
Rachel pulled the reel out of its tin holder, and grasped the film by its edges. She held it up to the light and studied the positive image frame by frame.
There was no doubt that the film was shot in a swamp. The sun shone brightly through tall Cyprus and tupelo trees draped in Spanish moss. An old-growth forest covered the highlands, peat blanketed the ground. She could tell by the angle that Knapp and Becker were standing on low ground when the film was taken. A deer path meandered through the forest, the understory thick with a tangle of dead trees and limbs. A small rise caused the path to bend in the distance. Above the curve was a spot of red.
The next nine or ten frames told the story. A large black-and-white bird with a red crest and a white bill flew by, landing on a nearby tree. Its flight was straight, the bird looked huge, and its trailing wing feathers formed a white saddle on its back.
“The ivory-billed woodpecker,” said Lark. Awe softened her voice. “You were right all along, Rae.”
Dorothy looked crestfallen. “He lied.”
If Dorothy’s disappointment in Saxby overshadowed her enthusiasm about the bird, she had to be heartbroken. Rachel reached out and patted her arm.
“What else has he lied about?”
Cecilia moved to comfort her sister, but Dorothy pushed her away. “I’m going to bed.”
Rachel wound the film back onto the reel and placed it back in the can. She jerked her head in the direction of Dorothy and Cecilia’s room. “What do we do?”
“We turn the old goat in,” said Cecilia. She seemed only too happy to hang Saxby out in the wind.
“How?” said Rachel. “Saxby stole the film from Knapp, but I took it from Saxby. It’s his word against ours about who took it in the first place. Not only that, I broke into his room and there are witnesses.” She told them about Furtive Man and the maid.
“So I guess that means we can’t contact Detective Stone?” asked Lark.
Rachel nodded.
The three of them sat in silence, then Rachel had an idea. “I know. Tomorrow morning we can give the film back to Chuck Knapp.”
The first test came at breakfast. Guy Saxby had followed them into the dining room, and Rachel struggled to keep a straight face when he sat down next to Dorothy and she elbowed him in the ribs.
“What a night I had,” he said, rubbing his side. “Someone broke into my room. I was in the shower, so I grabbed a towel and took up the chase. It’s not the first time my room has been violated.”
Cecilia picked that moment to choke on her sticky bun.
“Was anything missing?” asked Rachel, curious about his response.
His jaw tightened, but he shook his head. “Not that I could tell. And I didn’t catch the bastard. I ended up locking myself out of my room, in the hallway, dripping wet, wearing only a towel.” He seemed perplexed when Dorothy didn’t react.
“What did you do?” asked Lark.
“I called security from the phone on the hall table, and then one of the housekeeping staff came along. She took pity on me, and said my wife an
d I should be more careful. I have no idea what she was talking about.”
This time it was Rachel’s turn to choke.
Right then Evan Kearns appeared in the restaurant. “There you are. Guy, I need to speak with you.”
Saxby wiped his mouth. “Sure, Evan. Is something wrong?”
“Outside.”
Rachel and Lark exchanged glances.
Saxby set down his napkin and stood. “I’ll be right back, ladies.”
“Maybe not,” Kearns said, steering him away.
Rachel watched the two of them talk in the foyer. By the gestures, it appeared something serious had happened.
Saxby returned to the table, but his demeanor had changed. He sat down, stared at the remains of his breakfast, and shook his head as if to clear it.
“What’s happened?” asked Rachel, sensing he needed some prompting.
“Chuck Knapp is dead.”
Her skin tingled. The rest of the women looked like they’d gone into shock.
“What do you mean, dead?” asked Rachel.
“Dead, as in murdered,” said Saxby. “Shot. Sometime last night. Kearns is shutting down the convention.”
“Oh my,” said Cecilia.
Dorothy’s skin turned ashen, and Lark’s mouth dropped open. Rachel fingered the film can in her pocket.
“That’s terrible,” said Lark.
“What time was he killed?” asked Rachel. Her mind was doing the math.
“What kind of question is that?” asked Saxby. “How should I know?”
“Kearns didn’t say?” If it happened early enough, Saxby was in the clear. He might be a thief, but he wasn’t a murderer.
Dorothy seemed to follow her train of thought. “It’s important you try and remember, Guy.”
Saxby rubbed his forehead. “He said the police knocked on his door around ten. We were still having fun in the bar about then.”
Who else had been in the bar? Rachel wracked her brain trying to remember. Patricia Anderson had been helping the waitress, who had been caught unprepared by the number of birders descending upon the bar that late.
Their suspect list was dwindling. With Knapp and Becker both dead it was safe to assume the murders were connected, which cleared Sonja. What possible reason would she have to kill Knapp? If Saxby was right about the time of Knapp’s death, he was off the hook, too. He was in the bar, and then in his room at the time Knapp was killed. Rachel could attest to that. Patricia Anderson was waiting tables and doing dishes. Liam Kelly had an alibi for Becker’s murder, which left Wolcott, Nevin Anderson, and the Carters on the list.
“What happens now?” asked Cecilia.
“I need to make arrangements to get onto Swamper’s Island,” said Saxby, pushing back his chair. “I’ll call you later, Dorothy.”
Dorothy glanced up, her face impassive. “I don’t think we have much to talk about, Guy.”
He looked startled. “Did I . . . is there something wrong?”
“You might say I’ve had a change of heart.”
Rachel, Lark, and Cecilia spent the rest of the morning trying to console Dorothy. It was tough learning someone you cared for had betrayed you. Rachel’s thoughts moved to Roger. She understood firsthand how that felt.
“He’s not worth it, Dot,” said Cecilia.
“How could I have been so stupid?” Dorothy seemed angrier with herself than with Guy.
“You were duped,” said Cecilia. “It happens.”
Dorothy looked like Cecilia had slapped her. “It never happens to me.”
By afternoon she had stopped feeling sorry for herself, and self-pity had turned to anger.
“How do we know that Knapp was killed when Guy said he was?” she demanded. “He probably lied about that, too.”
A valid point, thought Rachel. It was time to see Detective Stone and hand over the film.
The Brunswick Police Department was located on Mansfield Street in a two-story brick building with white trim. Large mullioned windows faced the street, and a black awning shaded the front steps. Rachel parked the rental car in a one-hour spot, and she and Lark jaywalked to the entrance. Dorothy was gunning for Saxby, so she and Cecilia had stayed behind.
Inside the building, marble-tiled floors shone with fresh polish. Institutional-green paint covered the walls. Large framed photographs of the Brunswick Police Department chiefs from 1927 onward hung on the walls.
A doorway on the left stood open, and a young officer in blue looked up as Rachel and Lark entered.
“May I help you?”
“We’re looking for Detective Stone,” said Rachel.
“May I tell him who’s calling?”
“Rachel Wilder and Lark Drummand.”
The officer in blue picked up the phone receiver and dialed a number.
Detective Stone didn’t keep them waiting. He came in through the open door, and ushered them across the hall into his office. Pointing to two wooden chairs with green leather seat cushions, he moved behind a large wooden desk and clasped his hands on its polished surface. “What can I do for you?”
“We found this. ” Rachel pushed the four-inch flat film canister across the desktop towards him. “It’s Knapp’s movie.”
He looked confused. “That’s the one he claimed was missing last night?”
Was it just last night? Rachel nodded
“And you found it?” He seemed skeptical.
“Yes.” Rachel lifted her chin. It wasn’t exactly a lie. She had discovered it when she wasn’t searching. Still, she couldn’t meet his gaze.
“Care to tell me where?”
Now came the tricky part. “It was in Guy Saxby’s possession.”
“Does he know you have it?”
“We hope not,” said Lark.
Rachel started to explain, but Detective Stone waved his hand in the air. “I don’t want to know. Anything you say may incriminate you, and it doesn’t matter anyway, since I can’t prove it was ever in his possession.” He glared at them through small dark eyes. “Did it ever occur to you, when you were stealing this treasure,” he held up the tape, “that you were interfering in a police investigation?”
“Yes,” admitted Rachel and Lark in unison.
Detective Stone sighed. “But that didn’t matter.”
It was more of a statement than a question, but they both replied. “No.”
Rachel shrugged. “You couldn’t look for it. We could. Now that we know he stole the film, the question we all want answered is, Did Saxby kill Becker and Knapp?”
“Why kill Knapp if he already had the film?” asked Stone.
“Maybe to shut Knapp up about who he thought had stolen it,” said Lark.
Detective Stone shook his head. “You women are a piece of work.” He rubbed his short curly hair, and flashed them a bright smile.
Rachel leaned forward. “Can you tell us what time Knapp was murdered?” It was a reasonable question, and he had no reason to hide the answer.
“The coroner estimates between nine-thirty and eleven.”
“Then he’s in the clear,” said Lark. “Are you satisfied now, Rae?”
“How do you now Saxby’s in the clear?” asked Detective Stone.
At that point, Rachel confessed. She told him everything about her adventure the night before. Detective Stone didn’t even try not to laugh.
Once he’d gotten control of himself, he said, “I’m ready to hear your theories now. Who remains on your suspect list?”
Rachel held up a finger. “Victor Wolcott.”
“The head of the Hyde Island Authority?” Detective Stone jotted his name on a pad of paper. “What makes you suspect him?”
Lark filled him in on Wolcott’s development plans.
“He and Nevin Anderson might even be working together,” added Rachel. She explained how the discovery of a rare species on the swampland might have derailed the sale.
“But it helps with the trade,” Detective Stone pointed out.
&nbs
p; “Maybe not,” said Rachel. “If the state doesn’t have to sacrifice the eighty acres because the swampland is protected under federal law, the state comes out ahead. They keep their land, their money, and the swampland remains undeveloped.”
He scratched his head again. “Anderson and Wolcott are hunting buddies. Both of them know their way around a weapon, and either one of them could have taken potshots at you from the golf course.”
“Then there’s the Carter brothers and Fancy.” Rachel told him about seeing Dwight with a rifle the day of the Swamper’s Island fiasco.
“Why would he care what happens?”
“Fancy stands to make a lot of money if the land trade or a development happens. She makes nothing if both deals fall through. Her sons might be protecting their interest.”
“I’ve talked to those boys,” said Detective Stone. “And their mother. She wants to sell the land. Those boys would be happier with the status quo.”
Well, that ruled out the Carter boys as suspects. As for Fancy, Rachel couldn’t imagine her using more than her wiles to try and finagle a deal. That left Anderson and Wolcott. Were they in this together, or was each man out for himself?
“You’re going to stay out of this,” said Detective Stone as if reading her mind. “Thanks for bringing this in.” He picked up the film can, and then shook it. Popping it open, he showed them it was empty.
Rachel’s stomach tightened, and her skin tingled. “It was there last night. I put it in the nightstand.” She looked at Lark.
“I didn’t take it.”
“How about your friends?” asked Detective Stone.
“No,” said Rachel. “They’d have no reason to take it.” Then a sickening thought crept into her mind. “When we came back up from breakfast our room was made up.”
“Why would the maid steal the film?” asked Detective Stone.
“She wouldn’t,” said Rachel. “But Nevin Anderson would. Maybe one of the Andersons took it, and made up the room to make us think the maid had been there. We were in the restaurant for at least an hour.”
“Okay,” he said, closing the canister and setting it aside on his desk. “I’ll check into it. Now, you two, go back to the hotel, pack your bags, and go home. No more digging around. No more hiding under beds. You leave tomorrow, right?”
Death Shoots a Birdie Page 15