“It would upstage Guy,” Lark said, “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,” Rachel said. “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,” Rachel said. “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,” Rachel said. “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,” Lark said. “Remember how he acted at dinner the other evening? He played it cautiously, but he seemed firmly in the Andersons’ camp.”
“Agreed,” Rachel said. “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,” Lark said. “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,” Cecilia said.
“What are we talking about?” Lark asked. “More hotel beds. I’ll bet the Andersons would be against that.”
“Unless they were working with him,” Cecilia said.
“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?” Dorothy asked. “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,” Lark said.
“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,” Lark said, “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,” Lark said.
“Of course not,” Dorothy said. “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,” Lark said. “I know what Aunt Miriam has to go through to maintain the licensing for the Raptor House. Those two would be under a lot of scrutiny, especially if they have questionable backgrounds.”
“check out beau 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 24/7 and picket in front of the Hyde Island Club Hotel.
“What about Chuck Knapp?” Lark asked.
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,” Cecilia said.
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?” Cecilia asked.
“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,” Dorothy said. She shot Lark a glare, the kind that had made generations of high-school students go quiet and attentive. “Look him up.”
“Who? Saxby?” Rachel said.
“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,” Cecilia said.
“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,” Cecilia said. “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 on
es.” Rachel clicked on the text.
“Oh my, that’s too small to read,” Cecilia said.
“It’s a review of Guy’s book,” Dorothy said. “It looks like a wonderful review too.”
“But what’s going on in that picture?” Lark asked. “Becker doesn’t look happy.”
Rachel ran her hands through her hair. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. Let me try Wolcott.”
“Try Becker,” Dorothy said.
Rachel complied.
“Oh, he’s got a nice bod,” Cecilia said 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,” Rachel said, 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,” Lark said, 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 Web sites 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. Everyone was abuzz with the talk of the murder, 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 she found she already knew most of what he had to offer on framing a shot, composition, and color.
“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 flattery. 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 on 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.
“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 acres.” 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, gra
ssy 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 twenty percent of the breeding pairs produced fledglings.”
“Why?” several people asked in unison.
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