Death Shoots a Birdie Read online

  “That sounds a bit cavalier if death is the usual outcome.”

  “Not usual.” He paused and studied her. “You disapprove. Is a fight to the death not romantic or idealistic enough for you? Sometimes life is like that.”

  Rachel wondered if Saxby’s cynicism had to do with his age. Maybe it was time to change the subject. “You’re Guy Saxby, aren’t you?”

  “In the flesh.” He seemed pleased that she had recognized him.

  “I’m Rachel Wilder.”

  “Rachel.” He had just reached for her hand when a pretty brunette in a green Honda pulled up and tooted the horn. Squeezing Rachel’s fingers, he nodded toward the vehicle. “My chariot awaits. Enjoy your stay on the island. Perhaps I’ll see you at the festival.”

  Before Rachel could think of something clever to stop him, Saxby had walked away and climbed into the car.

  The brunette gunned the engine and pulled away.

  “Rae!”

  Rachel turned and spotted Lark galloping back down the steps of the Hyde Island Nature Center.

  The tall blonde lolled out her tongue, and fanned the collar of her flannel shirt. “Whew boy, it’s hot. I’m ready to check into the hotel and change into my shorts.”

  Rachel nodded absently and watched the Honda speed away.

  “Guy Saxby and friend?” asked Lark.

  “Guy Saxby and driver.” The girl was obviously too young to be his friend. Wasn’t she?

  “Did you learn anything?”

  Rachel remembered his lecture and felt herself blush. “Nothing Kirk would be interested in.”

  “He didn’t look anything like I’d expected,” said Lark.

  That struck Rachel as odd. “Why? What did you expect?”

  “I don’t know, someone more dashing. He has a reputation, you know. He is the Indiana Jones of the birding world.”

  Was she being facetious?

  “Are you saying he doesn’t look roguish enough?”

  “I just thought he’d be cuter, younger, that’s all. More like . . .”

  “Colin Farrell?” Rachel supplied.

  “Right,” said Lark, tugging at her long braid. “He’s too Sean Connery-ish, minus the English accent and the sex appeal.”

  Lark sat down on a bench and Rachel sat down beside her. “What else do you know about him?”

  “Not much.”

  “Come on, Lark. You have to know more than I do.”

  Kirk hadn’t had much time to brief her. He’d given her Saxby’s bio, and copies of two or three articles about the man. She knew he was a gifted writer and teacher, and that he’d once held the record for a “Big Year.” The logic behind a competition to see the most North American birds in one year escaped Rachel, but Saxby’s second book, Chasing the Feather, immortalized his adventure, detailing how he had stalked the birds and ended up besting James Vardaman’s 1979 record of 699 species by one—a record that had stood until 1983.

  “I know he travels a lot,” offered Lark, tapping the heel of her boot against the iron leg of the bench. “He goes all over the place looking for birds. He’s well known for his escapades, a few of which are captured on film.”

  “Like the Bouilia Incident?”

  Lark nodded. “Except that time he didn’t get the bird.”

  Rachel had read at least one account of that most recent adventure—a foray into the Western Australian outback in search of the elusive night parrot. The bird had been discovered in 1845 by a participant in Charles Stuart’s central Australian expedition. By 1912, twenty-two specimens of the species were collected, after which the night parrot was never officially documented again. It was deemed a “lost species” until 1990, when participants of an Australian Museum-sponsored trip collected a night parrot carcass from the side of the road near Bouilia. The hunt was on.

  Saxby flew down with a small contingent, but failed to document the species on film. He did, however, find another carcass in a low chinapod shrub, and succeeded in winning the Bouilia Desert Sands Camel Race. He even provided stunning images of himself crossing the finish line in first place—a small consolation to the University of Georgia for the thousands of dollars spent.

  “There you two are,” called Dorothy MacBean from the top of the stairs. “We’ve been looking all over for you.”

  Her sister, Cecilia, traipsed down the stairs behind her. “Are we ready to go?”

  “More than, ” said Lark, flapping her flannel-clad arms against the muggy, Georgia heat. Her face shone a deep, cherry red, and Rachel experienced a pang of guilt for keeping her out in the heat.

  Rachel pulled Lark to her feet and steered her toward the car. “We need to get you into some air conditioning. Plus I didn’t tell you what we saw.”

  “What?” demanded Dorothy.

  Cecilia fixated on the “we.”

  “You and who else?” she asked, looking at Lark.

  “Rachel and Guy Saxby.”

  “The Guy Saxby?” blurted the sisters in unison.

  Rachel stifled a laugh. She was reminded of The Patty Duke Show theme song—“They look alike, they walk alike, at times they even talk alike. You could lose your mind . . .” Except for the fact that Dorothy’s favorite color was pink while Cecilia’s was blue, they wore the same stylish clothes, had the same pale skin, the same gray-colored eyes, and the same ash-blonde perm, with a youthfulness that belied their sixty-plus years.

  “You are aware that he is an eligible bachelor,” said Cecilia, elbowing her sister.

  “Don’t even start.” Dorothy held her fingers up in the sign of the cross.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Cecilia, feigning innocence. She had been trying to fix up her sister for years. Or, for that matter, anyone else who was single.

  Rachel raised her own palms in surrender. “Don’t look at me. I’m already taken.”

  “Count me out, too,” said Lark. She was practically engaged to Eric Linenger.

  “Well you girls might be spoken for, but I know one of us who’s eligible.” Cecilia eyeballed her sister.

  In truth, thought Rachel, they were both single. Dorothy had never been married, and Cecilia had been widowed for nearly forty-five years.

  As if reading her mind, Dorothy waggled two fingers in Cecilia’s face.

  “I was married.”

  Dorothy smirked at her sister. “And I’ve had lovers. It doesn’t count.”

  Like a guppy out of water, Cecilia opened and shut her mouth several times until finally she blurted out, “Well, I’ve seen Saxby’s picture, and I think he’s cute. He would be perfect for you.”

  “Grow up, Cec.”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t agree, Dot. He’s a real . . . what’s that term you use, girls?” She looked to Rachel and Lark. “A real ‘piece of eye candy.’ ”

  “That would be my aunt Miriam’s expression,” said Rachel.

  Cecilia shrugged, linking elbows with her sister. “Come on, admit it. Say you’re interested.”

  Dorothy yanked her arm free. “He’s too young for me. I probably have ten years on the man.”

  “Eight,” said Cecilia.

  “Besides, I’ve never even met him.”

  “We can remedy that.” Cecilia beamed at Rachel. “She knows him.”

  Judging by Dorothy’s expression, Rachel decided it was time for intervention. “Enough already, do you guys want to hear about what we saw or not?”

  “We do,” replied Dorothy and Lark in unison.

  Rachel pointed to the birds on the feeder and recounted the challenge, the battle, and her blunder. When she was done, the four of them stood for a moment and admired the victor.

  “Saxby was right,” said Cecilia. “You should never have intervened.”

  “It’s okay, dear,” said Dorothy. She tipped her head and smiled at the bird. “Do you know, the painted bunting’s a life bird for me.”

  It was a life bird for Rachel, too, but with as many birds as Dorothy had seen, it was har
d to believe this was the first painted bunting she had seen in her lifetime.

  Cecilia whipped around, surprise etched in the wrinkles on her face. “It is not, Dot. We saw one on that trip we took to Florida when we were teenagers.”

  “No, it doesn’t count. This is the first one I’ve seen since I started counting.”

  “What’s wrong with counting the first one you saw?” asked Cecilia. “I did.”

  “Then you’re cheating.”

  “By whose rules?”

  “By the rules of the American Birding Association,” said Dorothy, “which clearly state that the recorder must be able to identify by distinguishing characteristics either visually or audibly the bird they are listing. That means, you can’t take someone else’s word for it. By my recollection, neither one of us had any idea what birds we were looking at back then. We were taking Mother’s word for it.”

  “Except we both know now that is what we were looking at back then. There isn’t another bird anywhere in the world like the painted bunting.”

  “It’s still against the rules,” said Dorothy, “and I’m not counting it. Until now, that is.”

  Rachel glanced at Lark. Why were the sisters bickering like this? They liked to rib each other, but never to this extent.

  As if reading her mind, Lark shrugged and tipped her head toward the car.

  “Oh, my,” said Cecilia, “You certainly are a stub—”

  “So now you’ve both seen one,” said Rachel, picking up on Lark’s lead and curious about how many birds Dorothy had seen in her lifetime. “How many does that make on your life list, Dorothy?”

  “Six hundred.”

  “That’s a significant number of birds, ” said Rachel. The American Birding Association North American checklist only listed 921 species, which meant Dorothy had seen nearly two-thirds of all the bird types documented in the continental United States.

  “I have six hundred and two,” said Cecilia.

  “Using questionable listing practices.” Dorothy sniffed. “It only affords me better opportunities than you for new birds on this trip.”

  “A two-bird difference,” said Lark, waggling a peace sign in Dorothy’s face. “That’s the sum net difference between your counts. What’s up with you? You two are acting like three-year-olds, or worse, like two Phoebe Snetsingers about to duke it out in the parking lot.”

  Cecilia pulled up, and fluffed her short, curly hair. “Maybe Dorothy is, but I’m not that old.”

  Rachel had read about Phoebe Snetsinger. Introduced to birding in her thirties, she had been diagnosed with terminal cancer at age fifty and been given one year to live. Instead of therapy, she had started birding with a passion, defying her prognosis and dying at the age of sixty-eight in a car accident in Madagascar shortly after viewing an extremely rare helmet vanga. As far as Rachel knew, she still held the world record for listing the most birds.

  “We’re both sixty-something,” said Dorothy.

  “You’re older.”

  “You’re fatter.”

  Cecilia tugged at the hem of her blue shirt. “We wear the same size.”

  “But I’m taller.”

  Lark opened the front passenger’s seat door. “Can we just go?”

  “Wait,” said Cecilia. “The bunting is singing again.”

  The four of them snatched up their binoculars and moved back toward the feeder. The interloper was sitting on a branch in the trees. The feeder bird was flaunting his scarlet rump.

  The interloper swooped to the ground and shook out his wings.

  The birds flew, and this time Rachel did nothing but watch, her grip tight on the binoculars.

  Talons scrabbled. Beaks jabbed.

  A jab to the throat drew blood.

  Another jab left the young male down.

  Rachel trained her binoculars on the bird. It took a last ragged breath as its life blood seeped into the ground.

  Chapter 2

  The bird’s death put a damper on things. Piling into the car, Rachel blasted the air conditioning. The cool air worked like a salve. She felt the tension ease out of her body, and once again enjoyed the view.

  The road to their hotel wound past the south beaches, a small shopping center, the tennis courts, and a stretch of golf course. On their left, small beach houses nestled in suburban grids under a pine canopy. To the right, mansions sprawled on expansive lawns, shaded by giant oak, pine, and magnolia trees.

  According to Rachel’s guide book, the grand houses were remnants of a majestic era. In the 1880s, a man named Harry McKinlay, the descendant of a wealthy Hyde Island plantation owner, dreamed of creating a winter retreat for wealthy northerners. Peddling images of a Southern island paradise, he developed interest from members of New York’s elite society while buying up the remaining parcels of island land. Then in 1886, he sold the island to a corporation of the world’s wealthiest millionaires. And so the Hyde Island Club was born.

  For sixty years, millionaires flocked to the island, interested in finding a spot for rest, relaxation, and privacy. Combining one-sixth of the world’s wealth, there was no limit to the extravagance or exclusivity of the club. The island, being accessible only by yacht, became a place where secret meetings were held and history was made.

  For McKinlay, maintaining the island’s natural beauty and preserving its wild areas for hunting and fishing became a priority. For more than sixty years, Hyde Island was spared from the rapid land-altering activities taking place on other coastal islands. The “cottages,” social halls, stables, service buildings, and nine-hole golf course took up less than 10 percent of the island’s upland acreage. They inhabited the river side so the dwellings created little need for beach development contributing greatly to the island’s preservation.

  “Check it out,” said Lark.

  Ahead of them, the clubhouse loomed. Designed in American Queen Anne style, a large turret dominated the roof line. Extensive verandas, bay windows, and extended chimneys added to the overall asymmetrical design. Yellow-painted brick, black tile shingles, and white trim cast a decidedly Victorian air.

  “You’re sure this is the right place?” asked Dorothy.

  “It’s a fair trade,” said Lark. “I met the proprietors through the Association of Historic Hotel Owners. They are planning on visiting Elk Park this summer with their family.”

  A few years ago, Lark had traded her trust fund for a Victorian hotel near Rocky Mountain National Park named The Drummond. Originally owned by her grandfather, the hotel had 130 guest rooms and came with a thirty-two-room “Winter Hotel,” a carriage house, a concert hall, an eighteen-hole golf course, and a ghost. With the stroke of a pen, Lark had gone from privileged socialite to working stiff.

  Now she’d finagled them a heck of a deal for a couple of rooms.

  “Whoa, what’s going on up here?” asked Lark.

  At the turn in to the club, people lined the road on all sides. Mostly locals, Rachel figured, by the looks of them. The majority were dressed in T-shirts, shorts, and tennis shoes or flip-flops. One or two wore more expensive birder clothing. A tall man with long, dark hair and a tie-dyed T-shirt appeared to be their leader.

  Rachel slowed the car and put on her blinker.

  The protest leader signaled his troops like a choir master, and they chanted in chorus, “No land swap. No land swap.” Their signs read things like: BOYCOTT THE HYDE ISLAND CLUB!, NO LAND SWAP!, and SAVE THE PAINTED BUNTINGS!

  “Oh my, they seem unhappy about something.”

  Rachel drove slowly through the crush of protestors and pulled up in front of the hotel. Tossing the keys to the valet, she pointed and asked, “What’s all that about?”

  He handed her a claim check for the car. “Nothing to worry about, ma’am.”

  Ma’am? Since when had she become a ma’am?

  “I’ll bring your luggage inside.”

  Rachel followed the others up the steps, casting a last glance at the crowd at the end of the drive swarming a lig
ht blue Lexus. Inside, a tall, stunning woman with a short dark bob greeted them in the foyer. Her brown-and-white polka-dotted sundress brushed against her tan calves, and her matching brown stilettos clicked on the polished wood floor. It was like a scene out of Pretty Woman.

  “Lark, darling,” said the woman, extending her hand. “You made it. How was your trip?” She leaned forward and pecked the air near Lark’s ear.

  “Patricia,” said Lark, introducing the rest of them. “Patricia and her husband, Nevin Anderson, own the hotel.”

  Patricia beamed. “We are so glad you’re here.”

  “What was that crowd at the entrance to the club all about, Pat?”

  “Patricia. And that is nothing to worry about.” Patricia’s voice carried a hard edge, though her lips continued to be set in a smile.

  Obviously the party line, thought Rachel.

  Retrieving two sets of keys off the reservation counter, Patricia waved them toward the stairs. “Come, come, you must be ready to freshen up. We’ve put you in two adjoining club suites. That way you’ll each have your own bed, and a little more room.”

  She led them up the stairs—a winding, carved affair, with plush wool carpet padding the steps. The walls were painted a pale yellow, and dark-framed portraits of the original owners hung on the wall.

  “Your rooms are here, in the west wing.”

  Lark and Rachel took the first suite—a beautifully appointed room with café au lait-colored walls, floral bedspreads, two antique four-poster beds, and a sitting area complete with a loveseat, TV, a small Queen Anne’s table, and two chairs. Two doors opened off the sitting area—one into the bathroom, the other into Dorothy and Cecilia’s room, a mirror image of the one occupied by Rachel and Lark.

  “I hope this will be adequate,” gushed Patricia, crossing to the bay window and throwing open the shutters. Outside the front lawn rolled toward the yacht basin. The view was spectacular, marred only by the line of protestors in the distance.

  “It’s fabulous,” said Lark.

  Patricia’s dark, wide-set eyes eased over Lark’s flannel shirt, her jeans, and her boots. “Well, I’m sure the Drummond has its own . . . rustic charm.”

  That sounded like a put-down. Rachel shot Lark a glance.