Sacrifice of Buntings Page 5

  “E be fanner,” the woman explained, handing Rachel a paper. “De basket be used to throw de rice.”

  Rachel read the description.

  A fanner is a traditional basket used to throw threshed rice into the air, allowing the wind to carry off the chaff. Originally made of bulrushes, today’s baskets are made from sweetgrass taken from the dunes. Longleaf pine needles are used to make decorations, and palmetto leaves hold the coils together.

  “Dat one be beautiful,” said the woman, bestowing approval on the one Rachel held in her hands. “Dat one be fifty dollars.”

  “It’s a good price,” said Dwayne, materializing beside her. “It’s an old art, and Trula’s one of the best.”

  “Tank oon.”

  Dwayne nodded.

  Rachel watched him walk away before hemming and hawing over the price. She had no idea what a basket like this was worth. She only knew she wanted it. Finally, she dug out the money.

  “Oona be happy,” Trula said, wrapping the basket in plain paper and slipping it inside a plastic bag. Then her expression changed, and she signaled for Rachel to move her head closer. “Come, lady.”

  Rachel leaned in, bumping her hip against the table.

  Trula slipped Rachel the basket, but kept hold of one edge, whispering close to her ear. “Oona mus tek cyear.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Trula’s orange dress swirled about them in the breeze, her sleeve softly brushing Rachel’s face. “Me sense hudu.”

  “Hudu?”

  “Bad luck,” she whispered. “Oona mus tek cyear.”

  Rachel had to admit, the woman’s premonition creeped her out. Still, they’d had good luck with the birds in the afternoon, and her spotting of the gray kingbird was voted the best catch of the day. Dusty and dirty, the busload of birders had arrived back at the Hyde Island Convention Center minutes before the kickoff festivities began, with no time to return to the hotel and change.

  “I need to find a ladies’ room,” Rachel said, swatting dust from the legs of her pants.

  “Okay,” Lark said. “How about we’ll meet you at the bar?”

  Dorothy, Cecilia, and Lark headed into the convention hall, while Rachel sniffed out a bathroom. A few minutes later, she checked out the damage in the bathroom mirror. Dust powdered her face, blotting out her freckles, and her hair feathered her white cap in a riot of curls. Wiping down her face with a paper towel, she stuffed her cap into her back pocket and finger-combed her reddish hair into a French twist. Rolling her long-sleeved shirt into a belt, she cinched it around her waist, turned up the cuffs of her pants, and then waded back through the crowd. She found Lark standing at the bartender’s station clutching a twenty-dollar bill in one hand.

  “There you are,” Lark said, her braid draping her shoulder like a thin feather boa, tufts of blonde hair sticking out at odd angles. “What do you want to drink?”

  “A Pepsi.”

  “One Pepsi, two white wines, and a Coors light,” Lark ordered, flashing the bartender a smile.

  Rachel glanced around and sized up the crowd. “I swear your numbers are off. There are nowhere near twelve hundred people in here. Five hundred, maybe.”

  “Not everyone shows up opening night,” Lark said, snatching a handful of napkins off the counter and wafting them through the air. “A lot of these people are vendors and presenters.”

  “Along with a few hard-core birders,” Cecilia said, coming up behind them. “Like us.”

  Like you. Rachel knew she didn’t fit the category. At best, she could be called an advanced beginner bird-watcher. One who sometimes got lucky.

  “It also gives anyone interested a chance to rub elbows with the stars,” Dorothy said, panning the crowd.

  “Mostly it gives potential buyers a chance to check out the stuff without pressure to buy.” Lark handed Rachel her Pepsi and nudged her into the aisle. “The vendors aren’t allowed to ring up sales tonight.”

  As they wandered “The Nest,” Rachel decided the event was a smart marketing plan. She had no doubts that most of these people would come back tomorrow to buy things. There was tremendous interest in the big-ticket items—the binoculars and scopes. Booth after booth carried brands from Bausch & Lomb to Zeiss. People waited in lines to focus demo scopes on the bird pictures taped high in the rafters, while more people pawed through display racks of clothing, bird feeders, books, artwork, sculptures, and jewelry—anything imaginable that had a bird, insect, or wild animal on it.

  “Check this out.” Rachel pointed to a camouflaged exhibit spanning the south wall. A banner emblazoned with “beau and reggie’s birds of prey” stretched high above a twelve-tree-stump display, camouflaged to depict a woodland scene. Various birds sat on the stumps, among them an American kestrel, a peregrine falcon, a prairie falcon, a bald eagle, a golden eagle, a great horned owl, a northern harrier, and a red-tailed hawk. The birds eyed the crowd with a mixture of deference, disdain, and fear.

  Lark swigged her beer and studied the peregrine. “I’ve seen this exhibit before. It’s run by Beau and Reggie.”

  “Obviously,” Rachel said. Lark’s statement seemed redundant with the sign.

  “They’re considered the Siegfried and Roy of the raptor world.”

  “First it’s the Indiana Jones of the birding world, then it’s the Siegfried and Roy?”

  Lark ignored her. “As I recall, they put on a pretty good show.”

  “They claim their birds are unfit for release,” Dorothy said, punctuating her words with a sniff.

  “Let me guess,” Rachel said. “You don’t believe them.”

  Dorothy shrugged. “I’ll concede some of the birds may be injured, but wait until you see most of them fly. Beau and Reggie claim they were all donated from wildlife centers like the Raptor House.”

  Rachel felt her attitude shift at the mention of the Elk Park wildlife rehabilitation center. Once owned by her aunt Miriam and now run by the National Park Service, the Raptor House occasionally used birds for educational purposes, but most were rehabilitated into the wild. She couldn’t imagine her aunt ever allowing them to be used in this type of display.

  “Not only that,” Dorothy said, “but the two of them are felons.”

  Cecilia, Lark, and Rachel turned to stare at her.

  “I’m not kidding. I heard they both served time for trafficking wild birds. Parrots, to be exact.”

  “Oh my,” Cecilia said. “Are you suggesting they have obtained these birds in a questionable manner?”

  Lark scoffed at the whole idea. “Come on, Dorothy. If they were felons, how would they get a license to put on this type of show?”

  “That’s a good question. Don’t ask me. I’m just the messenger.”

  “Well, if they are felons,” Cecilia said, “I think it’s admirable they’re now devoting their lives to educating people about the beauty of raptors.”

  Dorothy sniffed louder. “It’s not like they’re hurting for money.”

  Rachel didn’t know what to think. She would have liked to see the show, but a plastic clock attached to the tree stump beneath the bald eagle indicated the next show wasn’t scheduled to start for over an hour.

  “We can come back,” Lark said.

  The women sauntered on, and for every stranger they encountered, they met someone who knew either Dorothy, Lark, or Cecilia. Finally Rachel, her face muscles aching from smiling through all of the introductions, looked for a place to sit down.

  “What do you say we perch over there for a few minutes?” She pointed toward the lunch area. The service counter was shuttered, but a long buffet table stacked with hors d’oeuvres cut a swath through a number of tables.

  “Sure, why not?” Lark agreed.

  Dorothy gripped Rachel’s arm in a viselike hold. “Wait! There’s Guy.”

  Rachel’s eyes flickered over the linen-draped tables, the metal chafing dishes, and the crowded groupings of diners until her eyes flitted over Saxby. He was seated at a table near the b
ack with Paul Becker, Evan Kearns, Dwayne Carter, Patricia Anderson, the brunette from the parking lot, and four people Rachel couldn’t identify.

  Lark flipped back her braid. “For what it’s worth, it looks like his table is full.”

  “Maybe, but there are open seats at the one beside it,” Cecilia said, prying Rachel’s arm loose of her sister’s fingers. “Dorothy and I will go save them. Why don’t you two go and get us some snacks?”

  Before either of them could respond, Cecilia dragged Dorothy away. Lark rolled her eyes. Rachel reached for a dish.

  “I feel like I’m back in high school,” Lark said, scooping some spicy chicken wings onto her plate.

  Rachel heaped hers with crab cakes. “I think it’s kind of cute.”

  “That’s because it gives you a way to help Kirk get his story.”

  Rachel stopped mid-pinch on a tongful of pickled shrimp. Was Lark angry with her because Dorothy had a crush on Saxby?

  “What are you saying? It’s not like I’ve done anything to encourage her.” And so what if she had? Rachel dropped the pickled shrimp on her plate. “Why are you so against Dorothy liking him, anyway?”

  “She’s a sixty-five-year-old spinster. He’s a fifty-something-year-old ladies’ man.” Lark stabbed some cocktail meatballs onto a toothpick and then repeated the process. “I just don’t want to see her get hurt, that’s all.”

  “She’s a big girl, Lark. Maybe she’s just interested in having some fun.” Rachel moved onto the tricolored tortellini skewers, her mouth watering at the savory smells of the buffet—Cajun spices mingled with oregano marinara and fresh-cooked fish.

  “Right, but admit it. It makes your task easier.” Lark scooped up some Cajun popcorn chicken and slopped it onto her plate.

  Rachel jabbed at the honey-pecan chicken bites. “Okay, I admit it. So what?”

  “It’s not like Saxby’s inaccessible,” Lark said. “There are a lot more subtle ways for you to approach him than flinging our spinster friend at the target.”

  Rachel stopped mid-jab. “Tell me one thing I’ve done to encourage her.”

  Lark moved onto the vegetarian offerings. “I’m just saying we need to discourage her, that’s all.”

  “Then maybe you should be talking to Cecilia, not me.”

  Lark didn’t say anything more, and they scooped their way through the rest of the chafing dishes in silence. Why had Lark taken such a dislike to Saxby? Rachel could understand her feeling protective of Dorothy, but Rachel couldn’t see the harm in Dorothy’s flirting with the man.

  Trula’s warning about hudu flitted through her brain as she rounded her plate with spinach-and-goat-cheese baguettes, toast points topped with Parmesan-artichoke soufflé, vegetarian pinwheel sandwiches, and crackers with a southern pecan and cheddar cheese ring filled with strawberry preserves. By the time she reached the end of the buffet tables she knew one thing—southerners knew how to eat.

  Plates heaping, the two of them wound their way through the tables toward the back. A couple from the Sapelo trip tried waving them over, but they forged ahead. By the time they arrived at where Dorothy and Cecilia were sitting, Saxby and the others had joined tables, and the sisters were ensconced in the group.

  “Sit,” Saxby said, waving them into the empty chairs. “Do you know everyone here?”

  Rachel shook her head, while Lark set down the plates.

  He started the introductions to his left, with the brunette from the parking lot. “This is Katie Anderson, the daughter of Patricia and Nevin Anderson, owners of the Hyde Island Club Hotel. Katie is a senior in high school this year.”

  And the spitting image of her mother, thought Rachel. She was maybe a few inches shorter, and her brown hair hung to her waist rather than at her ears, but the hazel eyes were the same and her attitude matched. With her blossoming figure overflowing her small camisole, and aware of her effect on the men at the table, she waved her hand like a princess. “Hello.”

  “Katie.” Rachel waved with her fingers and wondered what Patricia Anderson was thinking under her mask. She nodded curtly, while her husband, Nevin, barely acknowledged them. Instead, he nudged his wife in the ribs and kept his rheumy eyes fastened on Katie.

  “How could you let her go out wearing that outfit?” he muttered.

  Saxby ignored the exhibit and moved on to the next man. “This is Victor Wolcott, president of the Hyde Island Authority.”

  Wolcott, a portly man of average height with a shock of gray hair and a bulbous nose, flashed a smile of perfectly straight, white teeth.

  “The Hyde Island Authority?” Rachel said, accepting his handshake. “What’s that?” It sounded like a transportation district.

  “The Authority is the governing body of the island,” Wolcott explained. “The whole island is owned by the State of Georgia. Simply put, the Authority acts as its agent.”

  That sounded official. “I think I remember reading something about that,” Rachel said. “About how some millionaire deeded the land to a trust.”

  “In 1946,” Wolcott said with little prompting. “The island was owned by one man, Mr. Harry McKinlay. Finally tired of the upkeep and of running the Hyde Island Club, McKinlay retired and deeded the island to the State of Georgia. Whereby the state of Georgia quickly passed a law requiring that sixty-five percent of Hyde Island remain in a natural state. The state then formed the Hyde Island Authority to oversee the land eligible for development. Among its other duties, the Authority negotiates long-term leases with business owners and residents, and approves any and all types of development. We—”

  “Thank you, Victor,” Saxby broke in. He gestured to the next in the circle. “I imagine you remember Evan Kearns, the conference coordinator.”

  Evan dipped his head.

  “And Paul Becker.”

  Becker frowned.

  “Beside Paul is his lovely wife, Sonja.”

  Sonja smiled. An exotic-looking woman with dark brown hair, she wore a fitted, salmon-colored top and linen slacks, and her foot worked back and forth, kicking a stiletto slipper.

  “And last, but not least, we have Fancy Carter and her two sons, Dwight and Dwayne. You remember Dwayne from the Sapelo trip. The Carter family owns and operates the Okefenokee Swamp Tours. They let us use their bus today.”

  Rachel nodded, pinching her lips together. Fancy Carter looked nothing like Rachel would have expected Dwayne’s mother to look like. For starters, she didn’t seem old enough to be the mother of a-thirty-something-year-old man. Poured into her blue jean shorts, she wore her blonde hair Farrah Fawcett-style, while her hot-turquoise shirt exposed the upper half of a pair of double-D breasts.

  Dwight, on the other hand, looked just like Dwayne. Tall, good-looking in a rough sort of way, with a buzz cut, a tattoo, and the “come hither” smile of a man who thinks he’s all that with the ladies.

  Becker cleared his throat. “Now that the introductions are over, can we rejoin our conversation?”

  “I was listening, Paul,” said Katie. She leaned forward suggestively and gave Becker her full attention.

  Sonja glared.

  Dwayne smiled.

  Katie ignored them both.

  “You were telling us about your great swamp adventure,” she prodded, preening for full effect; then she softly started rubbing her belly.

  Rachel wasn’t sure what the gesture was for, or for whose benefit—Becker’s or her mother’s, perhaps? Rachel stole a glance at Sonja, who appeared to be on fire, and then in Patricia Anderson’s direction. The woman seemed not to notice. Dwayne watched Katie intently.

  “I made a trip out there two days ago,” announced Becker. “I wanted to see for myself what was so special about that piece of land you’re proposing to trade.”

  Rachel glanced at Lark, then at Dorothy and Cecilia.

  The others looked just as confused as she felt.

  It must have been evident none of them knew what the others were discussing because Nevin Anderson leaped to the
rescue. “Patricia and I are trading ten thousand acres of swampland for eighty acres of land on Hyde Island adjacent to the golf course.”

  So that’s what all the protest was about.

  “Tentatively trading,” Wolcott corrected. “The land swap is still pending the approval of the Authority.”

  “I take it you want to expand the golf course,” Lark said.

  Nevin Anderson smiled. “Sharp lady. You’re the hotel owner, right?”

  Lark nodded.

  “It’s a land swap I have been firmly against,” Becker announced, reclaiming the spotlight. “The land adjacent to the golf course is prime habitat for the painted bunting, a species already endangered by Eastern Seaboard development. I see no reason to continue that trend on Hyde Island.”

  “Is there even land to be had?” Rachel asked. “Mr. Wolcott, didn’t you say that sixty-five percent of the island has to remain in its natural state?”

  Saxby grinned and stroked his beard. “Two sharp ladies.”

  “The answer to your questions are no and yes, but the Hyde Island Authority does have some wiggle room. Since it’s the state that approached us to allow the trade, they are willing to let us increase the percentage of developable land by a fraction.”

  Becker cleared his throat. “After being out there, I can see why the state would want the swampland. It’s certainly full of treasures.” His mysterious tone drew everyone’s attention. Dwayne and Dwight exchanged glances. “Suffice it to say, I had an interesting day.”

  “What kind of treasures are you talking about?” Dwight asked, craning forward to get a better look at Becker.

  “He must mean he found some interesting birds,” Saxby said.

  “Indeed we did.”

  We?

  Fancy chuckled. “What did you think, Dwight? That he meant he’d found one of your lost swamp treasures?”

  Dwight glared at his mother, and Dwayne bopped him on the backside of his head.

  “Are there really lost swamp treasures?” Katie asked.

  Fancy leaned forward, her shirt dropping open to reveal more cleavage. “Of course. Take my great-great-great-great-grandmother Aponi Carter, for example. Aponi was a Seminole princess, the daughter of a war chief. According to family history, her father was murdered during the Second Seminole War, and Aponi escaped into the northern swamp, bringing with her a family treasure. Some say it was a gift to her ancestors from a Spanish conquistador. Others say it’s part of ’Caesar’s Treasure,’ the booty of a pirate who came ashore near her ancestral home.”