Sacrifice of Buntings Page 8

  Rachel nodded. “We know.”

  “We found him,” Dorothy announced.

  Lark and Cecilia gasped.

  Cecilia hurried over and fluttered around her sister. “Oh my, oh, Dot.”

  “Are you two okay?” Lark asked.

  “We’re fine,” Dorothy said, batting Cecilia away. “But the cops have Guy. They took him downtown and everything.”

  Cecilia pulled up a chair and patted her sister’s thigh. “That’s what everyone was saying, so when we couldn’t find you, of course we thought…” She let her sentence dangle, but Dorothy jumped to the bait.

  “You thought they had dragged us off too?”

  “Of course not.” Cecilia sounded indignant. “We thought you might have gone with him.”

  That seemed to mollify Dorothy. “They did question us. I talked with a very nice young man. I suppose he was the good cop. I guess Rachel got the bad cop. She got the same one who dragged Guy away.”

  “Guy went willingly, and the detective, he was okay,” Rachel said. “He kept asking me the same questions over and over, but that’s his job. He was nice about it.”

  “Give us details,” Lark said. “We want to hear everything that happened.”

  With the detective’s admonition to keep quiet playing in her head, Rachel gave her rendition of the story, then Dorothy gave hers.

  “It fits,” Lark said. “The buzz at the festival is that Saxby is the main suspect.”

  “Rubbish.” Dorothy looked pointedly at each of them. “He’s innocent, and we plan to prove it.”

  “How?” Cecilia asked.

  Rachel wondered the same thing.

  “Why?” Lark asked.

  “Because I know he’s innocent, and the police think he’s guilty because of us. Besides, it’s not like we haven’t solved a murder before.”

  “No, we’ve solved three,” Cecilia said.

  “Or two, in my case,” Rachel said. She had been in Elk Park for the murder of Esther Mills, Lark’s late partner in the coffee company, and for the murder of the reporter from Birds of a Feather magazine, who was doing the exposé on her aunt’s late husband. That one had struck too close to home.

  “So far we have the Andersons on our list,” Dorothy said. “Can you think of anyone else who might want Becker dead?”

  “What about his wife?” Cecilia asked.

  Dorothy frowned. “Why would she want to kill him?”

  “Because most murders are crimes of passion, committed by someone close to the victim,” Cecilia replied. “Usually someone from the immediate family.”

  She’d been watching too much CSI.

  “I knew that,” Dorothy said.

  “Did you ever want to kill Roger?” Lark asked.

  Rachel looked up sharply. She met Lark’s stare and had to admit the thought had crossed her mind. “Before or after the divorce?”

  They all laughed at her joke, but Rachel wasn’t laughing too hard.

  “I need to get out of here,” she said, rising to her feet. “Anyone up for a walk on the beach?”

  “I’ll go,” Lark said.

  Cecilia looked at Dorothy, who hedged. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to wait here.”

  Cecilia stayed behind with Dorothy. Lark and Rachel took the car. Lark drove, honking and waving merrily at the protestors as they sped out the gate. The dark-haired hippie type smiled and waved back.

  Lark parked the car at the soccer fields, at the north end of the south beach, and they walked the boardwalk, their binoculars looped loosely around their necks. Exiting the forest, they found themselves over the dunes. Carolina willows, smartweed, and a large clump of Hercules’ club lined the boardwalk. The farther they walked the shorter the oaks, buckthorn, and other shrub-forest trees became, while the wax myrtles increased in numbers. Then they were across the beach meadows and onto the beach.

  Birds flitted in the bushes, hidden from sight except for brief flashes of color, but Rachel didn’t know her birdsongs well enough to identify any of them. Besides, she wanted to be on the beach. Pushing on, they crossed the meadows, reached the shore, and headed off to the southwest, their feet churning the sand. Up ahead someone allowed their dog off leash, and it bolted into the dunes.

  Lark snorted. “We should report them.”

  “If we get close enough, we can yell at them.” That might relieve some of the tension building in her neck and shoulders. Dogs and people were the dunes’ worst enemies. High seas and heavy winds did enough damage. Not only that, but the dog chased the birds off the beach, giving Lark and Rachel little chance of seeing anything.

  They ambled along, enjoying the sun and air, until Rachel picked up some movement in the sand. She stopped. A small, sandy-brown bird with white underparts, orange legs, an orange bill with a black tip, and a black neckband harvested shells along the edge of the dunes. “Is that a piping plover?”

  Lark raised her binoculars. “It sure is. Good spotting.”

  They watched it for a few moments, then passed by near the water’s edge to afford the bird plenty of room.

  The sighting spurred them to birdwatch, and they had soon added two handfuls of other species to their list. Sanderlings, a ruddy turnstone, a spotted sandpiper, laughing gulls, ring-billed gulls, and herring gulls came first. Then a flock of brown pelicans buzzed the surf, like B-52 bombers on a surveillance run, and a flock of black skimmers passed by, their white bellies skimming the surface of the sea. A grouping of terns and gulls clustered at the surf’s edge turned up three new species. The Caspian terns were the largest, their thick orange bills, black crowns, and black legs distinctive against the white sand. Then came the royal terns, with their white caps and yellow bills. Tucked in among the others, Rachel spotted a sandwich tern, its black beak and black crown making it stand out among the giants.

  By then they had walked nearly to the tip of the south beach. There, picnickers dotted the sand while a group of wood storks and egrets fished the surf. Farther out, four men seined for shrimp.

  “Ready to turn around?” Lark asked.

  Rachel lifted her face to the sun, relished the feel of salt spray on her face, and rolled her shoulders. “Ready.”

  The hike in and out had taken nearly two hours. They dallied on the boardwalk, treated to the antics of a painted bunting and his ladies along the rail, and then they made a quick stop at the conference center to see what—if anything—had been altered on the program. A stack of notices announced a change of keynote speaker for Saturday night, and it wasn’t Guy Saxby. Instead, the committee had chosen the filmmaker Chuck Knapp.

  Lark snorted. “I’ll bet that frosts Saxby. That makes him last choice.” She seemed almost gleeful.

  “I wonder whose decision it was,” Rachel said. She presumed Evan Kearns. As much as Saxby hadn’t liked the idea of switching keynote slots with Becker, Kearns had quickly jumped on the idea.

  Back at the hotel, Rachel knocked on the adjoining door and handed a copy of the notice to each of the sisters.

  “I see they’re doing a tribute to Becker,” Cecilia said. “That’s nice.”

  Dorothy jabbed her finger at the note about Saturday night. “I imagine ’the committee,’” she intoned sarcastically, “didn’t want to give Guy the best slot because he’s under a fog of suspicion.”

  Lark rolled her eyes and flipped her hair back. “Who knows anything about this Knapp guy?”

  Rachel saw Dorothy wince. Was it Lark’s use of the word guy or because Knapp’s name triggered a reaction?

  “He’s the digiscoping teacher.” Rachel set her binoculars on the dresser. “I’m taking his class on Thursday, and they’re showing his film, A Bird’s-Eye View, that night. It costs ten dollars, and everyone’s invited. I’ve heard it’s a great film.” It had been showing at the Esquire Theater, but Rachel hadn’t had the chance to go. “According to the write-up in the festival brochure, all proceeds are being donated to the conservation of painted bunting breeding territory.”
r />   She may as well have been talking to the wall, for all the reaction she got.

  Dorothy crossed to the window. “I’ll bet Guy is disappointed at not getting back the Saturday slot.”

  That drew a reaction from Cecilia. “Maybe they thought he wouldn’t be around on Saturday.”

  “That’s downright mean,” Dorothy said.

  “Oh my, it was meant to be a joke.”

  “A bad one,” Dorothy shot back.

  “That’s right, I forgot he was your boyfriend.”

  Rachel wondered if Cecilia was jealous. She had been the one pushing Dorothy to engage.

  “He’s not my boyfriend. He’s my friend.”

  “Whom half the people here think is guilty of killing Becker,” Cecilia added. “Who knows, with that kind of a rap, I might cut out early.”

  Judging from the gaggle of admirers surrounding him in the hotel lobby, being a suspected murderer hadn’t lessened Saxby’s cachet. But he did look up, directly at Dorothy, as the women descended the stairs to head for the banquet. Dorothy’s face glowed.

  Cecilia made a small noise in her throat and then said she had to get some water.

  Rachel moved closer to Lark.

  “I think Cecilia may be a little jealous,” Lark said, giving voice to Rachel’s earlier assessment. She sounded critical, which Rachel thought funny, seeing as how Lark had never wanted Dorothy and Guy to hook up in the first place.

  Below them, Rachel could see Saxby pushing his way through the crowd. He seemed unhurried, but clearly on a beeline for Dorothy. He stopped to exchange a few words with one person or to pat another on the shoulder, but when he reached Dorothy, he placed both hands on her shoulders and ignored the rest of the room.

  “What is he up to now?” Lark asked.

  “Don’t be so suspicious,” Rachel said. “I think he really likes her.”

  “Or else…” Lark dropped her voice. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe he did kill Becker, and that he thinks Dorothy knows something?”

  “I was there too. He’s not trying to cozy up to me,” Rachel said.

  “Still, I’m not convinced we should let them out of our sight.”

  “Cecilia seems to agree with you,” Rachel said, pointing to Cecilia approaching stage left. When she reached Dorothy, she linked her elbow with her sister’s and hung on, thwarting Dorothy’s valiant attempts to extract her arm.

  “For what it’s worth,” Rachel said, “I don’t think he killed Becker.”

  “Why not?”

  “Even if he wanted to, I don’t think he has the guts.”

  Saxby joined them on the ride to the convention center and tagged along toward the ballroom. It was adjacent to the Nest, which was open for business. Rachel noted that extra guards had been posted at the doors. The murder scene had been cleaned up, the removable walls were gone, and the vendors plied their wares with zeal. They’d missed out on half a day’s sales. No one seemed too overly concerned with Becker’s death, though it was the topic on everyone lips.

  “So what are you planning?” Lark asked. “Are we taking Dorothy’s case?”

  Rachel thought about feigning ignorance, and then capitulated. “For Dorothy’s sake, I think we have to help clear him. She is over the moon for him…” She raised her hand to keep Lark from speaking. “And it’s my fault. It’s also our fault he’s the prime suspect.”

  “Like you have that much control. Dorothy seemed destined to fall for him anyway, and he would have been the prime suspect no matter what. He’s the only one with a motive. Stop beating yourself up.”

  Rachel looked at her friend. “You’re right, but I’d still like to know who killed Becker.”

  Lark shook her head. “Rae, it’s one thing to solve a murder when you’re in familiar territory and all you have to do to clear somebody is, say, scale a mountain or two. But here—”

  Rachel interrupted by grabbing Lark’s arm. “Is that who I think it is?”

  A woman in a black tank tap and black shorts stood next to a Lucy Bell foot massage chair.

  “If you think it’s the grieving widow.”

  Rachel watched the woman take a chair. “You know what? They’ve got two chairs set up, and there isn’t a line. I think I’m in the mood for a Lucy Bell foot massage.”

  Lark groaned.

  CHAPTER 8

  Lark disappeared to find Cecilia and Dorothy while Rachel made for the empty pedicure chair. She forked over ten dollars before peeling off her shoes and socks and climbing up in the chair next to Sonja.

  “Talk about feeling self-conscious,” Rachel said. Now she knew how Reggie and Beau’s birds must feel. A few women cast longing glances, but most of the birders heading into the ballroom gawked and whispered to each other as they passed by, no doubt wondering why the grieving widow was getting a pedicure. Sonja Becker seemed to be handling this by keeping her eyes shut while her feet soaked.

  Rachel had to admit that the warm, oiled water felt very relaxing.

  “Mrs. Becker,” Rachel said, almost hesitantly. “Sonja, isn’t it?”

  The dark-haired woman didn’t open her eyes. “Do I know you?”

  “We met at dinner the other night,” Rachel said. “I’m here on a freelance basis, working up an article for Birds of a Feather magazine, and I wanted to convey my condolences.”

  “Thank you,” Sonja Becker replied without much interest.

  Rachel gritted her teeth. Now what? She’d made a fool of herself, not to mention exaggerated her connection with Birds of a Feather magazine, and all she had gotten for it was a faint “thank you.”

  Well, what had she expected? That the grieving widow would pour out her soul while a redheaded Lucy Bell conventioneer in a pink smock rubbed cinnamon-scented foot oil into her soles?

  “This is nice, isn’t it?” Rachel said. “Although I think they could have put up a curtain or something. It’s kind of weird to get a pedicure in public like this.” Especially weird when your husband has just been murdered.

  Shouldn’t she be making funeral arrangements or something?

  “It’s all the same to me,” Sonja said without opening her eyes. “They can stare if they want.”

  Rachel decided she was using the kindergarten approach. Nobody could see her if she kept her eyes shut.

  “Excuse me.” A different Lucy Bell lady handed Rachel a color wheel of nail polish and tried pushing another into Sonja’s hands. “While you’re soaking, you can pick your colors.”

  “Black,” Sonja said, pushing the color wheel back. “I’ve just lost my husband. Black for the widow.”

  The Lucy Bell lady opened her mouth and then turned to Rachel with a helpless look that seemed to ask if Sonja was for real. Rachel nodded confirmation.

  “That’s awful!” the redhead said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” Sonja said. “Paul was an idiot.”

  “He was a highly respected birder,” Rachel said, trying to say something positive. “Plus a leader in the environmental movement.”

  “An idiot,” Sonja repeated. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he wasn’t killed by an irate husband—except the sort of thing he was attracted to wasn’t even old enough to be married.”

  Rachel swallowed. “Are you saying he took an interest in his students?” She wondered if Sonja realized that gave her a motive for murder.

  “Them too,” Sonja said.

  “Ma’am,” the redhead said. “I know this is a difficult time, but begging your pardon, could I recommend something a little more subtle than black? There is this nice neutral shade called Bare Maximum.”

  “Whatever,” Sonja said. “Although it’s not much of a mourning color, is it?”

  The Lucy Bell shot a horrified glance at Rachel.

  “I’ll try it,” Rachel said, handing back her color wheel. “I normally go with red, but then I’ve never had a Lucy Bell pedicure before.”

  “I don’t see what’s wrong with black,” Sonja said. She lifted a
sports bottle and took a deep draft, then leaned her head back again. “Did you ever wonder why doctors always tell you to drink water? Whatever climate you go to, it’s the same. If you go to Arizona they say, ’Drink lots of water. it’s a dry climate, and you’ll lose body fluids.’ If you go to the coast they say, ’Drink lots of water, it’s a humid climate, and you’ll lose body fluids.’ Where can you go where you don’t lose body fluids?”

  “You’ve got me there.” Rachel glanced at the sports bottle. She had a sneaking suspicion the liquid inside it wasn’t water. Well, people dealt with serious loss in different ways.

  “What were we talking about?” Sonja asked. “Oh, yes, how Paul was an idiot. Let me count the ways.”

  Rachel’s pink-smocked Lucy Bell lady began sawing away at Rachel’s heels with a file. The sensation was not unpleasant—in fact, it tickled. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth and concentrated on what Sonja was saying.

  “He couldn’t get ahead. He always let people take advantage of him. You could always count on Paul to be on the side that got shafted.”

  “I was under the impression he’d done pretty well,” Rachel said. “He seemed to be well respected.” Or had she already said that? She thought she had.

  “Oh, sure. He and his trust fund did fine. Inherited money is always a mistake. It makes you soft, afraid to stand up for yourself.”

  This didn’t sound like the Paul Becker that Rachel had seen insisting on being the Saturday keynote speaker. It didn’t sound like the people she knew who’d inherited money, either.

  “He always opened his big mouth too early, jumped on the wrong bandwagon,” Sonja continued. “Of course, he would eventually realize it, then backpedal. Like flipping on that land trade.”

  “I thought he was against it.” If he was for it, that might change the suspect list.

  “He was against it,” Sonja said. “But then, after he went out with Chuck, he was all for it.”