Sacrifice of Buntings (4 page)

A few moments later, Dorothy picked up a whimbrel. The large gray-brown bird with its strong black head stripes poked its downcurved bill at the sand like a picky eater knocking peas aside with a fork.

Then the ferry docked, and Saxby gathered them around. “From here we go by hay wagon,” he said. “Everyone sit in the middle and look to the outside. Whatever you do, hang on.”

Dorothy grabbed Rachel’s hand, pulling her up to the front to sit beside her and near Saxby. “Listen to him, dear,” she said. “He knows his birds. When he points them out, you’ll have a better chance of identifying them.”

Rachel felt her feathers ruffle. The idea that Dorothy had announced she needed help annoyed her. Not that she didn’t need help, mind you, but she had gotten better at birding in the past couple of years. She may have been a little raw the last time she had birded with Dorothy, but since then she had gone out birdwatching on a weekly basis with Kirk. Maybe she should state the obvious—that she was Dorothy’s excuse for sitting near Saxby again.

The wagon lurched forward, and Rachel anchored herself on a hay bale as the truck jounced away from the beach. Passing the dunes, they moved into a new zone where wax myrtles—dwarfed and entangled with cat brier, pepper vine, Virginia creeper, and Muscadine grape—formed a shrubby thicket.

“We’re going to make a few stops,” Saxby announced. “This first habitat is called a shrub thicket. This will be the best location to see painted buntings, Acadian flycatchers, and yellow-rumped warblers.”

“There’s one,” shouted an excited middle-aged woman.

“Keep your voice down!” Saxby ordered.

Startled, the woman’s chin quivered.

Realizing his mistake, Saxby softened his expression, reached out, and patted her arm. “We need to use conversational voices when spreading the word,” he said in a gentler tone. “Here we are close enough to the birds that we don’t want to scare them. We want everyone to have a chance to see them.”

“Acadian flycatcher,” Lark said. “Passenger’s side.”

The woman flashed Saxby a watery smile and turned to look.

“Painted bunting, two o’clock in the wax myrtles, driver’s side,” someone else called out.

“Butter-butt.”

“Excuse me?” Rachel looked around to see who had said that, and spotted Dwayne, the bus driver, sitting two seats away.

“It’s a local’s nickname for the yellow-rumped warbler,” he explained over his shoulder. “Little bird. Yellow rump.”

“You’re a birder?”

Now she sounded like Saxby. Dwayne had on all of the right garb, and he carried a pair of Zeiss binoculars.

“Of course you are,” she said.

“Actually, I’m a swamp rat. My mother, my brother, and I run canoe tours in the Okefenokee Swamp.”

“That’s our Friday tour.” She gestured between herself and Lark, Dorothy, and Cecilia.

“Sweet.” He winked, and Rachel felt herself color.

He was flirting with her, not that he wasn’t attractive in a rough sort of way. Tan, with tattoos that covered both of his forearms, his body looked made of hard work. Take away the small silver hoop earring that dangled from his left ear, and he could pass for a Marine.

“If you’re a tour leader, why are you driving the bus?”

“It’s the property of the Okefenokee Swamp Tours. Evan came up a ride short, and I offered to help. It seemed like the neighborly thing to do. Besides,” he winked again, “it gives me a chance to catch the view on Sapelo.”

Rachel felt her face burn.

Dwayne turned back around, settled his baseball cap backward on his head, and pointed into the thicket. “There’s another butter-butt.”

Rachel turned her attention back to the birds, and to Saxby. He was the real target, and she needed to keep her eye on the ball.

All around them, people had set up spotting scopes. She had learned to use one in Elk Park, her first lesson being on that ill-fated day when Lark’s business partner, Esther, was murdered. It had taken Kirk a while to get her to try scoping again, and now she was addicted. She had signed up for the digiscoping course on Thursday and watched one man with particular interest.

“That’s Chuck Knapp,” Saxby said.

“Should I know him?” Rachel asked. He was a small man, and hairy, with a round bald spot on his pate. She couldn’t recall ever having seen him before.

“He’s a very famous filmmaker and wildlife photographer,” Saxby said. “Everyone knows Knapp.”

Not everyone
. At the risk of coming off stupid, she asked, “What are some of his films?”

“His best known is the IMAX film
A Bird’s-Eye View.”

Rachel remembered seeing the movie, an hour-long feature from the perspective of a painted bunting as it escapes capture and migrates north from its wintering grounds. “Didn’t it take an award for best documentary or best cinematography?”

“It was nominated for both,” Saxby said, “but it didn’t win either. Knapp tends to align himself with the wrong camp.”

At that, Saxby stood and announced they were moving on. Rachel made a mental note to speak to Knapp later and ask about his upcoming projects.

Their next stop was the shrub forest. Here the trees—pine, yaupon holly, red cedar, redbay, Hercules’ club, and wax myrtles—had grown up, and there were more and more bird sightings.

“Prothonotary warbler,” called out a man.

Rachel looked up and saw a golden flash, and then the bird lit high in the tree.
Weat, weat, weat, weat, weat
.

“Yellow warbler,” Saxby said.

She swung her glasses to locate the bird, but spotted another. “Gray kingbird.”

“Where?” demanded a chorus of voices.

“That’s a rare sighting for here,” Saxby said.

Rachel pointed to the bird perched on a utility wire running alongside the road. She only knew what it was from a trip she’d taken with Kirk to the Florida Keys. Whitish below, grayish above, with a heavier mask, a notched tail devoid of white, and a heavy black bill, it trilled
pe-teerr-it
, followed by a few other guttural and metallic sounds.

“By God, it is!” Saxby exclaimed, clapping her on the shoulder. “Well done.”

Rachel kept her hands to herself.

A half hour later
, the group stopped for lunch in Hog Hammock, a dusty little town with small houses and an open-air market. The houses were brightly colored, and old women sat in rocking chairs on small, covered porches. Tables had been set up in the shade, and younger women speaking a mixture of African and Elizabethan English served them a traditional meal of fish
perlo
—a one-pot rice dish made with a vegetable and/or a meat, and traditionally seasoned with pork.

His plate filled to the brim, Saxby had made a beeline for the table where Rachel, Lark, Dorothy, and Cecilia sat under a spreading oak. Pleasantries were exchanged, and then Dorothy asked him what he knew about the people.

“They’re part of the Geechee culture,” he explained, “which dates back more than two hundred years. Of course, this community only dates to 1950, when R. J. Reynolds instituted his land-consolidation plan.” Saxby set down his fork and used his hands to gesture. “There were black land holdings spread out all over the island,” he said, carving the shape on a map in the air. “But Reynolds wanted to consolidate his holdings. He offered a trade: a plot of land and a house in Hog Hammock”—Saxby pointed to a spot on the fictional map—“for each black landowner’s property.” His hands swept over the imaginary island. “Needless to say, Reynolds came out ahead.” Saxby picked up his fork. “The black landowners often ended up trading for less than they gave in the exchange.”

“Then why did they trade?” Lark asked.

Saxby shrugged. “It’s hard to say. The Geechee have a family-oriented culture. For example, it’s customary for newlyweds to move into the husband’s parent’s home and live there until they can afford to build a home of their own. You can imagine how many multi-generational households there are. Plus, community grievances are settled in praise houses or churches.” Saxby forked some more perlo. “Maybe it made sense to them to live closer together.”

Or maybe they had felt some outside pressure to take the deal
. Tired of listening to Saxby, Rachel dabbed her mouth with her napkin and excused herself. Crossing the soft grass, she browsed the stands the crafters had set up and found herself drawn to the baskets of a beautiful dark-skinned woman in orange.

“
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 back 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.