Death Shoots a Birdie Read Free

binoculars against his chest. “Besides, it looks like the older bird would have won.”
    Rachel frowned. “How can you be so sure?”
    “Check out the face of the bird on the feeder. The incoming male was a young bird. The feeder bird bears a few scars. He’s learned to defend himself in a turf war.”
    “By eliminating the competition?”
    Saxby shrugged. “It works for him.”
    “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