Death Shoots a Birdie Read Free Page B

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 hard 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
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