other night. He said he’d always been against it.” Dorothy attempted to mimic Becker. “’While one area would be protected, the other area would lose its protection.’”
“It must have to do with the mysterious treasure,” Cecilia said.
“Or maybe he found out who was making the other offer to the Andersons, and it changed his mind,” Dorothy said. “Maybe what the developer plans to do to the swamp is worse than losing eighty acres of nesting habitat for the painted bunting on Hyde Island.”
“Do you want some good news?” Rachel asked. “I think I know how to find out what Becker saw in that swamp. Sonja told me the name of the person he went birding with that day. He was with Chuck Knapp.”
“The filmmaker?” Lark looked surprised. “That might explain why Knapp is now assigned to the Saturday-night keynote spot.”
“And there’s one more thing.” Rachel glanced at Dorothy. “If Saxby is the Indiana Jones of the birding world, according to his wife, Paul Becker was the James Bond.”
CHAPTER 9
They needed to talk to Chuck Knapp.
Rachel thought about it all through dinner on Tuesday night and considered bagging out on Wednesday’s Little St. Simons trip. She figured with most of the birders out in the field, it might be easier to corner him during the day. Provided he wasn’t out on a trip.
Lark and Cecilia wouldn’t hear of it.
“You can’t miss Little St. Simons, Rae,” Lark said. “I guarantee we’ll see more birds out there than anywhere else we go this trip.”
“Besides,” Cecilia said, “the police are doing their job investigating this horrible crime. If Guy is innocent, they will clear him.”
Rachel noticed her choice of words, but then Dorothy concurred, so Rachel set the alarm for 4:30 a.m.
Little St. Simons was ten thousand acres of pristine barrier island accessible only by boat. It was exactly the same amount of land the Andersons had put up for trade, except Rachel couldn’t believe the swampland would measure up by comparison. Little St. Simons was one of those rare places on earth—secluded, unspoiled, and beautiful.
The boat departed Hampton River Club Marina and churned its way through pristine marshland to Barge Landing. There the birdwatchers were loaded into the backs of two pickup trucks and ferried along a sandy road through live oaks draped in Spanish moss. Rachel sat on the tailgate, sandwiched between Lark and Dorothy, and imagined the land to be much like this when it was occupied by the Guale Indians. The only traces she could see of modern civilization were the small grouping of buildings that comprised Little St. Simons Lodge.
According to the guidebooks, in the 1770s, a U.S. senator from South Carolina purchased six hundred acres of the island for a rice plantation. Eventually, he bought up the island, but when the end of the Civil War sent the plantation culture of Georgia’s sea islands into a tailspin, his family sold out to the Eagle Pencil Company, sight unseen. The pencil company’s plan was to harvest cedar trees for pencil production, but the trees proved too damaged by wind and salt to make quality pencils, so the owner of the company, Philip Berolzheimer, traveled to Little St. Simons to salvage his loss. Instead, hypnotized by the island’s beauty, he built a private hunting lodge, allowing only his family and closest friends from New York to visit.
In 1979, Berolzheimer’s descendants opened the island to the public, but even then it was protected. The family served as stewards of the land, hiring educated staff to conduct tours, and thus limiting the impact of tourism. Little St. Simons truly was an island paradise.
Rachel gaped at the scenery as they passed through a gnarled canopy of oaks, cedars, pines, and wild magnolias. Pine warblers flitted overhead—a stocky bird, olive with a yellow chest, it had two distinct wing bands. Tracking a flash of bright yellow, she spotted a prothonatory warbler, its golden head
“It must have to do with the mysterious treasure,” Cecilia said.
“Or maybe he found out who was making the other offer to the Andersons, and it changed his mind,” Dorothy said. “Maybe what the developer plans to do to the swamp is worse than losing eighty acres of nesting habitat for the painted bunting on Hyde Island.”
“Do you want some good news?” Rachel asked. “I think I know how to find out what Becker saw in that swamp. Sonja told me the name of the person he went birding with that day. He was with Chuck Knapp.”
“The filmmaker?” Lark looked surprised. “That might explain why Knapp is now assigned to the Saturday-night keynote spot.”
“And there’s one more thing.” Rachel glanced at Dorothy. “If Saxby is the Indiana Jones of the birding world, according to his wife, Paul Becker was the James Bond.”
CHAPTER 9
They needed to talk to Chuck Knapp.
Rachel thought about it all through dinner on Tuesday night and considered bagging out on Wednesday’s Little St. Simons trip. She figured with most of the birders out in the field, it might be easier to corner him during the day. Provided he wasn’t out on a trip.
Lark and Cecilia wouldn’t hear of it.
“You can’t miss Little St. Simons, Rae,” Lark said. “I guarantee we’ll see more birds out there than anywhere else we go this trip.”
“Besides,” Cecilia said, “the police are doing their job investigating this horrible crime. If Guy is innocent, they will clear him.”
Rachel noticed her choice of words, but then Dorothy concurred, so Rachel set the alarm for 4:30 a.m.
Little St. Simons was ten thousand acres of pristine barrier island accessible only by boat. It was exactly the same amount of land the Andersons had put up for trade, except Rachel couldn’t believe the swampland would measure up by comparison. Little St. Simons was one of those rare places on earth—secluded, unspoiled, and beautiful.
The boat departed Hampton River Club Marina and churned its way through pristine marshland to Barge Landing. There the birdwatchers were loaded into the backs of two pickup trucks and ferried along a sandy road through live oaks draped in Spanish moss. Rachel sat on the tailgate, sandwiched between Lark and Dorothy, and imagined the land to be much like this when it was occupied by the Guale Indians. The only traces she could see of modern civilization were the small grouping of buildings that comprised Little St. Simons Lodge.
According to the guidebooks, in the 1770s, a U.S. senator from South Carolina purchased six hundred acres of the island for a rice plantation. Eventually, he bought up the island, but when the end of the Civil War sent the plantation culture of Georgia’s sea islands into a tailspin, his family sold out to the Eagle Pencil Company, sight unseen. The pencil company’s plan was to harvest cedar trees for pencil production, but the trees proved too damaged by wind and salt to make quality pencils, so the owner of the company, Philip Berolzheimer, traveled to Little St. Simons to salvage his loss. Instead, hypnotized by the island’s beauty, he built a private hunting lodge, allowing only his family and closest friends from New York to visit.
In 1979, Berolzheimer’s descendants opened the island to the public, but even then it was protected. The family served as stewards of the land, hiring educated staff to conduct tours, and thus limiting the impact of tourism. Little St. Simons truly was an island paradise.
Rachel gaped at the scenery as they passed through a gnarled canopy of oaks, cedars, pines, and wild magnolias. Pine warblers flitted overhead—a stocky bird, olive with a yellow chest, it had two distinct wing bands. Tracking a flash of bright yellow, she spotted a prothonatory warbler, its golden head
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