Never Murder a Birder

  NEVER MURDER A BIRDER

  Copyright © 2017 by Edie Claire

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

  Dedication

  To all the bird watchers who walk around with binoculars hanging around their necks not caring whether other people think they look dorky or not. I am with you. As for those of you who laugh at us… my life list is longer than yours. So there.

  Prologue

  The giant heron gave a slow but powerful flap to his wings, his head hunched back over his shoulders as he cruised through the night sky over Mustang Island, Texas. The mustangs hadn’t roamed here for a century or more, but the flat, windswept barrier island was riddled with brackish wetlands that made a fine home for fish and frogs, which was all that mattered to the heron. As he passed over the relatively barren dunes and reached the southern edge of the sleepy town of Port Mesten, the twinkling lights of a large beach house complex came into view. The bird cocked his head. A flash of color had caught his eye.

  With an adjustment of angle and another hefty flap, six feet of wingspan changed course and headed downward. There was something interesting down there. Hopefully something tasty.

  He landed with the faintest of whooshing noises on the lawn behind the mansion and folded his immense wings behind his back. He could hear human voices nearby, but they were muffled; no people were visible. A quick look around revealed nothing threatening. His long legs strolled casually towards the object of his attention.

  The koi pond, like the rest of the backyard and deck area, was beautifully landscaped. It was bordered with attractive rocks, planted with tropical greenery, and even featured a gently trickling waterfall. Conveniently enough for the heron, the pool also had underwater lights that reflected the koi’s shiny orange and yellow scales. The whole yard and deck were brightly lit.

  The bird raised one long, stringy leg and stepped into the water. The other foot soon followed.

  Gulp.

  The human voices grew louder, and the heron paused to look up. He could see figures moving about inside the house through the windows. Dimly, his mind made an association of this feeding spot with a past attack by a human — a woman who had rushed at him, yelling and waving her arms. The heron had flown away then. Territoriality was a thing he understood. Not bothering to eat the food one defended was not. In any event, no human was threatening him now.

  Gulp.

  The door to the deck opened suddenly. It slammed backward on its hinges as several people poured out onto the deck above, their voices loud. Humans were often loud, but the heron sensed an unusual tension. He froze in place, assessing the risk. The humans continued to make noise. There was shoving, struggling. The heron poised himself for flight, but the humans did not appear to notice his presence. And the colorful fish were unaccountably sluggish.

  Gulp.

  The heron remained wary. The humans were thrashing about. One picked up an object from off the railing and smashed it over another’s head. The human who’d been struck instantly went limp and slipped to the floor of the deck. Still none of them noticed the heron.

  Gulp.

  The people’s movement ceased. The upright ones continued to speak, but their voices were hushed now. After a few moments they all went back inside the house, dragging the limp one with them. They closed the door.

  The heron stopped watching them. He craned his neck to advance the last swallowed fish along his gullet, then set about snatching the next one. This was a great feeding spot. He would have to come again.

  The lights in the backyard went out, and the little pond went dark. No matter. The heron could see well enough to pick out the last two. After all, they had nowhere to hide.

  Gulp. Gulp.

  The house was deadly silent now.

  The bird craned his neck once more, then gave his wings a contented rustle. His business here was concluded.

  He took off and flew away.

  Chapter 1

  Leigh could barely contain her enthusiasm as the airplane at last popped out from under the clouds, granting her first view of the topside of Corpus Christi, Texas. The sight was less than impressive, given that it was midwinter, raining steadily, and the Gulf of Mexico was on the other side of the aircraft. But Leigh didn’t care. She was too happy to be here, or anywhere the temperature stayed in double digits and she had the chance to feel warm sun on her skin. Maybe she was getting seasonal affective disorder, or maybe she was just being a crab, but this last Pittsburgh winter had been getting to her. Vitamin D from a bottle wasn’t cutting it anymore, and she couldn’t bring herself to do the tanning bed thing. Sometimes, a person just needed sunshine.

  “Sorry about the rain,” Warren said sympathetically. He squirmed in his seat and stretched one long leg out in the aisle, attempting to avert a cramp.

  Leigh watched him with a guilty feeling. Her husband had made preparations for this consulting gig a month ago, including securing comfortable exit row seats for himself. But when she had decided to tag along at the last minute, he’d given up those seats to take whatever two were available together. At least on this commuter hop from Houston he’d snagged a spot on the aisle. On the longer haul from Pittsburgh he’d had to choose between window or middle, which in either case meant his knees had been wedged against the seat in front of him for the duration.

  “It can’t rain forever,” Leigh replied optimistically. “I won’t allow it. Anyway, it won’t snow. And it’s supposed to be at least sixty degrees all week. Comparatively speaking, that’s tropical.”

  Warren smiled at her. “I’m glad you decided to come, even if I am working so much I’ll hardly see you. It’s been ages since we got away together, just the two of us.”

  Leigh smiled back. He was right, and it was mostly her fault. They had taken many lovely family vacations over the years, but she had never felt completely comfortable leaving the twins behind. Even now, though the kids were safely stashed at their Aunt Cara’s place with multiple grandparents and a great aunt to look in on them, Leigh was nagged by “bad mother” guilt. Never mind that the kids were twelve years old and had practically pushed her out the door. Her son Ethan, who usually replied to her texts with a cheerful “will do,” had greeted her last missive of helpful reminders with the comparatively rude, “Yeah, Mom. Geez!” Her daughter Allison had shut off her phone.

  Apparently, the kids really didn’t mind if their mom spent a few days away on the Gulf Coast, doing absolutely nothing but walking on the beach and soaking up some sun. Who knew?

  “You won’t be working all the time,” Leigh encouraged. “This nonprofit may be desperate for your help, but they do expect you to sleep, don’t they?”

  Warren’s brown eyes twinkled mischievously. “They do. And I hope I won’t be sleeping alone.”

  Leigh grinned back. “You will not.”

  The airplane’s landing was smooth, and even though Leigh could swear it took longer for everyone to clear off the plane than they had been in the air, she maintained her cheerful disposition. As they walked to the baggage claim area, she watched out the airport windows, willing the skies to grow brighter. “The sun will be shining by the time we reach the hotel,” she said confidently. “I proclaim it.”

  Warren laughed. “Assuming it’s not dark by the time we find the place.” They reached the baggage carousel and found a spot in the crowd. The
flight had been completely full, and as the conveyor belt cranked into action people stood along the curved track elbow to elbow.

  “I hope our accommodations don’t fall too far below the high standard to which you’ve become accustomed,” Leigh teased, feeling slightly guilty again. Before her impulsive decision to join him, Warren had made reservations at a comfortable, albeit perfectly boring chain hotel near his client’s offices in downtown Corpus Christi. Leigh would have been fine with that, too, as long as she could drive herself to the ocean in his rental car.

  But no.

  Once news of Leigh’s plans had reached her mother and aunts, an inescapable chain reaction of family interventions had followed. Didn’t Leigh remember that their dear cousin Hap lived somewhere around Corpus Christi now? Her great-aunt Eliza’s son? The one with the awful harelip that looked so much better after the second surgery and who used to be married to dear, sweet Maureen before she passed away from pancreatic cancer, God bless her soul? And didn’t he manage a hotel or something? Surely, he would want Leigh to come and see him and meet his new wife? They might even have a spare room she and Warren could stay in…

  The ensuing conversations had been awkward. But in the end, all had turned out well enough. Leigh’s cousin Hap — whom she had always liked, but hadn’t seen since her Aunt Eliza’s funeral over a decade ago — lived with his second wife in a fifth-wheel at an RV park, so he had no guest room. But he did work at a historic hotel on a barrier island about forty-five minutes away from downtown Corpus, and he was sure he could arrange for a family discount, as well as provide Leigh with access to his own car and plenty of home-cooked meals during their stay. Since Warren claimed not to mind the scenic commute, Leigh had been happy to make everyone else happy by accepting Hap’s offer. His hotel was walking distance to the beach, after all. She wouldn’t even need a car!

  “Well, I am used to the lap of luxury on such jobs,” Warren teased back. “Nonprofits always put their contractors up in penthouse suites, you know, particularly when they’re hiring said contractor because they’re in financial straits. That said, you have to admit that Hap’s hotel looks — how shall I put it — quaint.”

  “I like places with character,” Leigh insisted. “The Silver King is nearly a hundred years old and it’s survived four hurricanes and a fire. You could even say it survived five hurricanes, if you count salvaged wood.”

  “You can’t,” Warren argued. “But four is impressive enough. I just hope the bedframes aren’t a hundred years old, or I’ll be sleeping on the floor. Is that your bag?”

  Leigh looked down the slowly populating carousel. “That green one? No, I had to bring Allison’s, remember? The wheel broke on mine. Look, this is going to take forever. Why don’t you go ahead and get the rental car while I wait for the suitcases? We’ll get out of here faster.”

  Warren nodded. “Deal.”

  Leigh fidgeted in place for another five minutes before her bright blue bag at last came into view. The Silver King Hotel. She couldn’t wait to see it. It was pure luck that dear Cousin Hap happened to be associated with such a storied piece of Texas history, as opposed to some two-bit, crumbling motor inn. For that matter, once her mother and aunts got involved, she and Warren could have wound up sleeping on somebody’s living-room pullout couch just to avoid hurting a relative’s feelings.

  Truly, she had been fortunate all around.

  How odd.

  She pulled her daughter’s distinctive bright blue bag from the carousel and placed it at her feet, then jumped, startled, to see another woman’s hands reaching for it.

  “Excuse me!” a cultured voice proclaimed. “I’m afraid you have the wrong bag. This one is mine.”

  Leigh looked up to see a woman about her own age, well dressed and impeccably groomed. The woman had a large designer travel bag slung over one shoulder and a phone in one hand, and she smiled awkwardly as she rested her other hand possessively upon the suitcase.

  Leigh’s grip tightened involuntarily on the handle. She looked down at the case again and lifted the colorful plastic Disneyworld ID tag she knew darn well had her daughter’s name and address on the other side of it. “No, it’s mine,” she assured the woman. “Look. See?”

  The woman’s face promptly drained of color, and her hand dropped back. “Oh. Oh, I’m so sorry. Mine looks exactly like it! How stupid of me. I’m terribly sorry.” She lifted both hands in supplication, then backed away.

  “No problem,” Leigh answered. She caught sight of Warren’s bag and made haste to retrieve it. As she headed away from the crowd with both bags in tow, she stole a glance over her shoulder. The woman was now standing with a companion, a very large man with one suitcase already at his side. The woman continued to watch the carousel with one eye, even as she chatted with the man and punched buttons on her phone simultaneously.

  Leigh was half tempted to wait around and see what suitcase the woman pulled off the belt next, since it seemed incredible that anyone wearing Gucci shoes on a plane would be traveling with a bright blue bag in an abstract bubble pattern. But she didn’t care enough to bother. The woman was obviously distracted. Perhaps she was just a flake.

  The rain had stopped falling by the time Leigh met up with Warren and they walked out to the rental car, and as they drove away from the airport the clouds gradually began to thin and the sky to lighten.

  “Texas likes me,” Leigh announced with a contented sigh. “And so far, I love Texas.”

  Warren chuckled warmly. “Happy to hear it.”

  They drove out of the city and across the bay over a causeway before reaching the thin strip of sand and rock that was Mustang Island. To the Pittsburgh born-and-bred Leigh, the most predominant characteristic of Texas thus far was that it was flat. The second most notable descriptor was that it was overwhelmingly, uniformly brown. The grass in western Pennsylvania stayed a cheery green all year round, at least when it wasn’t white with snow, which made the inland area of Texas seem bleak by comparison. But here on the shore, all was forgiven. The choppy waters of the Gulf changed color with every movement of cloud and sun, the landscape rolled with high sand dunes and low brackish ponds, and tall grasses rippled in the endless wind. The couple cruised through the undeveloped part of the island, passed by the state park, and unhurriedly made their way toward their final destination, the small tourist town of Port Mesten.

  The sun was just beginning to dip low in the sky when Leigh’s trusty phone app led them along a zig-zagging path of two-lane streets flanked by modest houses, restaurants, beachwear stores, bars, ice cream shops, small motels, and a plethora of RV parks. “That’s it,” Leigh said excitedly, pointing. “That peach-colored building with the white trim.”

  Warren parked the car and Leigh hopped out. “It’s perfect!” she gushed, looking it over. “Can you believe this place was originally an army barracks?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” Warren replied dryly, popping open the trunk.

  “Oh, stop,” Leigh chastised. Architecturally, the building was no marvel. For the most part, it was a long, rectangular, two-story block with two levels of porches and an array of doors and windows marching across its face with military precision. But one end of the building featured an octagonal wooden tower complete with a catwalk and cupola three stories aboveground. Both the wooden plank siding and the decorative trim were freshly painted, and rocking chairs and ceiling fans graced the hotel’s long, wide porches.

  “Surely that didn’t survive four hurricanes,” Warren commented, throwing a skeptical glance at the obviously more modern, yet somehow less sturdy-looking tower section.

  “No, I’m pretty sure that’s a fairly recent addition,” Leigh agreed. “The original tower was destroyed in the second hurricane. There’s even a ghost story about it on the website. Some woman was watching for her lover’s boat to return in the storm, and she fell to her death from the old catwalk—”

  “Enough about ghosts and dead people,” Warren ordered sternly,
pulling their suitcases from the trunk. “We are on vacation. Well, you are, anyway.” He threw her a meaningful look, which Leigh had no trouble interpreting.

  No funny stuff here, okay? No police investigations. No criminals, no intrigue, no drama. And for God’s sake… NO BODIES!

  Leigh surprised herself by chuckling merrily. “Oh, I am so on vacation!” she assured. “This week is going to be fabulous.”

  They wheeled their suitcases toward a door at the base of the tower, which a humble wooden sign proclaimed to be the office. As they passed the other cars, Leigh noted license plates from Oklahoma, Indiana, and Kansas. Several of the cars with Texas plates were brand-new and undoubtedly rentals, but among those that seemed legitimately local, a large open-bed pickup stood out. Perching all over it — on top of the cab, along the sides and tailgate, on the hood, and even in the bed — were several dozen large, black birds. The creatures made no sound, but seemed content as they rested, occasionally adding to the already plentiful white bird poop streaked across the truck’s midnight blue paint. A few birds sat on the ground nearby, but none perched on any other car.

  “Geez,” Warren commented. “I wonder what makes that guy so lucky.”

  The birds seemed, as one, to turn and stare at them. In the distance, a siren howled.

  “Weird,” Leigh agreed, resisting a slight prickle of the hairs on the back of her neck. “Very Hitchcock. Let’s go inside.”

  Warren made no argument.

  Leigh had barely cleared the entrance to the cozy little lobby when a familiar booming voice sounded from behind the counter. “There she is! Francie’s little Leigh! Why, I’d know you anywhere, darling! You haven’t changed a bit!”

  Hap Taylor scooted off his stool and strode toward Leigh with a surprising amount of agility for a man of his bulk. He wasn’t quite as tall as Leigh remembered, being a hair under six feet, but he was broad-shouldered and of ample girth. Even so, his head had always seemed overlarge for his body, with a wide, perpetually grinning mouth and sparkling light blue eyes. Leigh always thought he would make a fabulous Santa Claus, had he been able to grow a beard, but Hap was about as hairy as a naked mole rat. For as long as Leigh could remember he had sported only two brownish patches of hair, one over each ear. And both of those had now turned white.