Sacrifice of Buntings Read Online Free Page A

also do total makeovers.”
    “Thanks.” Rachel pushed past her, feeling slightly offended. Lark and Dorothy followed her, but Cecilia lagged behind.
    “Come on,” Dorothy ordered.
    “A foot massage sounds nice.”
    Not when the foot cream costs ten dollars an ounce .
    Rachel dropped back, smiled at the Lucy Bell girls, and propelled Cecilia onto the curb. Once they were out of earshot, she whispered, “Take it from a New Yorker: never stop and chat with anyone handing out flyers.”
     
    For all its outside glamour, the registration area inside the convention hall looked like any other. Gray industrial carpeting blanketed the floor, and white walls climbed to a high ceiling. Toward the back wall, two men were setting up folding chairs and draping long tables in burgundy and white. Near the front of the foyer, three people busied themselves stuffing canvas bags with magazines, literature, and birding tchotchkes.
    Rachel dropped her Lucy Bell flyer in the nearest trash receptacle and stepped up to the table with Lark. The man closest to them glanced up.
    “We’re not open yet,” he said. “We don’t open ’til five.”
    He sounded like Dorothy, thought Rachel. Strident. “We know we’re early, but—”
    Lark elbowed her in the ribs. “Any chance you could make an exception for us?”
    The man looked from one to the other. “If we did that, we’d have to make an exception for everybody.”
    “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Harold, help the girls,” said one of the women, a dark-haired matronly type with an ample bosom. She pushed him toward several open boxes of envelopes. “What are your last names?”
    Grudgingly, he pulled their registration envelopes while the woman handed each of them a badge holder and a canvas bag. “Your tickets and name tags are inside the envelope,” she explained. “Check and make sure that you have tickets for every field trip, workshop, and banquet you signed up for. You may have gotten your second choice. We had so many registrations a few of the field trips filled up fast.”
    They thanked her and checked their tickets. The four of them had lucked out. They each had been assigned their number-one field trip choices—Sapelo Island on Monday, Little St. Simons on Wednesday, and the Okefenokee Wildlife Refuge canoe trip on Friday. Their workshop schedules varied. Rachel had signed up for the all-day “Digiscoping Workshop” on Thursday, while Dorothy, Cecilia, and Lark had chosen more esoteric classes such as “Identifying Georgia’s Shorebirds” and “Listing for the Advanced Birder.” All of them had banquet tickets for Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights.
    “It looks like everything’s here,” Rachel said, stuffing the envelope into her bag. “Thanks again.” She had started toward the entrance when a tall man banged through the double doors.
    “Where the hell is Evan?” he demanded, jostling her aside. When he slammed his fist on the table, Rachel jumped.
    The man brandished a program at the volunteers. “ This is bullshit. I want to talk to Evan, now !”
    “Calm down, Dr. Becker,” Harold said, pulling his skinny frame to its full height. “Trudy’s going to get him,” he said, gesturing for the woman who’d intervened on their behalf to go find Evan.
    Rachel decided that, judging by the reaction of the registration staff, Becker was important He didn’t look familiar to her. Like Saxby, he was decked out in the latest birding fashion—vented shirt, pants, and a khaki vest covered with pockets. Tall, with brown hair and smallish brown eyes, he paced the length of the registration table, tugging at the corners of a thin, brown moustache.
    Rachel looked at the others. Dorothy and Cecilia stood with their mouths slightly agape, swiveling their heads as he paced back and forth, like Taco Bell chihuahuas at a tennis match. Lark returned Rachel’s gaze and shrugged.
    Finally Trudy returned with a wiry, gray-haired man.
    “What’s the problem,