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out.
    “Butter-butt.”
    “Excuse me?” Rachel looked around to see who had said that, and spotted Dwayne, the bus driver, sitting two seats away.
    “It’s a local’s nickname for the yellow-rumped warbler,” he explained over his shoulder. “Little bird. Yellow rump.”
    “You’re a birder?”
    Now she sounded like Saxby. Dwayne had on all of the right garb, and he carried a pair of Zeiss binoculars.
    “Of course you are,” she said.
    “Actually, I’m a swamp rat. My mother, my brother, and I run canoe tours in the Okefenokee Swamp.”
    “That’s our Friday tour.” She gestured between herself and Lark, Dorothy, and Cecilia.
    “Sweet.” He winked, and Rachel felt herself color.
    He was flirting with her, not that he wasn’t attractive in a rough sort of way. Tan, with tattoos that covered both of his forearms, his body looked made of hard work. Take away the small silver hoop earring that dangled from his left ear, and he could pass for a Marine.
    “If you’re a tour leader, why are you driving the bus?”
    “It’s the property of the Okefenokee Swamp Tours. Evan came up a ride short, and I offered to help. It seemed like the neighborly thing to do. Besides,” he winked again, “it gives me a chance to catch the view on Sapelo.”
    Rachel felt her face burn.
    Dwayne turned back around, settled his baseball cap backward on his head, and pointed into the thicket. “There’s another butter-butt.”
    Rachel turned her attention back to the birds, and to Saxby. He was the real target, and she needed to keep her eye on the ball.
    All around them, people had set up spotting scopes. She had learned to use one in Elk Park, her first lesson being on that ill-fated day when Lark’s business partner, Esther, was murdered. It had taken Kirk a while to get her to try scoping again, and now she was addicted. She had signed up for the digiscoping course on Thursday and watched one man with particular interest.
    “That’s Chuck Knapp,” Saxby said.
    “Should I know him?” Rachel asked. He was a small man, and hairy, with a round bald spot on his pate. She couldn’t recall ever having seen him before.
    “He’s a very famous filmmaker and wildlife photographer,” Saxby said. “Everyone knows Knapp.”
    Not everyone . At the risk of coming off stupid, she asked, “What are some of his films?”
    “His best known is the IMAX film A Bird’s-Eye View.”
    Rachel remembered seeing the movie, an hour-long feature from the perspective of a painted bunting as it escapes capture and migrates north from its wintering grounds. “Didn’t it take an award for best documentary or best cinematography?”
    “It was nominated for both,” Saxby said, “but it didn’t win either. Knapp tends to align himself with the wrong camp.”
    At that, Saxby stood and announced they were moving on. Rachel made a mental note to speak to Knapp later and ask about his upcoming projects.
    Their next stop was the shrub forest. Here the trees—pine, yaupon holly, red cedar, redbay, Hercules’ club, and wax myrtles—had grown up, and there were more and more bird sightings.
    “Prothonotary warbler,” called out a man.
    Rachel looked up and saw a golden flash, and then the bird lit high in the tree. Weat, weat, weat, weat, weat .
    “Yellow warbler,” Saxby said.
    She swung her glasses to locate the bird, but spotted another. “Gray kingbird.”
    “Where?” demanded a chorus of voices.
    “That’s a rare sighting for here,” Saxby said.
    Rachel pointed to the bird perched on a utility wire running alongside the road. She only knew what it was from a trip she’d taken with Kirk to the Florida Keys. Whitish below, grayish above, with a heavier mask, a notched tail devoid of white, and a heavy black bill, it trilled pe-teerr-it , followed by a few other guttural and metallic sounds.
    “By God, it is!” Saxby exclaimed, clapping her on the shoulder. “Well done.”
    Rachel kept her hands to herself.

CHAPTER 4
    A half hour