Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [87]
“If this Jasper character was involved in shooting down those planes, they should go in and blow him and his crazy followers up,” said Horace, a retired actuary who’d spent his professional career at the General Accounting Office.
“God, no,” said Cindy, a tall, angular woman who permed her brunette hair in a 1940s style, and who worked as a secretary in a ten-term congressman’s office on Capitol Hill. “Killing more people won’t solve anything.”
“Only way to stop people like him,” said Horace in a pinched, nasal voice testifying to chronic sinus problems. “We ought to round up all the nuts and put ’em on an island someplace, get ’em out of society before they destroy it.”
Jessica liked Horace as a bird-watching companion as long as they didn’t discuss politics; his were to the right of John Birch’s, just below Ivan the Terrible’s.
“Have you heard from Max?” Cindy asked Jessica, changing the topic.
“No.” She was glad the delivery of the food spared her from having to say more.
“Well, now, what say we take a look at what we got,” Horace said after they’d eaten, hiding a small belch behind his hand and yawning. “Flying always makes me tired.”
“There’s no jet lag between eastern Canada and Washington, Horace,” said Cindy, winking at Jess.
Horace ignored the dig and opened the first of the envelopes, one of his, and began explaining every aspect of each of the pictures: the name of the bird, his camera setting, and his state of mind at the moment he pushed the shutter button. His painfully slow commentary was mitigated by the pictures themselves—in fact, he’d shot a lovely series of a rose-breasted grosbeak, which was joined at the end of his roll by another bird he claimed was a black-headed grosbeak.
“Can’t be,” Cindy said, using a magnifying glass provided by Jess to examine the picture more closely. “Black-headed grosbeaks don’t come that far east or north. Strictly the Southwest.”
“And I’m telling you it’s a black-headed grosbeak,” said Horace. “If you’re jealous because I spotted it and managed to get a picture, say so, Cindy.”
Cindy sighed and sat back as Horace finished going through his twenty-four shots. Now, it was Cindy’s turn. Of the group, she was acknowledged as the best photographer. She certainly had the best equipment, including a telephoto lens the size of a small cannon. Although she hadn’t seen an especially impressive array of birds, her photographs of what she’d come across were professional quality.
“Where did you shoot this sequence?” Jess asked, referring to a set of three prints that had caught a pair of Canada warblers feeding in underbrush. As was usually the case, Cindy had gone off on her own during the trip, not to be seen again until the end of the day.
“A beautiful ridge I discovered six months ago,” she said. “It overlooks a gorgeous valley right on the border, just north of Plattsburgh. I sat up there for an hour. Aren’t they beautiful?”
“They certainly are,” agreed Jess, speaking of the pair of warblers, the male with its distinctive black necklace on its yellow breast, the female’s necklace less distinct.
An hour later, they’d gone through the pictures from this more recent trip, and Cindy turned to an envelope containing the six-month-old material. She’d asked Jess to have three sets of prints made from that period: “One for you, and one for Horace,” she said, handing envelopes to both. They opened the third envelope and went through the pictures, which represented brilliant photographic work.
“These are stunning,” Jessica said, pulling one of the prints from the batch and admiring it. “I’ll have it blown up and framed, add to my collection