Free A Bobwhite Killing by Jan Dunlap Page A

honest, wasn’t going to take too long since the A&W specialized in burger baskets and not much else. Not exactly nouveau cuisine, if you know what I mean. But definitely familiar fare for birding weekend trip regulars. I’m sure I’m not the only Minnesota birder who can say he’s eaten burgers in nearly every county in the great state of Minnesota.
    Come to think of it, maybe the weekends should be renamed. “Birds and burgs” might work. Although then the trip leader better proofread the flyers carefully or we might be signing up for “birds and bugs” weekends.
    Actually, I’ve been on some of those too. Trust me, when someone asks you to go birding in the Sax-Zim bog in July, say, “No.” The birds might be good ones, but the mosquitoes can carry off small children.
    Glancing at Renee and friends as I headed towards Tom and our table, it occurred to me that their intense menu perusal was more likely out of consideration for Shana’s circumstances than any gastronomical curiosity. In fact, it seemed almost too obvious that the four birders were feverishly intent on not making eye contact with Shana as she passed their table.
    Respect for a grieving widow was one thing, but the vibes I picked up from the group before I sat down next to Tom seemed distinctly different than sympathy.
    Embarrassment?
    Maybe. In the hotel lobby, Shana had walked in on the last part of Renee and Mac’s “sex scandal” commentary, casting Shana in the role of the naive wife. Having already had that conversation with Shana myself, I knew how she felt about people’s intrusive speculations, as well as her determination not to be labeled as the poor, pitiful wife who was caught unaware by her husband’s infidelity. So, sure, maybe Renee was feeling a little residual discomfort from that earlier encounter in the hotel.
    Yet embarrassment didn’t quite fit the mood I felt emanating from the adjacent table. If I had to make a gut call on it, I would have said it was smugness, like they knew something the four of us at my table didn’t.
    And that got me to wondering what else had happened at the hotel after Shana and I had made our window exit. Between Chuck’s accusations and Big Ben the Mayor’s revelations, I figured Jack must have been cringing in his grave.
    Well, maybe not in his grave, since he wasn’t buried yet, but you get my point. The man’s dirty laundry was being strung out on the line for the whole world to see, and he wasn’t even around to throw a little bleach at it. It sure didn’t look like his best friend the mayor was going to be of any help in salvaging Jack’s reputation, either. In fact, based on Renee and Mac’s report, it sounded like good old Big Ben had been all too ready to throw the choicest bits of gossip meat to the media pack.
    A best friend like that, nobody needs.
    Yet he’d shown up pretty quickly to offer Shana condolences and support.
    A soft chuckle interrupted my thoughts, and I glanced at Shana sitting beside me. Tom was telling her about our afternoon encounter with Nigel and had managed not only to amuse her, but elicit a small laugh. The woman was holding up pretty darn well, I thought, especially in light of what she’d been through since sunrise this morning. But then again, the Shana I’d known was like that: a real trooper who didn’t think twice about taking on the world or wading through mud for a chance to find a rarity.
    Actually, Shana herself was the rarity.
    No matter what the situation, it seemed like passion virtually spilled out of her, whether she was facing down a vengeful stepson or planning a future of research in exotic locations. The more I thought about it, the only time I’d ever seen her falter was this morning when she’d cried for Jack in my arms. And even that was passionate—I don’t know that I’d ever seen such stark grief in a person’s face as when Shana first saw Jack’s frozen features. Yet here she was, sitting in a diner with Bernie, Tom