Murder With Puffins

Chapter 9

Twelve Angry Puffins

"Wait," I called, starting after her. "I didn't say he was shooting the birds; I just said he was shooting at us!"

But Mrs. Peabody didn't hear me. And the electric lights chose that moment to flicker and die. In the sudden near darkness, I tripped over the fallen puffins and sent the rack of Rhapsody's books sprawling. Mamie scurried over to pick them up while Michael leapt to my side and spent rather more time than strictly necessary making sure I'd suffered no damage in the fall. By the time he finally relented and helped me to my feet, the birder had vanished.

"Don't worry about it," Michael said as we pitched in to put the book display back together again.

"She'll tell everyone Resnick is shooting birds," I said. "They'll probably all go hiking up to confront him."

"And either they'll lynch him or he'll shoot one of them, and either way, maybe you won't have to file charges against him."

"Are you going to file charges against him?" Mamie asked, wide-eyed.

"Yes, at least if Constable Barnes ever takes me seriously."

"Good," she said, patting my shoulder with approval. "Someone needs to do something about that man. He's absolutely beastly to poor Rhapsody. She had a one-woman show here last summer of some of her paintings from the books. You should have heard some of the things he said to her. Absolutely savage. Someone really ought to do something. Do you have any matches?"

I thought for a moment she was enlisting us to help burn Resnick at the stake, but apparently she'd decided the power wasn't coming back anytime soon. She pottered through her drawers until she found some matches, then began lighting oil lamps.

I glanced back at the book of Resnick's paintings. I'd paused at a painting of the Black Head. He'd precisely captured the way the sky had looked all day; only slightly cloudy, but somehow full of vague future menace. I could imagine what he would have to say about poor Rhapsody's puffins.

"She went into quite a slump and almost missed her deadline for Puffin in the Rye" Mamie said. "I really thought for a while she'd give up painting entirely."

I continued to leaf through the book of Resnick's work while Michael bought a puffin sweatshirt for his mom. I was torn. The more I looked at the paintings, the more I wanted to buy the book; Resnick had really captured the beauty of the island in a way that photographs couldn't quite manage. But I didn't want to risk the shopkeeper's disapproval. And for that matter, I had mixed feelings about giving any support, financial or otherwise, to the wild-eyed lunatic who'd fired a gun at me and built that horrible eyesore on one of my favorite parts of the island. Ironically, the book even included several paintings of the picturesque shack he'd demolished.

"Aha!" I cried, snapping the book shut. "I'll take this, please," I said to Mamie, handing over the book and fishing my Visa card out of my purse.

She looked at me as if I'd just declared myself a vivisectionist.

"Take a look here, on page one hundred and ten," I said. "See the caption--'View of Puffin Point from the Public Path.' That proves it."

"Well, of course," she said. "Everyone knows it's a public path."

"Yes, but this proves that he knows it. He said so in the title of one of his very own pictures. I can use this in the court case; if Jeb Barnes won't take my assault charges, I'll file a civil suit."

"Oh, I see," Mamie said. "Your father was right; you have become quite the detective."

She rang up the book with enthusiasm, then waved cheerfully to Michael and me as we stepped outside again.

"Now where?" Michael asked.

"Back to the cottage, I think," I said. "Aunt Phoebe will try to put us to work, but we can get her to feed us first."

"Sounds like a plan," he said.

But when we neared the top of the hill, we saw Aunt Phoebe in heated conversation with several birders, including Mrs. Peabody.

"Oh damn," I said. "She's probably telling Aunt Phoebe a lot of inaccurate information about Resnick."

"You're probably right," Michael said. "And your aunt doesn't look too happy."

In fact, while we straggled up the last few feet of the hill, Aunt Phoebe broke away from the birders and began storming up the path toward Resnick's cottage.

"The man deserves a good thrashing," she called over her shoulder, brandishing her blackthorn walking stick.

"Aunt Phoebe! Wait!" I wheezed. She probably couldn't hear me.

"I'll show him a thing or two," she shouted as she disappeared around a bend in the road.

"Shouldn't we go after her?" Michael asked, puffing.

"Yes, but I don't think we could possibly catch her." I, too, was panting.

"True. She hasn't been hiking around the island all morning."

"Actually, she probably has, but never mind," I said. "Let's go tell the constable. It's downhill from here to the general store."

"And we can get those groceries your aunt wanted," Michael said.

While Michael gathered the items on Aunt Phoebe's list, I tried to convince Jeb Barnes to go after Aunt Phoebe. I wasn't having much luck.

"I'm sure there's no reason to worry," he said.

"Did you hear what I said?" I demanded. "She's going up there to confront Victor Resnick! She thinks he's been shooting birds."

"Probably has," one of the locals commented.

"I'm sure Phoebe can take care of herself," Jeb said.

"She probably can, but what about Resnick?" I said. "What if she carries out her threat to give him a good thrashing?"

"Call up and warn him," someone suggested.

"Phones are out," someone else said.

"Serve him right if she did," commented a third.

The lights flickered on at that moment, and everyone looked up with a hopeful expression. Then the lights winked out again and the locals sighed and huddled a little closer to the stove.

Just then, we heard the sound of a truck engine outside.

"That must be Fred," Jeb Barnes said. "I'll get him to take me up to Resnick's. We'll head her off."

He darted out of the store, flagged down Fred Dickerman, and the two of them roared off up the gravel road.

Michael and I watched as the truck careened off, scattering birders on both sides.

"Should we follow?" Michael asked.

"Let's go back and find Dad," I said. "Maybe he can figure out a way to calm her down."

We made rather slow progress, though. We had our arms full of grocery bags, and we had to push through throngs of birders, all of whom wanted to know if Victor Resnick was really slaughtering birds with his shotgun. At first, they seemed curiously unalarmed by the fact that Resnick had been shooting at Michael and me.

"We didn't actually see him shoot any birds," I said finally. "But he certainly shot at us. Probably thought we were birders trespassing on his land."

This tactic generated a satisfactory level of sympathy and outrage. Especially after one of the birders informed the rest that Resnick's land was the only place on the island where some rare bird had been sighted a day or two earlier.

Leaving the assembled birders debating whether the once-in-a-decade chance to add the bay-breasted warbler to their life lists was worth the risk that it might become the last bird they ever saw, Michael and I escaped and headed back to Aunt Phoebe's cottage.

We ran into Winnie and Binkie on the way.

"Meg, dear," Binkie called. "How are you enjoying your stay?"

"Well, it's not quite what we expected," I said. "We didn't expect to run into the whole family here."

"No, and I'm sure your mother and father weren't expecting that dreadful Resnick person to be here," Binkie said. "Terribly awkward, under the circumstances."

"Awkward?" I repeated. Awkward didn't even begin to describe the sensation of having a gun fired over one's head.

"Oh, leave it alone, Binkie," Winnie said. "It's all over and done with."

I felt a little miffed at their quick dismissal of our ordeal. Unless by "awkward" they meant some past conflict--perhaps this wasn't the first time Victor Resnick had taken violent measures against trespassers. Perhaps it wasn't the first time Aunt Phoebe had attempted to thrash him.

"And do be careful," Binkie added. "I've heard reports of an imposter running around the island."

"An imposter?" I echoed.

"Yes, someone carrying binoculars and a bird book and pretending to be one of us, when he doesn't know a tern from a seagull," Winnie said, frowning. "Up to no good, whoever he is, if you ask me."

But before I could ask what possible harm the so-called imposter could do, Winnie and Binkie spotted another party of birders down the road and tripped off to compare notes.

I shrugged. The fake birder wasn't my problem; my family, on the other hand…

"I wonder if it was wise, letting Aunt Phoebe run off like that," I said, fretting.

"She's a grown woman," Michael said as we turned into the lane to the cottage. "She can take care of herself, and besides, the constable will referee. Let him take care of her."

"I suppose we'll have to," I said.

"Look, there's Rob," Michael said. "What's he doing there on the beach?"

"Posing," I said. "He probably saw us coming."

Rob stood on the narrow strip of beach, hunched against the cold, one hand jammed in his pocket, staring out to sea. Trying, no doubt, to achieve an air of picturesque, Byronic melancholy. Someone should break the news to Rob that blondes can't do Byronic. Michael, on the other hand, managed it without even trying; I particularly liked the way the breeze ruffled the lock of hair mat had fallen over his eyes.

Then again, Michael wasn't handicapped by Spike. Rob held one end of a very long leash; on the other end, Spike was chasing the waves. When a wave fell back toward the ocean, Spike would pursue it, barking bravely, convinced he had terrified the water into flight. When the water turned and thundered back toward the beach, Spike would turn and run away, tail between his legs, howling in terror. Rob was pretending to be oblivious to the whole spectacle.

"Well, at least Spike's having fun," I said as I drew up beside Rob.

"Miserable little mutt," Rob muttered. "Sorry, Michael."

Michael shrugged.

"Don't look at me," he said. "The miserable little mutt belongs to my mom."

"You think he'd get tired of it," Rob said, frowning, as Spike chased the water back and forth again.

"I'm sure he will after a while," I said.

"I've been here two hours," Rob said. "He's not getting tired. Just hoarse."

"Well, hoarse might be an improvement," I said. "Why on earth have you been standing here for two hours? Is something going on?"

"Not much," Rob said. "Everyone's getting hysterical about some guy who's running around shooting the puffins. That's about it."

"He's not shooting the puffins; he's shooting us. At us anyway," I said.

"Us? You mean you and Michael?" Rob asked.

"Yes."

"Wow, are you going to file charges?"

"Yes," Michael said. "And when you've passed the bar, you can handle the civil suit, if you like."

"Cool," Rob said. "So what's going on with the puffins?"

"Nothing. They've left the island," I said.

"Lucky them," Rob muttered. "Here, take him for a while, will you?"

"No thanks," I said, backing away. "We've got our hands full of groceries."

Which was true, but Rob still glowered at me as he strode off down the beach, Spike skittering along at his heels. Michael and I headed back to the cottage.

"I wish Aunt Phoebe would come back," I said, glancing down the lane.

"Don't worry," Michael said. "Everything will be fine."

I always get nervous when people say that.