Murder With Puffins

Chapter 13

Zen and the Art of Puffin Maintenance

Okay, it was a cheap trick, but Jim Dickerman got on my nerves. I enjoyed the way his head snapped around when I said that, and how he stared at me, openmouthed.

"Murder," he repeated finally. "Who?"

"Victor Resnick."

"Least it's nobody anyone's going to miss," he said, recovering his poise. "What's that got to do with me anyway?"

"The mayor wants you to go down and get the generator at the Anchor Inn going," I said. "They're storing the body there in the meat locker until the police can get here."

Jim chuckled.

"Mayfields know about this?" he asked.

"The Mayfields aren't here to object," I said. "The mayor's exercising her authority and commandeering it."

"Should have exercised her authority when the old bastard started putting up that eyesore of his," Jim commented. "Well, now he's gone, maybe the town can get it condemned, tear it down."

Not a very eloquent eulogy, but typical, I suspected, of what the townspeople would say when news of Resnick's death got around.

Jim poked around the shed for a while, gathering tools. I didn't mind the delay. I wasn't looking forward to going back out into the storm. And Jim's workroom was rather interesting.

The more I stared around, the more I could identify the bits and pieces. Over in one corner were the parts to an old lawn mower. Did anyone on Monhegan actually mow lawns? Another large pile would probably turn into a golf cart when reassembled. I saw two pair of binoculars, one more or less intact and the other in pieces. Or maybe it was the disassembled pieces of several sets of binoculars; I doubted all the parts would fit into one. The pile of radio parts also contained enough components to assemble two or three objects, as did the piles of fragments from televisions, VCRs, cameras, and outboard motors. He had a few intact things, too: propane tanks, Coleman lanterns, and, in one corner, a large glistening-wet coil of the familiar industrial-weight orange power cords Monheganites used when they wanted to borrow some electricity from a more wired neighbor.

"Your dad would love this place," Michael said.

Yes, he would. I shuddered at the thought of the havoc he could wreak.

"Don't want anyone barging in here right now when I'm working on the generator," Jim said, looking up from his tool bench.

"Don't worry," Michael said. "At the moment, Dr. Langslow's lost somewhere on the island. By the time he's found, you'll probably have the generator running again."

"Dr. Langslow?" Jim repeated, looking at me. "You're Meg, then?"

I nodded. Jim looked at me with a frown. I suppose he was trying to connect my thirty-something self with the teenager I'd been when he'd last seen me. He shrugged as he threw on several layers of wraps and rain gear. Then he picked up a tool box and stepped out into the storm.

Jim set off briskly, head down against the rain, ignoring us trailing behind him. When we got to the edge of the hill, I paused briefly to look around. Apart from my desire not to spend any more time than necessary with the mortal remains of the late Victor Resnick, I'd wanted to come up to the power plant because I knew it had a view of half the island. From this vantage point, I'd hoped I could spot Dad or Aunt Phoebe. But I could see only the occasional flickering lights of candles and oil lamps, and not many of those. I sighed and began scrambling down the slope after Michael and Jim.

When we got to the Anchor Inn, Jim disappeared into the back shed to tinker with the generator while Michael and I stepped into the front room to take a break before the rest of our hike back to the cottage.

A nice place, the Anchor Inn. Of course, the heat and power were off. But it was solidly built, and insulated well enough to keep out not only the wind but also a good deal of its noise. We stumbled past a number of tables with the chairs stacked upside down on their tops and peered into the shadowy kitchen.

Mamie had gone, but Jeb Barnes and Fred Dickerman still stood guard. Jeb stood beside the cooler door, looking around as if he expected body snatchers to leap out from behind the cabinets. Fred sat as far from the cooler as possible, smoking a cigarette. I wouldn't have pegged him for the squeamish or superstitious type, but I noticed that his hand shook a bit.

"You find Jim?" Jeb asked.

"He's out back," Michael said.

"Are the police coming over?" I asked.

Jeb snorted.

"In this weather? Hell no. Maybe tomorrow, but probably not till Monday."

A sudden rumbling noise filled the building. A light over in the far end of the kitchen came on, and the meat locker began humming.

"Well, that's taken care of anyway," Jeb said. He stood up and began donning bis rain slicker. "You and Jim keep an eye on the place, make sure the generator's running."

"Right," Fred said. He still had all his rain gear on, and from the haste with which he buttoned his slicker on his way to the door, I had a feeling he'd keep an eye on the place from a distance.

"Shall we go?" Michael asked.

I started. I'd been lost in thought. If the police couldn't come out for a day or so, all the better, as far as I could see. I wanted time to find out some things before the authorities showed up. Like how Dad had managed to drop his map of the island at the murder scene. And where he and Aunt Phoebe were, and what really had happened when she confronted Resnick. After all, we were longtime summer people, but we were only summer people. Which in the local hierarchy put us only one step above day tourists, and considerably below lobsters and puffins. And I had a feeling that even the mainland police would rather have their internationally famous corpse bumped off by tourists or summer people instead of by some good, solid, salt-of-the-earth Monheganite.

The weather outside had gone beyond frightful. The wind drove the rain into our skin like cold needles, and at times we had to clutch fences and buildings to keep from being knocked down.

We seriously contemplated taking refuge for a while in the village church. Candlelight flickered invitingly in the windows, and the birders camping inside were having a splendid time, despite the lack of creature comforts. We could hear a spirited rendition of "Kumbayah" in three-part harmony.

"I'm not looking forward to going back to the cottage without Dad," I shouted over the wind as we struggled down the lane. Is the wind really that much worse, I wondered, or does it just seem that way this close to the water?

"Your mother will be frantic," Michael shouted back as we paused for a moment to steady ourselves.

"I'm already frantic," I bellowed back. "But there's no way we can keep looking when the storm's like this. We'll just have to hope that he's got the sense to--my God, what was that?"

Michael raised his arm instinctively to shield me as a gust of wind slammed a large metal object down the road a few inches in front of our feet and then swept it over the side of the road and down toward the beach. I could hear a metal clanging noise as it hit the rocks of the breakwater below.

"An aluminum lawn chair, I think," Michael answered, staggering over to the edge of the road. "It almost--oh no!"

I straggled to his side and peered over the edge of the road. I could see someone crouching on the rocks, perilously close to the edge of the water.

Mother.