Murder With Puffins

Chapter 21

A Cat Among the Puffins

When we came to the intersection where Resnick's private path joined the main gravel road, I insisted that we lurk in the bushes for a few moments to make sure no one was around.

"I told you we wouldn't run into anyone else," Michael said as we finally stepped out into the road.

"We have to be careful," I said. "After all--"

"Hello!" called several voices from behind us. We whirled, to see half a dozen birders striding energetically down the path.

"Did you hear about the murder?" one of them asked eagerly.

"Yes, we found--" Michael began.

"Yes, but what's the latest word?" I asked, interrupting him before he could reveal our close connection to the case.

The birders swept us into their midst and, as we panted to keep up with them, talked nonstop and simultaneously all the way down to the village. Other birders joined us in progress, and by the time we reached the main square of the village, we formed part of a milling, chattering crowd that must have included half the birders on the island.

When the police arrived, they'd have a lot of fun interrogating all the birders. Not surprisingly, since they'd wandered all over the island since their arrival, their ranks contained possible witnesses to nearly everything that had happened over the past several days.

The police would find witnesses to Resnick shooting at Michael and me, and several witnesses who would testify, truthfully or not, that he'd shot at them. Witnesses to the fight with Ken Takahashi, several of whom had taken photographs. Witnesses to Aunt Phoebe's straggle with Resnick. I was relieved to hear confirmation that he had still been standing--actually jumping up and down, yelling his head off, according to the witnesses--when Aunt Phoebe stormed off. Of course, that didn't prove that he hadn't collapsed later on as a result of the rap on the head, but it was encouraging. Eyewitnesses to Aunt Phoebe pulling up at least one of Resnick's no trespassing signs and throwing it violently over the cliff, which could answer the question of how the sign ended up floating in the tidal pool. Though not, of course, the question of whether the murderer had used the missing signpost as a weapon. And from what we heard, the sign couldn't have landed on Resnick's head by accident when Aunt Phoebe had thrown it; too many witnesses had seen him alive and well afterward. Witnesses who saw Jeb Barnes's subsequent arrival and summary dismissal. Witnesses who saw Dad have some kind of altercation with Resnick a short time later, which terrified me, until I managed to extract the information that though they'd exchanged harsh words, Resnick had been very much alive when they parted. Witnesses who saw Resnick afterward, patrolling his borders in search of trespassers. Witnesses who saw him pottering about by the shore, throwing a few stones at the gulls. Even witnesses who'd seen Michael and me when we'd found the body. I'd have felt better if some of the witnesses were a little more reliable on the matter of time. They tended to think less in hours and minutes and more in terms of "before we saw the bay-breasted warbler, and just after I got that snapshot of the crested grebe feeding." But just by circulating through the crowd and listening, we could more or less put together a time line of exactly what Resnick had done up until shortly before Michael and I found him.

We also encountered potential witnesses who claimed they had actually seen Resnick shooting down puffins, which I took with a grain of salt under the circumstances, since we had it on good authority that the puffins had all long since departed for the Arctic Circle. And then there were the witnesses who claimed they'd seen a sinister stranger skulking about the island, pretending to be a birder, despite an almost complete lack of birding knowledge. I made a note to ask Rob what kind of pranks he'd been playing over the past day or so.

The one thing we didn't find was a witness who could explain Resnick's transformation from a live misanthrope strolling along the seashore with a small bump on his forehead to a dead body with a bloody gash on the back of his head. During the critical period, which, depending on the feeding schedule of the crested grebe, ranged anywhere from fifteen to forty-five minutes, no one had seen anything out of the ordinary.

"Well, our killer certainly picked his time well," I said to Michael in an undertone.

"Yes," Michael said. "Almost every birder on the island passed by his house sometime yesterday, and not a single one of them saw the murder."

"Where's your father?" someone asked. I turned, to see Jeb Barnes and Mamie Benton looking very stern.

"Up at Aunt Phoebe's cottage, recovering from his ordeal," I said.

"I got through to the police briefly," Jeb said. "They're going to want to talk to him."

"Talk to Dad?" I said, feigning innocence. "Why?"

"I'd say he's their prime suspect," Mamie said, sounding rather smug. "No alibi for the time of the murder, and everyone knows there was no love lost between him and the deceased."

"Oh, and everyone else on the island adored the old curmudgeon and has an ironclad alibi?" I said. "I can think of a few other possibilities. You might tell them to keep their eyes out for the missing Will, for example."

"What, Resnick's will?" Jeb asked.

"How do you know it's missing?" Mamie asked. "And what's the problem if it is? Far as I know, he used a mainland law firm; they'll have a copy on file."

"Not Resnick's will," I said. "Will Dickerman."

"Haven't seen him on the island in months," Mamie said.

"No, not since he skipped bail on those grand theft auto and assault charges, I expect," I said.

"What the devil--," Jeb began.

"How on earth did you find out about that?" Mamie asked.

Not wanting to admit that we'd rummaged through Victor Resnick's files, I settled for looking inscrutable.

"Well, he's not on the island anyway," Mamie said. "I'd have seen him get off the ferry."

"How do you know he didn't come over on a private boat before the hurricane hit?" I said.

Mamie blinked. Jeb chuckled.

"Yeah, normal weather, he could have come over most anytime," he said. "But even if he had, what does that have to do with the murder? I mean, you're not thinking that just because he's had a few brushes with the law, he's got to be the killer, are you?"

"No," I said. "But he's definitely someone we want to keep an eye on, considering that he's a fugitive from justice with a reason to hate Victor Resnick and a history of whacking people with blunt objects."

"Reason to hate Resnick?" Jeb echoed. "I'm sure he didn't like Resnick any more than the rest of us, but what reason does he have to hate him? With all those steam baths and cattle prods and such Resnick has up at that house, he's the Dickermans' best customer. Was their best customer. Why would Will want to spoil that?"

"Because Resnick had bought up Mr. Dickerman's loans and was about to foreclose on them," I said. "About to take away the power plant. So if you see Will Dickerman, he's a suspect all right. For that matter, I'm sure the police will take a very close look at everyone who has had adverse financial dealings with Victor Resnick."

I looked at Mamie Benton when I said it, and felt a guilty satisfaction at seeing her turn pale.

"Take a damn long time to do that," Jeb Barnes said. "Not a person on the island the bastard didn't try to rook sometime or other. Me included. Liked to run a tab with me, and then when I'd try to make him pay, he'd argue. Claimed he'd never gotten things. I finally cut him off, and now the bastard does--well, did--all his shopping over on the mainland."

"Then I suppose they'll cross-examine everyone on the island," I said.

"I suppose they will, which means you don't have to go poking your nose in it," Jeb retorted as he and Mamie turned to leave. "You just let us handle it until the police get here."

I stepped forward, about to tell them just what I thought of how they were handling things, but Michael grabbed my arm, pulled me back, and gave me a warning look. I fumed silently until Jeb and Mamie were out of earshot.

"I don't suppose there's any chance you're going to take that advice?" Michael asked.

"Not when they're trying to railroad my Dad, no," I said. "Let's get out of the rain a minute; I need to think."

We shook the standing water off two metal Adirondack chairs on the front porch of the Island Inn and sat down. The birders continued to mill about in the square in front of us, trading bird news and crime rumors.

"Okay," I said when I felt a little calmer. "Let's make a mental list of the things we need to do."

"A pity you didn't bring along the notebook that tells you when to breathe," Michael said, referring to the organizer I normally took everywhere. For some reason, people interpret my attachment to my organizer as a sign that I am unnaturally organized. I'm not, really; just the opposite. I long ago accepted the fact that if I write something down, I'll probably get it done, and if I don't, all bets are off.

I'd left the organizer behind, though; which shows you just how complete a getaway from my day-to-day life I'd been planning. A pity, as I could have used it now. But before I could even begin my plan for the afternoon, Rob appeared out of the crowd, dragging Spike, who was making heroic efforts to bite unwary passing birders.

"Could you hang on to Spike while I run into the general store?" Rob asked, holding out the leash.

"They don't mind dogs in the general store," I said.

"They mind Spike, ever since he took a chunk out of that woman who runs the gift shop," Rob said. "And Mother sent me to fetch some cream for Dad's coffee when he wakes up."

"Oh, all right," I said.

I watched as Rob ambled across the muddy square and disappeared into the general store.

"Help me keep an eye out for Rob," I said.

"Why?" Michael asked. "Is he in danger?"

"He will be if he tries to sneak off and leave me with Spike," I said. "If the general store had a back door, I wouldn't have let him out of my sight."

But while we stared at the door, watching for Rob's reappearance, a commotion elsewhere in the square distracted us. Mrs. Peabody, the stout birder, had intercepted Jeb and Mamie and was haranguing them. She was thrusting something at them, and they were backing hastily away from her. After several attempts to give them whatever she was holding, Mrs. Peabody shook her finger at them.

"What's got them all fired up?" came a voice from behind us. I glanced up, to find Ken Takahashi looking over our shoulders. I deduced from the little bits of cork all over his clothes that he hadn't had much fun opening his Chardonnay.

"The murder, of course," Michael said. Takahashi shuddered.

"Do you have any idea if the ferry's running today?" he asked, zipping up his parka.

"No, but I bet they know over at the general store," I said. "Let's go and ask."

"Are we really that interested in the ferry's whereabouts?" Michael asked as the three of us strolled across the street.

"I'm more interested in Rob's whereabouts," I said. "He's been in there long enough to buy a case of cream. If he's gone off and left us with Spike, Jeb may have another homicide on his hands."

"She's only kidding," Michael said quickly. Takahashi looked as if he didn't quite believe him.

The locals all looked up when we entered, and several of them actually nodded. I stayed near the door, where they'd be less likely to object to my bringing in Spike. Evidently, Takahashi hadn't quite given up the idea of charming the locals out of their real estate. He pasted a bright smile on his face.

"My God, it's like the North Pole out there," he said, shoving back the hood of his parka and shaking himself.

A couple of the locals huddling around the fire frowned. I suspected that any second we'd start hearing mutters about "weak-livered city folk."

"What brings you here, Mr. Takahashi?" Jeb Barnes asked.

"Do you know if the ferry's running today?"

"Doubt it," Jeb said. "Why?"

"I'd like to know how much longer I have to stay in this hellhole," Takahashi said, bis charm slipping for a moment.

The native Monheganites bristled visibly at this. Even Takahashi noticed, and he returned to full-blown salesman mode.

"I mean, it's all very well for you hardy New England types, but I'm from Atlanta," he said. The drawl was heavier than before; he made it sound as if the name Atlanta had at least twelve syllables. "I can deal just fine with ninety-eight in the shade and near one hundred percent humidity. But this kind of weather--call me a wimp, but I just don't understand how y'all can bear it. I'd have double pneumonia half the time if I lived here. In fact," he said, sniffling audibly, "I think I am coming down with something now. I don't suppose I could buy a cup of hot tea?"

"I can put the teakettle on," Jeb said. "We don't have fancy herbal teas, though, like they do down the street. Just plain old supermarket tea."

"As long as it's hot," Takahashi said.

"I wouldn't mind some myself," Michael said. "What about you, Meg?"

"Actually, we're just looking for my brother, Rob," I said. "You haven't--"

Just then, the door flew open and a swarm of birders burst into the store.

"That's him! That's him!" they shouted, pointing to Ken Takahashi.