Murder With Puffins

Chapter 17

The Return of the Prodigal Puffin

When the commotion died down, Aunt Phoebe described her confrontation with Victor Resnick with a great deal of gusto. Perhaps she had been too tired to go into much detail the night before, or perhaps she found the gang at the general store a more congenial audience. At any rate, she produced a great many more details than she had the first time around. The bit at the end, where she left Resnick lying senseless in the middle of his yard with the hurricane howling around him, was particularly effective. By the time she got to that part of her story, everyone in the general store was speechless with amazement I was surprised no one applauded. Back home, my family would have.

"Well, I guess that about wraps it up," Jeb Barnes said, when he finally found his voice.

"So you might as well arrest me now," Aunt Phoebe said.

The constable frowned. I suspected he was wondering what to do. I doubted the island had a jail.

"Why don't you have her go back to the cottage and consider herself under house arrest?" I said. "It's not as if she can go anywhere before the ferry starts running."

"Just what I was thinking," Jeb Barnes said. "Consider yourself under house arrest, Miss Hollingworth. Don't leave the island."

"You'll know where to find me, Constable," Aunt Phoebe said. She turned and limped across the room, head held high. Her grand exit was a little spoiled by the blast of wind and rain that burst into the room when she opened the door, nearly knocking her over, but she recovered rapidly and slammed the door behind her.

"What a grand old lady," Jeb Barnes said.

Murmurs of agreement came from the crew around the stove.

"Yes, she is," I said. "She's not your murderer, of course; but she did make a grand confession. I almost believed it myself. But ever since she told us last night, something about her story's been bothering me, and I finally figured out what's wrong with it."

"So what's wrong with it?" Jeb said, giving me a wary look.

"You heard what she said: They were struggling over the gun, and she rapped him on the noggin."

Jeb looked blank.

"Oh, I see," Michael said. "Allow us to demonstrate."

He plucked two umbrellas from a stack dripping by the front door and handed one to me with a flourish.

"My umbrella represents Resnick's gun, and Meg's is her aunt's stick," he said.

Jeb nodded.

Then we pretended to grapple over the gun umbrella. Michael allowed me to wrest it away from him and then, when he tried to grab it back, I rapped him lightly on the head with the top of the walking-stick umbrella.

The crowd around the store was entranced. To my satisfaction, scattered applause greeted the conclusion of our reenactment.

"Notice anything?" I asked.

"Looked pretty authentic to me," Mamie said, sipping her coffee. "Pretty much as she described it."

"Exactly," I said. "So if they were struggling like that, how did she hit him on the back of the head? That's where the wound was; in fact, it was pretty far down the back of the head. I can manage the forehead--like this."

I tapped Michael on the forehead. Just at the hairline, where I remembered seeing the bruise on Resnick's face.

"I can even manage the top of the head," I continued, demonstrating.

"But there's no way I can manage the back of the head unless he turns his back to me. Her confession doesn't hold water."

"Then why'd she do it?" Mamie asked. "Confess, I mean."

"She probably feels guilty over having hit him on the head," I said. "She's had all night to stew about it; by this time, she probably really believes she killed him. You know my family; by tomorrow, she'll be convinced that she left him lying in a pool of blood with her stick stuck through his heart like a stake."

The nods and chuckles from the locals around the stove showed I'd hit home. I didn't mention the other possibility: that Aunt Phoebe might be covering for someone. Mamie and Jeb looked at each other.

"Go look at Resnick's wounds if you like," I offered. "I'm sure you'll see what I mean."

"No, no," Mamie said. "I mink you're right. We'll pass that along to the police."

"And another thing. Jeb, remember we told you Aunt Phoebe was going up to Resnick's. And you went dashing up in Fred Dickerman's truck, right?"

He nodded warily.

"So why didn't you see this supposed murder? You couldn't have gotten there before she did, or you'd have seen her come storming up a few minutes later. And if she really left him lying dead in the middle of the yard, you'd have found him there. But you found him alive, remember? And madder than a wet hen; I believe that was the expression you used. And according to Aunt Phoebe, she left him lying dead in his yard. So how did he end up floating in the tidal pool?"

"That's right," Jeb said. "Guess it's not her after all."

"No problem," one of the locals said. "Not as if they have to look far for a suspect."

Murmurs of agreement followed this statement, and I could see my worst fears coming true. By the time the police arrived, the locals would have Dad tried and convicted in the court of public opinion.

Of course, at the moment, they were doing it in absentia, which reminded me of my real mission, now that we'd defused Aunt Phoebe's confession.

"By the way," I began, but before I could get much further, the door burst open, letting in another blast of wind and water. We all turned to see who was coming in.

"Dad!" I cried, and ran over to hug the wet, bedraggled figure staggering into the store. I felt as if someone had just lifted an enormous weight from my shoulders, and I heard Michael sigh with relief.

Dad was covered with mud and had bits of leaves and twigs stuck in his eyebrows and clinging all over his clothes. The bandage was half off his head, and the gash had opened up again.

"Meg!" he said. "And Michael! I thought I saw you two in here. What are you doing out in the storm?"

"Never mind that; where have you been?" I asked.

"I got lost and had to spend the night under a bush on the far side of the island," he announced, as if he'd managed to pull off something clever. "Did you miss me?"

"You have no idea," I muttered.

"Meg, you should have seen what it was like, watching the hurricane hit!" he cried, waving his arms as if trying to imitate a gale-force wind. "It was awe-inspiring! Invigorating! Absolutely breathtaking! I feel reborn!"

"That's nice," I said. "Now come down to earth for a while; a lot of things have happened while you were out being reborn."

"Was anyone hurt?" Dad asked, no doubt sensing my serious mood.

"Victor Resnick's dead," I said.

"Oh dear," Dad said "I suppose I should take that as a lesson. I've been so busy enjoying the hurricane, I haven't stopped to think that it can be deadly as well as beautiful."

"Well, actually--" Jeb began.

"And now I shall always regret having parted on unfriendly terms with him," Dad went on.

"Parted on unfriendly terms?" I said while the rest goggled.

"Yes, I ran into him on my way to Green Point," Dad said. "I couldn't understand why he kept trying to invite me in for a drink. I'm afraid I treated him rather rudely. Never liked him much, actually; and I was in no mood to waste time on him when I could be watching the hurricane. Ironic, isn't it?"

"What is?" I asked.

"Well, at one point when I was stumbling around, trying to find my way back, I began to regret how uncivil I'd been to him. I promised myself that when I got safely back to the village, I'd go and have that drink with him and apologize for the way I'd acted. And now I'll never have the chance, with him taken by the very storm that spared me."

"Actually, he wasn't," I said. "Taken by the storm, that is. He was murdered."

"Murdered!" Dad exclaimed. "How dreadful!"

He didn't sound as if he thought it dreadful. In fact, he sounded suspiciously enthusiastic. I hoped Jeb and the rest wouldn't take his tone the wrong way. I made a mental note to explain to the police about Dad's obsession with murder mysteries.

Then again, maybe I should wait until the police caught the real murderer. They might not realize I was talking about fictional murder mysteries. No sense letting them jump to any more false conclusions.

"How was he killed?" Dad asked.

Several of the locals around the store guffawed.

"He was hit over the head," Jeb said. "But we don't know whether the blow actually killed him or just knocked him unconscious into a tidal pool, causing him to drown."

"Well, we'd better examine him to see if we can find out," Dad said.

"Examine him?" Jeb exclaimed.

"Yes," Dad said. "Of course, you'll need the coroner for the actual autopsy, but--"

He suddenly yawned prodigiously and blinked slightly.

"Sorry, where was I?" he went on. "Oh, yes: Examining the body early on could be very important. Have you done anything to preserve it?"

"You don't expect us to let a suspect just mess around with the body," Jeb said.

"A suspect?" Dad repeated. His face lit up. I should have known. For a mystery buff like Dad, being a suspect in a real, live mystery was probably the next best thing to playing detective.

"Everyone on the island's a suspect," I said.

"Why so they are!" Dad exclaimed. "It's like a classic locked-room mystery! How exciting! Still, it could be important for someone with medical knowledge to observe the body early on. There might be another doctor or two among the bird-watchers. Perhaps we could get together a panel and do a noninvasive examination, under close supervision, before the body deteriorates. Take pictures. And--"

He yawned again, even more broadly.

"Dad, the body's in a refrigerator, and it isn't going anywhere. You need some rest--why don't you take a nap while Jeb considers your suggestion?"

"Yes, but--"

"And Mrs. Langslow's worried sick about you," Michael put in. "Have you seen her yet? Does she know you're all right?"

"Oh, goodness!" Dad exclaimed. "I never realized. I'll go right up there. Meg, do explain to them how important the examination could be. I'll--" He yawned again, and made no protest as Michael and I hustled him out the door. Michael stood, watching him trot up the street while I turned back to Jeb.

"You know, he does have a point. You could do worse than have some doctors examine the body."

"Like I said, we can't have a suspect messing with the body," Jeb replied.

"Why not?" I said. "We did last night, when you and Mamie and Fred fetched it down to the Anchor Inn. Are you trying to tell me that none of you had any possible reason for disliking Resnick?"

Jeb looked taken aback, and chuckles from the locals confirmed that I'd hit the mark.

"Yeah, Jeb," one of them said. "Bet you killed him just to get him off your back."

"Off your back?" I repeated.

"Bastard wanted to buy my store," Jeb said. "I told him to take a hike, of course. Been in the family since my grandfather's day; not likely I'd want to sell it. And even if I did, I wouldn't have sold it to him. Wouldn't take no for an answer, always hanging around here, waving his damned checkbook."

"You see," I said. "You need to protect yourself from suspicion, as well. Of course, it's your jurisdiction, but if I were you, I'd think very carefully about seeing if you can't find another doctor or two among the bird-watchers, as Dad suggested, and letting them all examine the body to verify its condition."

"I'll think about it," Jeb said. I wasn't sure if this really meant he'd think about it or if, like beleaguered parents, he used "I'll think about it" as a gentle way of saying "Hell no!"

"And you may want to stop making such a big deal about any person in particular being a suspect," I said. "Of course, I'm not a lawyer, like my brother, but I imagine people do get sued for that type of thing. Especially since you have so many possible suspects."

"You ask me, Fu Manchu there did it," one elderly local piped up from his place by the stove. "They were having a big set-to just before he died."

"Fu Manchu?" Jeb repeated.

"Ayah," the old man said, and buried his nose back in his coffee.

"Ayah," Michael murmured to me. "They really do say that, then?"

"Only to amuse the tourists," I whispered back. "Fu Manchu?"

Michael shrugged. Jeb didn't seem very impressed with the revelation that Sax Rohmer's sinister pulp villain was alive and well and plotting on Monhegan. Could dacoits and Thugs be far behind? And then I saw someone passing outside the store windows, and enlightenment struck.

"Well, if I were you, I'd think about finding those doctors," I said. "Meanwhile, we'd better run along," I added, tugging at Michael's sleeve. After one plaintive glance at his coffee mug, he sighed and followed me outside.

"What's up?" he asked.

"We're going to interrogate Fu Manchu," I said.