Murder With Puffins

Chapter 31

Abandon Puffins, All Ye Who Enter Here

I'd spotted a useful tree next to Resnick's studio. One branch spread over the yard, where we could throw a rope over it and shinny up, while another was perfectly positioned for using the same rope to climb through the broken pane of glass in the studio roof.

Actually doing all this proved a lot harder than we expected.

"I hadn't realized how long it's been since I've climbed a tree," I said as I examined the knees, elbows, and palms I'd skinned during our travels.

"Obviously, there are significant gaps in my fitness program," Michael said from where he sat on the floor, puffing. "Please tell me we're going to figure out a way to leave at ground level."

"We can probably unlock the door," I said, limping over to it. "Damn, I think it needs a key on both sides."

"Try that," Michael said, pointing to a key on a hook a few feet from the door.

"Perfect," I said. "Voila! Our exit."

"Unlock it, and leave the key in the lock," Michael said. "In case we need to make a quick getaway."

"Good idea," I said. "And let's take the rope down, too, so no one passing by will spot us."

"The place has glass walls," Michael said. "Anyone passing by will spot us even without the rope. Even if we only use our flashlights."

"Well, if we take down the rope, at least we can pretend we found the door open and we didn't actually break into the place."

"That's what I like about you," Michael remarked. "Your finely honed sense of deviousness."

We teased the rope out of the tree, and I buried it in the very bottom of my knapsack, where you could hardly see it beneath the Gatorade, first-aid kit, flare gun, water, and candy bars. Michael was groping around the walls of the studio.

"What are you looking for?" I asked.

"The light switch," he said. "If we're going to pretend we found the door open, we may as well search in comfort, instead of creeping around with our flashlights like burglars. Ah, here it is."

The lights came on, and we both turned to survey the studio.

And saw Mother. Two Mothers, in fact; both nude and staring straight out of their canvases at us. One stood, her weight resting on one hip, her head cocked to one side, and a petulant look on her face, as if she were about to open her mouth and complain about how long she'd been standing there, and ask how much longer was this going to take. The other sat on the side of a bed, her arms raised, her hands either putting up or, more likely, taking down her hair, and judging by the look on her face, any words she was about to say would be edited out for broadcast on network television.

"Oh my God," I moaned. "More of them!"

We continued to search the studio, under Mother's watchful eyes, and turned up several more nude Mothers, stacked against various walls. Mother lying on a red velvet couch with a black velvet ribbon around her throat, rather reminiscent of Manet's Olympia. Mother, seen from above, sprawled in a giant claw-footed bathtub. Mother holding an old-fashioned large porcelain doll that somehow just barely managed to avoid covering any erogenous zones.

After a while, I began turning the paintings to the wail.

The cumulative effect of so many naked Mothers unnerved me.

"Somehow I don't think we're going to have much luck hushing this up," I said, sitting down in the middle of the studio and burying my head in my hands. "Between the damned biographer and these ghastly paintings--Oh!"

"What?" Michael asked, looking up from another painting.

"Well, we've solved the mystery of the disappearing bedroom rug anyway," I said, pointing to the Oriental rug beneath me. "Of course, we still have the mystery of why he dragged it out here."

"Are you sure it's the same rug?"

"Well, I see little bits of white carpet fuzz sticking to the underside," I said, examining the back of the rug.

"Redecorating, I suppose," Michael said, shrugging.

"All my best clues turn out to be useless," I complained.

"This is weird, too," Michael said. He had pulled out another painting and was staring at it with a puzzled frown.

"What?" I asked. I glanced over. Michael stood between me and the painting, but I could see that this nude Mother was waving a gauze scarf, which I somehow suspected would emphasize, rather than conceal, anything of potential prurient interest.

"Would you look at mis!" he said.

"Do I have to?" I replied. "I'd really rather not. I've seen enough. Much more than enough, actually."

"You haven't seen anything like this," he said, stepping aside so I could see the latest painting.

I glanced up, expecting to see another smiling, unblushingly nude Mother. I was right about the scarves; they left absolutely nothing to the imagination. But instead of Mother's face, I saw a patch of blank canvas.

"Has he painted out her head in that one?" I asked.

"More like he never painted it in at all," Michael said.

"Or could he have taken the face off with turpentine or something?"

I went over and looked at the head. Or rather, the lack thereof.

"No, if he'd wiped off the head, he'd have taken the background, too," I said. "But that's still perfectly fine."

"All ready to paint the head in," he said. "This is really weird."

"And she's standing on the migrating rug," I pointed out.

Michael nodded. He moved the nude with scarves aside, revealing yet another headless nude, this one posing brazenly in a clearing in the woods. Resnick had finished the background in elaborate detail, right down to a bee hovering above a clover blossom in the grass and the delicate fluff of a dandelion in the nude woman's hand. But again, no head. The coloring of the skin and body hair made it obvious that the woman was blond, and she definitely had Mother's tall, slender build. But the head was completely missing.

"What the devil's going on here?" I muttered.

Michael began to move the latest painting aside. A piece of paper fell from behind it, and he stooped to pick it up.

"You know," he said, glancing at what he'd picked up. "This may sound crazy, but--"

"Put your hands on your heads!" barked a voice from behind us. "And don't move!"

Since the two halves of that order were obviously contradictory anyway, I decided to risk turning around as I raised my hands.

Jim Dickerman stood in the studio doorway, holding a gun.

Assuming we survived the night, I was going to have a long talk with Dad. He was always so excited at the idea of my investigating a real murder case. But here, I would explain to him, we had a perfect example of why this was such a stupid hobby. If you go around trying to hunt down criminals, some of them resent it, and sooner or later they take matters into their own hands.

"Should have known your snooping would cause trouble," Jim said.

"Don't be a fool, Jim," Michael said in his most earnest, persuasive tones. "You'd never get away with it. Just put it down."

It sounded sensible to me; I'd have dropped my gun in a heartbeat. Jim wasn't buying it.

"If I have to shoot you, I'll just put the gun back in my brother's truck and they'll think he did it," Jim said.

"You'd set up your own brother for a murder rap," I exclaimed. I still felt guilty enough over setting my brother up for a disastrous blind date, and that was years ago. Jim, however, shrugged casually.

"If I have to. Back up a bit," he added, gesturing slightly with the gun. "And lie down. Facedown. And stick your hands up behind your backs."

We followed orders. Then he walked over to Michael's side. I braced myself. Was he going to shoot Michael? Should I throw myself at Jim? Then he dropped something by Michael's head. A roll of duct tape.

"You," he said, obviously meaning me. "Tape his wrists."

He backed up and pointed the gun at me while I did as he ordered. And then he made me lie back down again, and he taped my wrists.

I should have been terrified that I was probably about to die, but instead, I found myself fuming over the fact that he'd taped my arms behind my back. Don't male thugs ever stop to think that although lying on your stomach on a hard wooden floor may not be relaxing for men, it's downright torture for any woman with larger than an A cup? Obviously not. I growled to myself and shifted slightly so I could see what Jim was doing. I had a hard time looking over my knapsack, which lay open just in front of my face.

The knapsack--was there anything in it I could use to get us out of this?

Jim puttered about the studio, looking for things. I noticed he was wearing work gloves, which meant he wouldn't leave any telltale fingerprints.

Not worth worrying about, I told myself. If things got to the point where the police were looking for fingerprints, I'd be past caring.

He dragged something out in the middle of the floor--a rather ancient-looking kerosene space heater. He rummaged about some more until he found a large tin can. He unscrewed the can, filled the heater most of the way, then dropped the can. Some kerosene spilled out, but apparently not enough for his purposes. He picked up the can, poured the remaining kerosene on the floor, then dropped the can again.

While Jim did this, I scanned the contents of the knapsack for possible weapons. Gatorade, rope, compass, first-aid kit--alas, Dad's emergency survival plans had never included exchanging gunfire with armed desperadoes. I could try the flare gun, of course, but I had no idea if it would do any damage, even assuming I got a chance to snatch it up. And I wasn't even sure I could fire it, since my hands were taped behind my back. Still, I had to try. First, though, I'd need to distract him.

"You're not really going to burn down the studio, are you?" I asked.

"Why not?" Jim said. He was rummaging through the trash can, pulling out paint- and turpentine-stained rags and scattering them about the studio. But not at random--he was making a path. Toward the back of the studio, where I could see what looked like a gas generator.

"You'd destroy the work of a great artist," I said. Yes, definitely a path; now he took a can of turpentine and shook splashes of it along the path.

"Yeah, right," Jim said. "They've got museums full of his art; they won't miss what's here. All looks alike anyway; the old bastard hasn't painted anything new in forty years."

Michael began laughing.

"Oh no?" he said. "Take a look at one of those canvases before you light the torch."

The sight of his bound, helpless captive convulsed with laughter must have roused Jim's curiosity. He glanced around at the canvases--all of which I'd turned to face the wall. He went over to one of the easels and turned the canvas around. It was the picture of Mother taking down her hair. His eyes widened, his jaw dropped, and I seized my chance.

I rolled over so my bound hands could reach the knapsack, scrabbled until I had the flare gun, and then rolled the other way and fired when I thought I had the gun pointed in his general direction. I missed--big surprise--but the flare passed close enough to his head to startle him.

Unfortunately, firing a flare gun in a room filled with spilled kerosene and paint-covered rags wasn't exactly a move that would endear me to fire-safety experts. The flare hit one of the easels, then skittered into some of the spilled kerosene, setting it on fire and splashing Jim's jeans, which also caught fire.

He yelped with pain and began beating at his pants with both hands. Not the best idea when you're holding a loaded gun; the gun went off, though, to my disappointment, he didn't actually shoot himself in the foot.

He turned and ran to the door. Michael and I were awkwardly struggling to our feet. Jim fired several wild shots in our direction--causing us to fling ourselves back on the floor--then yanked the key out of the lock, opened the door, and ran out while Michael and I were still struggling to our feet again.

"We've got to stop him, damn it!" Michael cried, and ran for the door like a charging bull.

Too late. I heard the key turn. Michael twisted at the last minute and threw himself at the door, trying to break it down with his shoulder.

"Oww!" he yelled as he fell over.

"Are you all right?" I called.

"I think I've broken my shoulder," he said. "Please tell me that the door cracked or something."

"It looks the same as before," I said, jumping as something--an aerosol can, I think--exploded across the room.

"That always works in the movies," he said, lurching to his feet again.

"They use wooden doors in the movies," I said. "Not metal ones. Maybe we should tackle the glass."

"And impale ourselves on glass shards?" Michael said. "Maybe we can kick the door in."

He began trying, but I could tell from his expression that the effort hurt him a lot more than it did the door.

"Maybe we need a battering ram," he muttered, looking around, without success, for something large enough to serve.

The fire was spreading rapidly. I had to dodge a few stray patches of flame to make my way to the largest canvas--the standing portrait of Mother. I backed up to it, got a grip on it, and began dragging it toward the nearest glass wall.

"Don't worry about saving the damned art," Michael said.

"We're not saving it; we're sacrificing it to save ourselves," I said. "Here, help me wedge it up against this glass wall."

"What good will that do?" he asked.

"It may keep me from being impaled on shards when I try to break the glass," I said.

"Brilliant," he said. "But let me do it; I'm heavier."

He backed up and ran again, this time at the painting. I noticed he led with his other shoulder. I heard a cracking noise.

"Let me take a turn," I said.

Instead of running, I gave the painting a few swift karate kicks. I could hear glass shattering; after half a dozen kicks, we pulled the painting away and found a space large enough to climb through.

"After you," Michael said.

"Keep your eye open," I said. "Remember, Jim's out here somewhere with the gun."

We both managed to climb out, then crouched down and ran for some nearby bushes. Starting nervously at every stray noise, we sat back-to-back and I pulled the duct tape off Michael's hands. He was just untaping mine when something exploded. The flames, which had grown steadily, suddenly shot ten feet into the sky at the back of the studio. We both leapt to our feet and backed up some more.

"Reached the kerosene stove, I guess," Michael said.

"That or the generator," I agreed.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I said. "I'm a mass of cuts, bruises, scrapes, and burns, and I think I singed off a few inches of hair on one side, but I'm alive."

"We're both alive, thanks to you," Michael said.

I had hoped for a more enthusiastic demonstration of gratitude, but Michael stood there for a moment, looking at the fire, frowning. Then he reached in his back pocket and took out his wallet.

What on earth?

"With any luck, the fire will destroy all of those very interesting paintings," he said. "But we still have a few loose ends to tie up."

He took a piece of paper out of the wallet. I recognized it: the map, the one with Dad's printing on it that I'd found at the murder scene.

"We don't need this anymore," he said, and he wadded it up and threw it at the fire.

"Michael!" I said, launching myself at him.

"Watch the shoulder," he said.

Making allowances for his injuries, I found the demonstration of gratitude that followed quite satisfactory. At least the beginning of it; after a few minutes, the Monhegan volunteer fire department arrived and we postponed any further celebrations until their departure.