Murder With Puffins ml-2

by Donna Andrews

  "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.

  Chapter 18

  East of Puffins

  "Interrogate Fu Manchu?" Michael said. "You're not serious."

  "I think the old guy meant the Asian man we saw quarreling with Resnick yesterday," I said.

  "The one too well dressed for a birder?"

  "Exactly. And if I'm not mistaken, that's him right now."

  I pointed across the street to the front porch of the Island Inn, where the Asian man was stamping his feet and shaking himself. He had a brightly colored bag with the name of the other, upscale grocery on it. With a bottle of wine inside, from the shape of it.

  "You could be right," Michael said:

  "I'm positive," I said. "If we had to find a middle-aged Caucasian woman with binoculars, we wouldn't have a chance in the world of figuring out which birder it was. But Monhegan in flyover season isn't exactly a hotbed of ethnic diversity."

  The Asian man had disappeared by the time we entered the hotel lobby, but the desk clerk looked up.

  "Good grief, he's fast," I said. "Sorry, but you know the man who just came back into the lobby?"

  "Mr. Takahashi?" the owner said.

  "Yes," I said. "He forgot to mention which room he's in, and we need to give him back something."

  I pointed vaguely back at my knapsack.

  "He's in room twenty-three," the clerk said. "You want me to call him?"

  "We can just take it up, if that's all right," I said. "Won't be a minute."

  Mr. Takahashi looked surprised when he opened his room door and saw Michael and me.

  "Yes?" he said. I had to look up to see his face. He was young--thirty-five at most--and taller than I expected--he nearly matched Michael's six four.

  "Mr. Takahashi, I hate to bother you, but it's very important," I said. "Yesterday, you were overheard in… well, in a rather heated discussion with--"

  "Oh, good God," Takahashi said. "Just tell the bastard to lay off, will you? I won't harass him, I'll do my damnedest not to even see him, but I can't very well leave the island until this damned hurricane blows over."

  I was surprised to notice that he had a faint southern accent. And obviously he had mistaken us for someone official. I decided not to enlighten him.

  "I assume you're talking about Victor Resnick?" I asked.

  "Well, who else?" Takahashi said. "You don't mean someone else has filed a complaint about me? If they have, I guarantee you Resnick's behind it."

  "Just what is the nature of the relationship between you and Mr. Resnick?" I said.

  "Relationship? We don't have a relationship; I came to see him on business."

  "What's the nature of your business relationship, then?" I persisted.

  Takahashi looked at me with exasperation. He glanced behind me at Michael, who tried to look stern and official while dripping audibly on the floor. Michael seemed to rattle him a little. Men Takahashi's size don't often ran into people taller than they are.

  Takahashi sighed and turned to pick up something from the bedside table. A card case. He handed each of us a business card. Very nice cards, engraved on heavy off-white textured paper so thick, it was almost cardboard.

  "Kenneth N. Takahashi," I read. "Vice President, Coastal Resorts, Ltd."

  Takahashi nodded as if that explained everything. About the only thing it explained for me was his accent, since the firm was headquartered in Atlanta.

  "What is Coastal Resorts, Ltd.?" I asked.

  "What is it?" Takahashi's drawl got a little thicker when he got excited. "It's only the country's second-largest developer of luxury resort properties. Don't tell me you haven't heard about the hotel project?"

  "Hotel project?"

  "I came all the way up here from Atlanta in good faith to negotiate with Mr. Resnick about the purchase of some land that my company had planned to develop as a luxury resort," Takahashi said.

  "A luxury resort? Here on Monhegan?" Michael asked, glancing at the window, which Gladys was pelting with sheets of cold, icy rain.

  "I'm told it's very pleasant in the summer," Takahashi said, following Michael's gaze.

  "Not much room here on the island for another hotel," I said.

  Takahashi shrugged.

  "I didn't put the deal together," he said, frowning. "I'm just here to try to keep it from falling apart."

  I got the feeling he would have a few interesting things to say to someone back in Atlanta.

  "No offense," I said, "but the whole thing sounds a little far-fetched to me. I mean, does this look like the kind of place that could support a big hotel?"

  "We weren't planning a big hotel," Takahashi said. "A very small one, in fact; very luxurious, very secluded. The sort of place where high-profile people could come with absolute assurance of their privacy."

  "You mean over-the-hill movie queens recuperating from plastic surgery, reclusive, paranoid billionaires, people like that?" Michael asked.

  "Exactly," Takahashi said. "People who appreciate the kind of tight security you can maintain in a place this isolated."

  We must have still looked dubious. He walked over to the small rustic table under the room's one window and unrolled a large sheet of paper.

  "Look, here are some of the project plans."

  We gathered around and looked down at a three-foot-by-five-foot map of Monhegan. Only this wasn't the Monhegan we knew. A giant, sprawling building occupied the top of the hill where the lighthouse now stood. Labels indicated where the restaurant and the indoor pool would be located. A nine-hole golf course had been carved out of the undeveloped ocean side of the island. The meadow where the Central Monhegan Power Company's modest generator now chugged housed a sprawling complex of equipment and support buildings. I wondered if the owner of the Island Inn knew that one of his guests was plotting to raze his hotel and replace it with a heliport? Or if Aunt Phoebe had any intention of having her cottage torn down to make room for a set of indoor tennis courts?

  "A lot of people would be pretty ticked with Resnick if they knew about this," Michael said, looking at me with one eyebrow raised significantly.

  He was right. And one of them might have gotten mad enough to murder him. I couldn't decide whether to rejoice that we'd already discovered another plausible motive for Resnick's murder or feel depressed at the incredible number of possible suspects Takahashi had just revealed. I ran my hand through my hair in frustration, managing to shower Takahashi's map with drops of water in the process.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "I forgot I was still wet."

  "I don't think I'll ever be dry again," Takahashi muttered. "Don't worry, you can wave the damned thing out the window, for all I care; it's useless now."

  Michael nodded, but my radar went on the alert. Useless? How could Takahashi know his maps were useless unless he already knew about Victor Resnick's death?

  "What do you mean, 'useless'?" I asked.

  "The bastard backed out of the deal," Takahashi said, rolling up the map. "Going with the competition. So the whole thing's completely useless. Would
you like a souvenir of what Coastal Resorts could have done to bring this place into the twenty-first century?"

  "I wouldn't give up yet," I said. "If he hasn't actually signed the deal, who knows, maybe you can win over Resnick's heirs, whoever they are. Of course, the whole thing could get caught up in probate for years."

  "Heirs?" Takahashi said. "What do you mean, 'heirs'? The bastard was perfectly healthy yesterday."

  "Yes, but someone bashed his skull in late yesterday," I said.

  "Oh, damn," Takahashi said. He sat down heavily on the bed and buried his face in his hands. "Damnation. That's all I need."

  "You sound awfully upset for someone who claims he hardly knew Victor Resnick," I said.

  "Why shouldn't I be upset?" Takahashi said, looking up. "My boss will probably make me stay here to negotiate with the heirs. Do you know who they are?"

  I winced, thinking about the damned biography. It didn't sound as if Resnick had much family left, apart from the long-lost illegitimate child. What if his death led to a massive, well-publicized search for the missing offspring? I fervently hoped he'd made a will leaving his estate to some second cousin. Or maybe his favorite charity. The Society for the Relief of Indigent Curmudgeons, perhaps.

  "I don't imagine we'll find out until they probate his will," I said. "Guess you'll have to stick around for a while to find out."

  "Not when the storm lets up," Takahashi said, glancing at the window. "As soon as that damned ferry starts running, I'm out of here. They can send someone else to clean up the deal."

  "I know how you feel," Michael said.

  We left the disgruntled Takahashi sitting in his room, staring out the window and muttering curses in the drawl that grew deeper when he got more upset. And struggling to open a bottle of pricey Chardonnay with one of those makeshift bottle openers they sell for people to take on picnics.

  "Now what?" Michael asked.

  "Now, if you're up for it, we're going to burgle Resnick's house," I said.

  By the time we left the inn, the birders had started to emerge from shelter, although the absence of any birds to watch reduced them to wandering around marveling at the storm damage. Michael and I pretended to do the same as we strolled nonchalantly out of the village and up the path to Resnick's house.

  "Would you look at that?" I said, pausing on a hilltop to look down at the glass monstrosity. "It's a good thing Resnick isn't here."

  "You mean, apart from the fact that he'd have a clear shot at you standing there?" Michael said, joining me on the crest.

  "No, I mean imagine how he'd feel if he saw what's happened to his house."

  A large branch had crashed through one of the ten-foot square glass walls flanking the front door. I counted at least two more cracked panes, and we hadn't even seen the more exposed ocean side yet.

  "People who live in glass houses…" Michael began.

  "Should have some way of protecting them in nor'easters," I replied. "I wonder if he was killed before he had a chance to board it up, or if he was really fool enough to think all that glass would survive a hurricane."

  "We'll never know. But he strikes me as the kind of guy who'd call his insurance company five minutes after it happened, demanding that they send someone out immediately to fix it"

  "Only there wouldn't have been any phone service."

  "True," Michael said. "That would really have set him off."

  "Come on," I said very loudly as I started down the path. "We need to take care of this."

  "Take care of what?" Michael called after me.

  "Resnick's house."

  "I thought that's what we were here for," Michael said. "To burgle--"

  "Shh!" I hissed. "Not so loud; there could be birders lurking in the bushes."

  "Oh, I get it," he hissed back, and then said more loudly, "The storm's passing; it's not likely to break any more windows."

  "Yes, but there's enough wind and rain to do considerable damage to everything inside," I said. "Someone should make sure anything valuable is safely stowed away."

  "Someone also wants to snoop around and see if there's any useful evidence," Michael added more softly as he caught up with me.

  "Well, that's the whole idea of burgling his house, isn't it? You didn't think I'd suddenly decided to turn daring international art thief, did you?" I asked as I picked my way carefully through the leaves and glass shards to the gaping hole by the door where the glass panel used to be. "It's not as if anyone else is doing anything useful."

  "Everyone else is wisely waiting until the mainland authorities arrive," Michael said, following me.

  "By which time, anything could happen." I said, stepping into the house. "The wind and rain could reduce any important documents to papier-mache. Or break any valuable antiques. And he's sure to have paintings--"

  Yes, he had paintings. I stopped just inside the hallway and stared open-mouthed at the one I saw there. Michael bumped into me.

  "Sorry," he said, grabbing me to keep from knocking me over. "If you're going to snoop, better not get cold feet just inside the door, where your accomplices might trample you on their way in."

  "Oh my God," I said. "Michael, look!"

  Michael followed my finger with his eyes. He looked puzzled for a moment, and then I had the satisfaction of seeing his jaw drop in amazement "Is that who I think it is?" he asked.

  "It can't possibly be," I said.

  Resnick was mostly famous for his landscapes, but, if the picture before us was anything to go by, not from any lack of talent at painting interiors or the human figure. You could almost have warmed yourself at the roaring fire in the painted fireplace, and the way the half-filled champagne flute reflected the firelight was extraordinary. You could all but feel every hair of the white bearskin rug on your own skin, and I suspect had I been a man, I'd have felt an erotic response instead of envy at the flawless skin and perfect figure of the nude blond woman sprawled on the rug. Under other circumstances, I'd have admired the painting enormously. As it was…

  "That can't possibly be Mother," I said finally.

  Chapter 19

  Nude Puffin Descending a Staircase

  "It certainly looks like your mother," Michael said, tipping his head to scrutinize the painting. "Or at least looks like what I gather she would have looked like at that age, from the photo albums we looked at last night. The face anyway; I wouldn't know about the rest of it."

  "Well, yes, that's what she looked like at that age," I said. "As far as one can tell from pictures of her in swim-suits. But surely you don't think Mother would actually have posed for something like that?"

  "It's definitely got her attitude."

  He was right. The woman in the picture lay full length on the rug, facing the viewer, her head and shoulders propped up by a couple of pillows covered with Oriental fabric. One hand was behind her head and the other held the champagne. One leg was bent slightly at the knee and the other outstretched fully, with a high-heeled fur mule dangling from the toes. Her face showed no sign of awkwardness or embarrassment, only an expression of pride and absolute confidence. I couldn't imagine Mother posing nude for a painting, but if she had decided to, I'm sure she would have stared out at the artist with just that air of arrogant self-assurance.

  "She'd never wear a tacky fur slipper like that," I said defensively. "And the bearskin's pretty cliched, too."

  "He could have done it from photos," Michael said.

  "Of course he did it from photos," I snapped. "Clothed photos. But why? And when?"

  "Let's make sure it's out of the rain," Michael said. "We can worry about the rest later."

  We took the nude down and carried it with us into the living room.

  Michael gasped. "What a view!"

  I frowned at him. My mind was still on the picture we carried, and it took me a second to realize he was talking about the room we'd entered.

  A giant wall of glass gave a sweeping view of the shore and the sea--a very gray and turbulent view,
at the moment. The inside was a mess, too. The panes of glass forming the wall were slightly smaller than the ones beside the door--perhaps because this was the ocean side of the house. Even so, something had bashed one of them in, and mud and leaves littered the room. Several paintings on the wall were getting a bit damp. Only landscapes, I noted with a sigh of relief.

  We hauled the paintings to the driest corner of the living room and continued our explorations.

  "Impressive kitchen," Michael said. "You could run a small restaurant out of this place."

  "Pretentious," I said. "I bet he hasn't cooked a dozen meals here since he moved in. Look how spotless everything is."

  "Maybe he's just a good housekeeper."

  "No," I said. "There's a difference between spotless from regular cleaning and spotless from disuse. This is disuse. Trust me--I know what disuse looks like from the occasional flying visit to my own kitchen."

  "Well, pretentiousness has its advantages," Michael said. "Take a look at this wine cellar."

  "Pretentious is right," I said. His wine cellar was probably larger than all my closets combined. "But what use is it? Unless you're suggesting that we take advantage of Resnick's wine collection, since he's not around to complain?"

  "It's a tempting thought," Michael said, examining the labels of a few bottles with obvious interest. "Actually, I thought we could stash the paintings in here. No windows, and the walls are designed to protect the contents."

  "Good idea," I said. We stowed the nude safely along one wall, then put the slightly damp landscapes from the living room along the other.

  The dining room would have seated a dozen people easily, although all the chairs except the one closest to the kitchen had a thin film of dust on them. The guest room was expensively furnished but rather cheerless. And long unused. Despite the shortage of rooms on the island, obviously Resnick hadn't offered his spare bed to anyone, and I doubted anyone had even asked. I suspected the birders we'd heard singing in the church the night before were happier there than they would have been here anyway.

  The master suite rivaled the kitchen for pretentiousness. But the lush white carpet was already dingy from lack of cleaning. And strewn with wet leaves, which had probably blown in from one of the broken windows.