Murder With Puffins ml-2

by Donna Andrews

  Mother looked up again.

  "Oh really?" she said. "What makes you think that?"

  "The subject was… rather unconventional."

  To my amazement, Mother smiled.

  "Yes, he was rather unconventional as a young man," she said. "And terribly wild."

  My jaw dropped.

  "Gifted with an overactive imagination, of course," she said. "And not very honest, I'm afraid."

  "Yes," I said. "Taking payment for something and then never delivering it isn't very honest, is it?"

  "Well, he did deliver it eventually," Mother said. "I rather wish he hadn't; I was so provoked when your grandfather burned it."

  "Burned it!" Michael and I echoed.

  "Yes, can you imagine it?" Mother said. "Burning a genuine Victor Resnick! Of course, we didn't know then how famous he'd become, but still. I would so like to have that painting. It would bring back such fond memories."

  Michael and I looked at each other in consternation. What kind of fond memories? I wondered. Memories of an affair with Resnick? Or just of the days when she looked the way she looked in the painting?

  "Well, you may be in luck," I said. "Apparently, he painted at least one more portrait of you."

  "Another portrait?" Mother asked, looking very interested. "What was it like?"

  "Well," I said, and then froze. I looked at Michael for assistance.

  "Not a painting I can imagine Meg's grandfather would approve of," Michael said.

  "No, I imagine not," Mother murmured. "Well, that explains a lot."

  "A lot of what?"

  "I think he expected someone to come over and collect it this weekend," she said. "Perhaps you and Michael could take care of that?"

  "No, at least not without some kind of proof that we're not pulling a million-dollar art heist," I said.

  "Oh, well," Mother said. She dropped the embroidery into her lap, reached over to the end table for her purse--an impractical scrap of velvet, lace, and satin that would probably survive five minutes if I tried to carry it--and pulled out a small envelope.

  "Here," she said, handing it to me.

  There was no stamp. "Margaret Langslow" was written on the front in the same bold, angular hand I recognized from Resnick's files. I hesitated before opening it, and Mother gestured impatiently.

  "My dear Maggie," it began.

  "Maggie?" I said aloud.

  "I never liked that nickname," she said, shrugging.

  "I have something of yours that I'd like to give you--that painting your father admired so much. Come and see me; we can talk about old times. Vic."

  It was dated Friday--the day after she'd arrived on the island. He hadn't lost much time.

  "How did you get this?"

  "Your aunt Phoebe found it slipped under the door sometime after we arrived."

  "Did you go to see him?"

  "Of course not," Mother said. "I had no interest in seeing him, and even if I had, why would I want to walk that far in this weather? And I thought he was lying about the painting."

  "Maybe Grandfather lied about burning it."

  "Oh, no," Mother said. "He made me watch while he burned it."

  Somehow I could picture the scene: Grandfather sputtering like a firecracker while Mother coolly pretended indifference to the fate of the painting.

  "Well, Resnick has this one hanging in his hallway," I said. "I don't think he'd had it there long, though, or everyone on the island would have heard about it."

  "Is it still there?" Mother asked. She didn't look alarmed, just interested.

  "No, we put it and some of the other paintings away where the rain couldn't damage mem."

  "That's nice," she said. "Well, go along and collect it. I'm sure it would cause all kinds of confusion if the police found it."

  "It's not out there," Dad said, popping in from the kitchen.

  "Oh, I'm sorry," I said. "I just found it here under the couch."

  For the next half hour, I had to keep my composure while Dad thumbed through the book with one hand and ate with the other. And he commented all the while, with his mouth full, on what a genius Resnick was and what a shame such a great artist had been such a difficult person, and what a pity it was he had come to such an untimely end. Mother continued to fuss over her embroidery and practice her patented Mona Lisa smile, occasionally reminding Dad not to drop food on my new book.

  Well, it wasn't as if Dad had ruined my chance to find out more about the painting. Mother had obviously said all she planned to say about it. Whether she had posed for it or whether Resnick had done it from memory or imagination, I'd probably never find out. In fact, I wasn't even sure I wanted to know.

  I decided not to worry about the painting until tomorrow. In fact, I wasn't going to worry about anything until tomorrow. As soon as possible, I was going to go to bed. I might even take a nap right now, I thought, leaning back into Michael's arm and closing my eyes with a contented sigh. I felt Michael shift his weight and then felt his breath in my ear. Yes, I thought, a very nice time to whisper a few sweet nothings in my ear.

  "Things would be a lot easier if we didn't have all these damned birders underfoot," he murmured.

  "Yeah," I agreed. Not to mention my family. I opened one eyelid to check on what our unintentional chaperones were up to. Dad was studying a photo with a magnifying glass. Mother was contemplating her embroidery with a dreamy expression on her face.

  "I mean, they're very useful for establishing the time line, but there are just too many of them, and any one of them could be the murderer. In fact… What's so funny?"

  Mother and Dad both glanced up, wondering what the joke was, and Michael and I fled to the kitchen, where we could talk with more privacy.

  "I thought you were talking about our situation, not the latest homicide," I said, giggling.

  "Yeah, well, that, too," he said, sheepishly. "But you've got to admit, it's intriguing."

  "It's completely baffling," I said. My sleepy mood had vanished. "Too many suspects, all with motive, means, and opportunity."

  "I like Will Dickerman for it," Michael said. "Perfect casting for the murderer."

  "Well, if you like Will, don't forget about Fred," I said. "To know him is to loathe him, and he'd have had much the same reasons Will had for doing Resnick in. And for all that southern-fried charm he puts on, I wouldn't put it past Ken Takahashi to do the old boy in. For ruining the deal, or just for dragging him out here in a hurricane."

  "I don't know," Michael said. "I rather like Takahashi. I'd hate to see him turn out to be the one."

  "Well, I'd hate for the police to suspect Dad or Aunt Phoebe."

  "Perhaps it will turn out to be someone we don't know,"

  Michael said. "One of the birders, or a local we haven't really met."

  Just then, we heard the front door slam. We peeked out of the kitchen door to see what was up.

  "This place is absolutely impossible," Rob said, striding in.

  "What's wrong, dear?" Mother asked.

  "They won't let me use the power in the Anchor Inn, even though they've got that generator going, doing nothing but running the freezer," Rob complained. "And then I tried to talk to the guy who does the generator, and all he wants is free legal advice."

  "Let me guess," I said. "Was he asking what happens if someone who's jumped bail gets turned in? Or what happens to a foreclosure if the note holder dies while it's in progress?"

  "Both, actually," Rob said. "What are you, psychic?"

  "She's a very fine detective," Dad said, beaming.

  "I'm just using the brain God gave me," I said. Well, that and the information from Resnick's files. "What did you tell him?"

  "Basically, that I had no idea," Rob said. "I mean, that's the kind of stuff you don't know off the top of your head unless you work with it every day. And even if I did know, I'd know how it worked in Virginia. This is Maine. Things could be completely different here."

  "He shouldn't ask for free legal a
dvice," Dad said. "It's unfair; like asking me for free medical advice just because I'm a doctor."

  "Not that I've ever heard you turn anyone down," I commented. "Or, for that matter, that you usually wait to be asked."

  "Well, he should talk to a Maine lawyer," Dad said. "I don't know why he doesn't ask Binkie Burnham. She's an old friend of the Dickerman family; I'm sure she'd give him any legal advice he needs."

  "That's right; Binkie's a lawyer," I said, remembering the private investigator's report. "Harvard Law School!"

  "Oh, yes," Dad said. "Quite a famous litigator, too. She does environmental cases, mostly, plus the occasional criminal case. Of course, she's semiretired these days."

  I pondered this fact for a moment.

  "Let's get some fresh air," I said to Michael.

  "Fresh--" he began, looking at the drizzle outside. "Oh, right, fresh air," he said. "Good idea."

  What an actor, I thought as I grabbed my knapsack and stuffed some rope into it. I could almost believe him myself.

  Chapter 26

  Round Up the Usual Puffins

  "Fresh air?" he repeated as we finished fastening our rain gear.

  "The game is afoot," I said. "Let's go up to the Dickermans' for a minute."

  "I can manage that far," Michael said as we turned down the road. "Barely. But why?"

  "Every time I've seen Winnie and Binkie for the past few days, they've been going up or coming down the road from the Dickermans'," I said. "I just assumed it was for bird-watching purposes. Or because they've all been friends for decades. But now that we know Binkie's a crack criminal lawyer, it strikes me as odd that she would spend so much time near the house of the only two criminals on the island whose identity we already know. Let's go see what's up."

  In the light of day, the Dickermans' house looked rather more run-down than usual, even for Monhegan. Signs that they could no longer afford the upkeep? Or just my over-active imagination?

  I knocked on the door, and we waited awhile--I had a feeling someone was inspecting us from behind a curtain. Then the door opened and Mrs. Dickerman peered out.

  "May we come in?" I asked.

  She hesitated for a moment, then stepped aside. I walked into the living room, where Winnie and Binkie sat holding teacups. Mr. Dickerman stood before the fireplace, looking anxious.

  "Meg, dear, how nice to see you," Binkie said, looking up with a smile. "And Michael. Mamie says you two are trying to play detective."

  "We're trying to keep them from railroading my Dad, if that's what you mean," I said. "Just because Mother knew Victor Resnick half a century ago does not make Dad suspect number one."

  "Quite right, I'm sure," Binkie said. "And how's your sleuthing going along, then?"

  Chalk it up to tiredness, but I had no patience for drawn-out verbal fencing.

  "Coming along about as well as you'd expect," I said. "I don't suppose I can persuade you to come clean about Will?"

  The Dickermans started, and even Winnie looked mildly disconcerted. Binkie only smiled and sipped her tea.

  "Come clean?" she said with a shake of her head. "My, that sounds so melodramatic. I can almost hear Cagney saying it, or Bogart. What on earth could Will Dickerman have to do with the events of the past few days?"

  "Quite a lot, if he was on the island for the past few days," I said.

  "I can assure you, Will Dickerman is not on the island today, and was not on the island at the time of Victor Resnick's death." Binkie said.

  "How can you be so sure, if he's on the lam?"

  Binkie sighed.

  "Because just before Winnie and I came over to the island, I accompanied Will to the Port Clyde police station, where he surrendered himself to custody," Binkie said in a brisk, businesslike tone of voice. "Needless to say, there was no possibility of bail."

  I thought for a moment.

  "I notice you were very careful to say when Will wasn't on the island," I said. "Just for the sake of argument, suppose he had been on the island sometime after he skipped bail and before he went to the mainland to turn himself in."

  Binkie raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

  "Suppose he had hidden himself by camping out on the far side of the island, and Michael and I had found the remains of his campsite."

  Mr. and Mrs. Dickerman started.

  "I mean, if we were absolutely sure it had nothing to do with the murder, Michael and I wouldn't have to go out of our way to report the campsite to the police," I said. "In case they got the idea that someone on the island was aiding and abetting a fugitive by bringing Will food and beer."

  Binkie thought for a moment.

  "Hypotheticalry, if I were representing any parties involved in the situation you describe, I would work with the district attorney to arrange immunity from prosecution on the aiding and abetting charges in return for providing vital evidence in a homicide."

  "But if what you say is true, the campsite isn't vital evidence, is it?"

  "To the extent that a defense attorney might use the campsite to muddy the waters in a trial, the police might find the true explanation of its origin rather vital, now wouldn't they, dear?" Binkie smiled gently.

  I gazed at her round weathered face and wondered how many sharp young district attorneys had, over the years, come to grief by mistaking Binkie for a harmless, wellbred New England matron.

  "So in the unlikely event that we found this hypothetical campsite, we could safely assume it had nothing to do with the murder?"

  "I imagine you could safely assume it was abandoned three or four days before the murder," Binkie said.

  And from the look on her face, I doubted we'd pry any more information out of Binkie. I stood up to go.

  "Sorry to barge in," I said, looking at the Dickermans. I felt sorry for them: Not their fault, really, how Fred and Will had turned out; or if it was, they were certainly paying for it now. "I hope you can work things out with the power plant and all. I know Aunt Phoebe's not sold on it, but I'm sure a lot of people around here would hate to see it shut down or change hands."

  "Don't worry, dear," Binkie said. She smiled--not the gentle smile I'd seen previously, but the sort of smile that made me feel very, very sorry for anyone who might attempt to take the Central Monhegan Power Company away from the Dickermans.

  Just then, we heard frantic knocking at the door. Both of the Dickermans leapt to answer it, then returned almost immediately with Mamie and Dad at their heels.

  "Ah, Mamie thought we'd find you up here!" Dad exclaimed. I was about to ask what he wanted me for, but then I realized he was looking at Binkie.

  "Dr. Langslow suggested that we might want a couple of doctors to examine Resnick's body," Mamie said. "Just in case there's anything significant that doesn't… uh, last. Seemed like a good idea."

  "Yes," Binkie said. "Provided you have some responsible witnesses to supervise the proceedings, of course."

  "We thought perhaps you could do that," Mamie said.

  "Of course," Binkie said. "Shall we go now?"

  "Well, first we have to find John Peabody," Dad said. "He's the only other doctor we know of on the island, and we haven't seen him all day."

  "Off finding a bit of peace and quiet, I imagine," Winnie said. Having met Mrs. Peabody, I imagined he was right.

  "Winnie and I can find John, then meet you at the Anchor Inn," Binkie said. "We'll see you later, then," she told the Dickermans, and shooed the rest of us out. She and Winnie hiked off in search of Dr. Peabody while Mamie, Dad, Michael, and I took what Mamie assured us was a shortcut to the Anchor Inn.

  "Oh, Meg," Dad said as we strolled. "Mrs. Peabody said you had her digital camera and could take some pictures."

  "What a great idea," Michael said.

  I rolled my eyes, wondering whether I really wanted to be involved in this.

  Just then, we rounded a turn in the path and I caught sight of a cottage I hadn't seen before.

  "Mamie," I said. "That's Rhapsody's cottage, isn't it?
"

  "Why yes," she said, beaming. "How did you know?"

  "Just a lucky guess," I murmured.

  Chapter 27

  Touch Not the Puffin

  Unlike Aunt Phoebe's cottage, which was just a small weathered saltbox, this really looked like a fairy-tale cottage. Rhapsody had painted it various shades of lilac and lavender, with blue trim. The blue tile roof hadn't weathered the hurricane well, and several of the blue-and-lavender shutters had come loose, revealing, rather than protecting, the small diamond-shaped windowpanes. Dead vines covered the front. The vines probably bore purple flowers during Monhegan's brief summer, but they looked pretty stark now. Still, the effect was charming, in a cloying sort of way. I half-expected to see Hansel and Gretel walk around from the backyard, munching on chunks of marzipan windowpane and gingerbread woodwork. The door knocker was shaped like a unicorn's head, complete with a wickedly sharp horn, and I wondered how many people had impaled themselves on it.

  "Isn't it cute?" Mamie said.

  "Very cute," I said. Mamie smiled and Michael looked puzzled. Only Dad had known me long enough to realize that I'd just uttered my ultimate insult, but even Dad wasn't tactless enough to say so.

  "Look, we'll catch up to you in a bit," I said. "I want to talk to Rhapsody."

  "What about?" Mamie snapped.

  Damn. I'd forgotten how protective Mamie was of her pet artist.

  "Mother's interested in a painting," I said. Well, it wasn't a complete lie; if Mamie chose to think I meant one of Rhapsody's paintings, that was her problem.

  "I'll come with you, then," Mamie said. "She's very shy, you know."

  "I'd like to meet her," Dad said, falling into step beside Mamie.

  We slipped and slid up the cobblestone path--nature never intended cobblestones for use in hurricanes--and Mamie knocked very gently on the front door.

  After half a minute, I saw motion out of the corner of my eye. The curtain in the window to the left of the door fluttered slightly. I deliberately avoided looking at it, and pasted what I hoped was a friendly, harmless smile on my face.