“We need to go back to Resnick’s house,” I said. “Something’s bothering me.”
“What?”
“I’ll show you when we get there.”
We hiked along in silence. I concentrated on not tripping and falling down, or at least not landing in any large puddles when I did so.
Maybe I shouldn’t have dragged Michael out on this wild-goose chase, I thought. For all I knew, he might be getting tired of my amateur attempts to solve the murder and protect my family. But I felt better with his tall form striding along beside me. Not safer, really—I wasn’t expecting any danger—just more natural. The idea of going back to Resnick’s house, or anywhere else on the island, for that matter, and not having Michael along seemed unthinkable. Quite a remarkable change in attitude for me; stubborn independence and the need for a certain amount of solitude had always been my hallmarks. How odd, I thought, then put the subject away for further consideration after the present crisis. We’d arrived at Resnick’s house.
It definitely hadn’t fared well. Rain had ruined the finish on the polished wood floor of the entry, and the wood itself had buckled in several places. When we entered the living room, we startled several birds roosting on the exposed high beams of the cathedral ceiling.
“We should chase the damn things out,” I said.
“They’d only get back in again,” Michael said. “Besides, I thought you hated this place. Wanted it torn down.”
“Yes, but I feel bad just seeing it fall apart like this. Even if it is a pretentious eyesore.”
“Is that what we came back for? To make sure Resnick’s place isn’t falling apart? Or something about the biography?”
“No, it’s about the murder.”
“I thought we found out it was an accident, not murder.”
“We found out it was electrocution instead of a blow to the head,” I said. “The accident or murder question is still open. Very open.”
“Okay,” he said. “So what are we looking for?”
I pulled out the digital camera and showed him the best shot of the tidal pool.
“See that?” I asked, pointing to the orange cord.
“So what?” he said. “They’re underfoot all over the island, as the state of my poor mistreated shins can testify. Along with those pestilential pipes.”
“Yes, but there wasn’t one there when we found the body,” I said. “And I don’t remember seeing one when we searched the house before. I want to make sure.”
“We came up here in the middle of the night to search the house for orange extension cords?”
“Humor me,” I said. “Please.”
Was my idea so off-the-wall that even Michael wouldn’t take it seriously? To my relief, he smiled, shrugged, and began rummaging through the hall closet.
Searching the house didn’t take that long. I took the kitchen, while Michael did the rest of the house. Sooner than I expected, we met again in the living room, empty-handed.
“Nothing here,” I said.
“The shed!” Michael said, snapping his fingers. “We forgot the shed.”
“I hadn’t forgotten it,” I said. “I’m working up my nerve.”
“Strikes you as a little creepy, does it?” Michael said.
I nodded as I pulled my hood over my head and turned for the entrance.
“No reason to feel that way,” he said, following me. “Just because Resnick’s body was there for—what, half an hour? No reason to get squeamish about the place.”
“You’re right,” I said. “Then I assume you’ll have no problem dining at the Anchor Inn if we come back to Monhegan next summer? It’s probably the best restaurant on the island.”
“On the other hand,” Michael said, “who am I to criticize a perfectly normal human reaction?”
“I thought so,” I said, throwing open the shed door.
It took us only five minutes to make sure the shed concealed no orange extension cords. Stumbling around the yard with our flashlights took more like half an hour, but still no extension cords.
“Tide’s still fairly low,” I said. “Let’s go down to the shore.”
It was still a little wet, but we reached the tidal pool, and after a great deal of peering back and forth between the photo and the landscape, I identified the place where I’d seen the orange electric cord in the picture. I wasn’t surprised to see that instead of running along the shore toward Resnick’s house, it would have climbed up the cliff toward the center of the island.
“That’s odd,” Michael said.
“Very odd,” I said. “For one thing, it was on the inner side of the pool, so how could it have washed away before his body?”
“And for another, what was it connected to?” Michael said. “Do you suppose the old skinflint ran the extension cord up there and tapped into the power line before it hit his meter?”
“I don’t think he ran that extension cord anywhere,” I said, craning to look up. We were out of sight of the village, and Resnick’s house was dark. The only light I could see was a thin ray shining down from high above us. Probably from the ridge at the top of the island. It reminded me of the glint of light I’d seen when we’d found the body; the glint I’d thought was the reflection from a birder’s binoculars.
“Of course,” I said. “It’s obvious who did it; I’m an idiot not to have seen it sooner.”
“I still don’t see it, whatever it is,” Michael said. “Care to give me a clue?”
“Jim Dickerman,” I said. “He’s the only one who could have done it. When we thought someone had whacked Resnick on the head, we had too many suspects. Anyone on the island could have done that. In fact, Aunt Phoebe did. But now that we know he was electrocuted, there’s only one possibility. Jim. No one else could possibly have arranged for the power to come on just when Resnick reached into the tidal pool. He could wait until Resnick touched the water and then flip the switch to turn the generator on. He may have boarded his windows up, but I bet he left enough chinks to see through.”
“And his motive?” Michael asked quietly.
“He was afraid of losing the power plant, of course. He didn’t know about Binkie negotiating restoration of bail. All he knew was that Resnick was going to take away his precious power plant, and all his mechanical toys. He could easily have rigged the extension cords going down; no one would pay any attention to Jim doing something electrical. Maybe he was the imposter the birders kept talking about, if he slung his binoculars around his neck when he came down here to do it. He probably planned to wait until Resnick picked up the cord. Aunt Phoebe throwing in the sign was just another fantastic bit of luck. Remember how at least one time that day the power came on for only a few seconds? I bet that was him, throwing the switch that killed Resnick.”
We stood there for a few moments, watching as the receding waves uncovered more and more of the rocky ledge.
“You’re right,” Michael said. “It’s the only logical solution. Brilliant.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Come on, we’ve got work to do.”
“Are we going up to the power plant to confront Jim?”
“Are you crazy? You’re definitely watching way too much TV,” I said. “That’s the sort of stupid thing that gets people killed, or at least gets them into the kind of trouble that they can’t get out of until just before the last commercial. We’ll tell the police tomorrow and then let them confront Jim.”
“Then what are we doing?”
“Burgling Resnick’s studio,” I said, opening my knapsack and pulling out the ropes I’d brought.
“But why?” Michael asked. “If we’re sure Jim is the murderer—”
“We still haven’t found James Jackson,” I said. “I want at least a chance to talk him out of mentioning Mother in his wretched biography. And the studio’s the only place we haven’t looked where Resnick might have left some clue to Jackson’s identity, and tonight’s probably the last chance we’ll have to search before the police arrive tomor
row. With the press hot on their heels, no doubt.”
“Let’s get it over with, then,” Michael said.
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. “Voilà! 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 wall. 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 this!” 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 t
hrow 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.
Murder With Puffins Page 24
