“To our host,” I said again, raising my glass. And then I fed a few more pages of the biography into the fire and kicked off my sneakers.
CHAPTER 33
Hair of the Puffin
“You’d think after all we went through to steal the damned painting, we’d get a little gratitude,” I muttered.
Gaahhh! replied the seagull to whom I was speaking. I sighed and fed another handful of trash into the rusty barrel that served Aunt Phoebe as an incinerator. Given Monhegan’s astronomical trash-removal fees, most residents only paid for hauling away things they couldn’t possibly burn or feed to the gulls. As a kid, I’d always adored the giant trash fire that marked our last day on the island.
Of course, as a child I’d never had to burn the trash with a raging champagne hangover. Or all by myself. The police had dropped in to question us far earlier than I’d planned on getting up. Then Dad hauled off both Michael and Rob to help him with a project, leaving me stuck with all the chores and errands that Mother, Aunt Phoebe, and Mrs. Fenniman together could think up. At least as long as I stayed down here at the water’s edge burning trash, they couldn’t dump any more work on me. And it was relatively quiet. And I was getting very, very good at feeding trash into the fire without moving my throbbing head or, for that matter, opening my eyes.
Pyromania was a lot more fun last night, I thought, examining my fingers, whose tips still looked faintly prunelike, although the garbage and kerosene had long since overpowered the faint lingering scent of the bath salts.
I closed my eyes. Yes, the aspirin had begun to work. I’d given up trying to recall last night’s rapture; all I asked was a slight lessening in the severity of my headache.
“Good Lord, there’s more trash now than when I left,” came Michael’s voice, startling me out of my concentration.
“Last day’s like that,” I said, stirring up the fire in the barrel and managing a feeble smile. “Heard anything more from the police?” He shook his head, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Luckily for us, the police had found searching for Jim much more interesting than poking though Resnick’s house; they’d taken at face value our story of rescuing papers and paintings by hauling them into the wine cellar. And I suspected he’d had a word with the younger of the two detectives to explain the still-damp sunken tub.
“Your Dad’s been running us ragged, going all over the island taking pictures with the digital cameras and downloading them into your brother’s laptop,” Michael said, massaging his shoulder. He’d been at the aspirin bottle, too.
“Pictures of what?”
“Resnick’s house, the Anchor Inn, the place where we found the body—everything. Documenting your latest detective triumph, as he calls it.”
“Good Lord,” I muttered. “He does remember that those aren’t his cameras, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, eventually we filled up Rob’s hard drive and had to give the cameras back to their owners,” he said. “And by the way, it’s still looking good for the ferry tomorrow, or possibly even this afternoon,” he added. “In fact, your Dad went up to the cottage to get everyone started packing. We should probably head up there, too.”
“Give it a few minutes,” I said. “I want to stay out of Mother’s way right now.”
“Why?”
“She’s presenting Dad with a late wedding present, and I’m wondering how he’s going to like it.”
“A late wedding present?” Michael echoed. “What?”
“The painting.”
“The painting—my God, you’ve got to be joking!”
“No. Hang on, here they come.”
They strolled out onto the deck, Mother limping gracefully, with the support of Dad’s arm. Dad was beaming from ear to ear.
“Oh, good,” I said. “I think he likes it.”
“She must not have presented it yet.”
“Yes, she has; see, I can see the back of the easel through the window; the cloth’s thrown back.”
“Your father’s a strange bird,” Michael said, shaking his head. “This is not how I would react under these circumstances, a fact I hope you’ll keep in mind if any lecherous painters express an interest in immortalizing your charms quite that completely, with or without your cooperation.”
“I’ll definitely keep that in mind,” I said. “Shove another wad of trash in the barrel, will you?”
“In fact,” Michael said, warming to his subject, “I’m not even sure—What the devil’s this?”
He held up a piece of paper and stared at the half-dozen giant purple letter R’s writhing and curling across its surface.
“Well, what does it look like?” I asked, suppressing a smile.
“It looks like Rhapsody’s signature.”
“Yes, it does, doesn’t it?”
“Dozens of signatures,” he said, picking up another stray piece of paper.
“Yes, it took quite a few tries before we got it right,” I said.
“Got what right?”
“Rhapsody’s signature, of course. Mother and I worked at it for several hours before we finally decided I could do it well enough to try it on the canvas.”
“By canvas, I presume you mean the portrait of Mother?”
“Naturally. How could Dad possibly object to Mother commissioning a female painter to do a glamour portrait of her as a young woman as a present for him?”
“Oh Lord,” Michael said, closing his eyes.
“Of course, that does leave us with one small problem,” I said.
“Dare I ask?”
“We haven’t quite figured out what to do with the painting we bought from Rhapsody,” I said. “I mean, we needed it to copy the signature from, and we bought the biggest one she had so we can pack the two paintings together and sneak the portrait off the island that way. But we haven’t quite figured out what to do with it when we get it home. I don’t suppose you’d like a larger-than-life portrait of a puffin, would you?”
“What’s he doing—sledding, trimming Christmas trees, mowing the lawn?”
“Nothing silly like that. It’s a nature study, not an illustration from one of her books. He’s just sort of loitering about on the rocks, with a dead fish dangling from his beak. Very picturesque.”
“No thanks,” he said. “Unless, of course, you have developed an inexplicable fondness for the thing and want to see it on a regular basis.”
“No,” I said. “I’d be just as happy never to see it again.”
“I’ll pass, then,” he said. “Although if you need a place to hide it, I’d gladly offer my attic. Or my basement. When I have an attic or a basement again.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” I said. “Oh my God!”
“What?” he asked, whirling about. With Jim still loose somewhere on the island, everyone startled easily.
“Rhapsody’s coming,” I said. “Help me stuff the rest of the forgeries in the trash barrel!”
We were backing away slightly from the roaring blaze that resulted when Rhapsody reached us. And, unfortunately, Dad spotted her and came dashing down the path. Mother fixed me with a gimlet eye and raised an eyebrow in a signal for me to deal with the situation.
“What a wonderful painting!” Dad exclaimed as he reached us. “I can’t tell you how much it means to me!”
“Why … thank you,” Rhapsody replied. She was pleased, although obviously a bit taken aback by the force of Dad’s enthusiasm.
“It’s a masterpiece,” Dad said, taking both of her hands in his and shaking them vigorously. “It really transcends everything else you’ve ever done.”
“Do you really think so?” Rhapsody said. “I wasn’t sure it worked, really. It’s the first time I’ve done anything like it, and the first time I’ve worked from life, so to speak.”
“Well, you should do more like it,” Dad said. “Truly astounding. The skin tones are absolute perfection!”
“Skin tones?” Rhapsody echoed in a puzzled voice.
“Of the feet and the b
eak, I suppose,” I murmured in an undertone. “He tends to anthropomorphize.”
“And the way you’ve captured the fur!” Dad went on.
Rhapsody’s confusion deepened.
“Fur, feathers—he gets them mixed up when he’s this excited,” I stage-whispered.
“I know we’ll always treasure it as a reminder of a special time in our lives,” Dad said.
“Yes, it has been quite a weekend—” Rhapsody began.
“Dad,” I broke in. “When are you going to show us the painting?”
“Show us?” Michael repeated, his voice so strangled, it was almost a squeak.
“Why—” Dad’s jaw suddenly dropped, and he blushed bright red. “No,” he said, finally. “It’s … well, it’s rather personal. I’m sure your mother would rather not. You understand,” he said, looking at Rhapsody and then retreating back to the cottage. Mother smiled her thanks at me as she followed him inside, and for the next few minutes we could hear the fuss and bother Dad kicked up as he ransacked the cottage in search of a quiet, discreet place to hide the painting.
“Personal,” Rhapsody repeated.
“He’s very sentimental about presents Mother gives him,” I improvised. “Hides them away where he thinks no one but the two of them can find them. And keeps them forever; she’s learned the hard way never to give him anything edible. Bottles of vintage wine turned to vinegar in their closet; ten-year-old chocolate truffles petrifying in the bureau drawers. A nuisance, I suppose, but we’ve always thought it rather sweet.”
“Yes, I see,” Rhapsody said. “I’m sure that’s very nice for your mother. So many men aren’t sentimental at all. Well, I must be going. Oh, I almost forgot. Mamie sent me up here to tell you that the ferry’s definitely going this afternoon, and she has your tickets, but you’d better come down soon and claim them before someone else does.”
“Right, thank you,” I said. Rhapsody headed back to town, looking back now and then as if she wasn’t quite sure what to make of us.
“Will you consider me an oaf if I confess that I ate the chocolate dinosaur you sent me last week?” Michael asked.
“I’d consider you an idiot if you hadn’t,” I said. “You didn’t really buy that nonsense about the ten-year-old chocolate, did you?”
“Just checking,” Michael said. “And if I ever bring you a bottle of vintage wine, I’ll bring a corkscrew, as well.”
“Now you’ve got the idea,” I said. “Let’s go down and claim our tickets before the birders filch them.”
CHAPTER 34
A Farewell to Puffins
We hustled everyone down to the docks, only to find that the ferry wasn’t taking off quite as soon as originally planned. Another Coast Guard cutter had arrived, carrying more police to join the search for Jim. A dozen or so police and Coast Guarders swarmed all over the docks, inspecting every piece of luggage larger than a hatbox and affixing stickers over the latches and fastenings of the containers when they finished. Loading the ferry would definitely take longer than usual.
Michael, Dad, and I arranged the family’s luggage in a giant mound along one side of the dock and ordered Rob to guard it.
“I wish we could persuade him to relax a little,” I said, glancing over to where Rob sat.
“Rob or Spike?” Michael asked, following my gaze.
Rob had perched on top of a trunk, with the strap of his laptop over one shoulder and Spike’s leash wrapped around the other wrist. He clutched the wooden crate containing Mother’s portrait and Rhapsody’s puffin painting—clutching it so tightly with both hands that his knuckles had turned white. Spike strained at the leash, barking at a seagull that seemed to enjoy sitting just out of his reach, on top of another larger crate that someone was shipping some paintings in. And someone with more courage than sense had managed to paste one of the police inspection stickers to the back of Spike’s head.
“Spike’s a lost cause,” I said. “But you’d think Rob could control his nerves better.”
“Yes,” Michael said. “Someone should explain to him that the key to pulling off a daring daylight art heist is to look nonchalant and unconcerned.”
“I did,” I said. “Several times. We’ll just hope they chalk up that anxious, furtive look to worry about his computer.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Michael said. “Luckily, with Spike around, even the police won’t want to get close enough to question him.”
“I just wish Rob would move away from that other crate,” I fretted. “It’s so obviously a painting-shaped crate; what if someone notices the similarity in shape and makes the connection?”
“Don’t worry; we do have bills of sale that will serve for both paintings, remember?” Michael said.
“I’m not worried that they’ll think we’re stealing it; what if they insist on unwrapping it out here on the dock?”
“We’ll insist they take it inside, out of the rain,” Michael said, jerking a thumb at the ramshackle baggage shed near the end of the dock. “Oh, hang on a minute; there’s Ken Takahashi. I need to ask him something.”
He strolled over to the other side of the dock and greeted Takahashi. I wondered what they kept finding to chat about. Suddenly, they both glanced over at me. Takahashi pulled something out of his inside jacket pocked, scribbled on it, and handed it to Michael. Then they laughed and shook hands.
No one talked to me, of course. I’d blown the whistle on Jim, and apparently some of the birders had dubbed him a hero. An environmental warrior, doing battle against a bloodthirsty bird-killer. I more than half-suspected they might help him hide. I hoped the police realized this; they’d have to keep a sharp eye out when the ferry began loading, in case someone tried to sneak Jim aboard in their party.
The birders were also taking up a collection, although the reason for donating varied from birder to birder. Some thought they were contributing to Jim’s defense fund, others to a fund to rescue the Central Monhegan Power Company, and a few to the expense of tearing down Resnick’s house and restoring Puffin Point to its natural, unspoiled condition.
I found myself resenting the great outpouring of sympathy for Jim and the Dickermans. After all, no matter how nasty Victor Resnick had been, that didn’t give anyone the right to kill him. Not to mention trying to kill Michael and me, which they were all conveniently overlooking. And had it dawned on anyone that if I hadn’t already fingered Jim as the murderer, they’d probably all still be stuck on the island being questioned and investigated? Or maybe they didn’t resent me for fingering Jim, just for losing him. Yes, that was it; they thought it was my fault we were looking over our shoulders nervously every five minutes while the police ransacked our luggage.
And then there was Michael. He was astonishingly cheerful about leaving. Granted, this hadn’t exactly been an ideal vacation. And looking back, I realized that I had rather neglected him, taken him for granted while we chased up and down the island looking for miscreants and lost relatives. But still, did he have to look so damned happy about escaping? Had last night made up for the several miserable days before it, or would this weekend manage to kill our grand romance before it really got off the ground?
“Hello!” came a soft voice from my elbow.
Rhapsody. With luggage.
“I didn’t know you were leaving the island,” I said. “I thought you stayed here year-round.”
“Well, usually I do,” she said. “But the puffins are gone for the winter, and who knows when they’ll manage to arrest that horrible murderer? So when your mother invited me to visit all of you in Yorktown, I thought, Why not?”
“How nice,” I said with as much sincerity as I could muster. Had Mother gone mad? For that matter, had she completely forgotten how many stray relatives we already had staying with us? And with Rhapsody underfoot, how could she continue to pull the wool over Dad’s eyes about who had painted the nude?
“I’m so excited,” she said. “I’m so looking forward to studying you.”
“Studying us? Why?”
“Well, you mostly.”
“Me?”
“Yes,” she said, beaming. “You’ve inspired me!”
“Inspired you how?”
“I’m planning a whole new series of books based on you!”
“On me?” I squeaked.
“Yes!” she said, clasping her hands. “You’ll be a friend of the Puffin Family, a brave and clever girl detective! Can’t you just see it?”
Unfortunately, I could. Did she really mean a girl detective, or did she plan to puffinize me? Either way, I could see it all too clearly: a tiny, round Meg conversing stiffly, in profile, with little Petey and Patty and all the beady-eyed members of the Happy Puffin Family. Probably carrying a magnifying glass and wearing a deerstalker hat. I supposed I should have been happy that someone wasn’t mad at me, but the idea of becoming a badly drawn cartoon character filled me with despair. The Puffin of the Baskervilles didn’t sound so funny now that I thought it might become a reality.
Rhapsody must have noticed my lack of enthusiasm.
“Don’t you like the idea?” she asked.
She looked so fragile that I couldn’t bring myself to confess how much I hated it, so I settled for saying, “Well, I’m having a hard time seeing myself as a puffin.”
“So was I,” Rhapsody confessed. “So I’ve decided to branch out. I’m going to make you an owl! A wise, clever owl!”
Well, marginally better than a puffin, I thought.
“And Michael will be a falcon!” she added, eyes shining.
I managed to keep a straight face, but I suddenly felt very sorry for Rhapsody’s editor—she had an editor somewhere, didn’t she, seeing that she never went beyond a certain level of inanity? I had a feeling the editor would have quite an eye-opening experience when Rhapsody’s first owl and falcon adventure landed on his desktop, no doubt seething with barely repressed eroticism.
“Don’t you think murder’s a little much for a kid’s audience?” I asked.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “So I’m going to start with having them find Patty Puffin’s little lost kitten.”
Murder With Puffins Page 26
