Murder With Puffins Read online

  The one thing we didn’t find was a witness who could explain Resnick’s transformation from a live misanthrope strolling along the seashore with a small bump on his forehead to a dead body with a bloody gash on the back of his head. During the critical period, which, depending on the feeding schedule of the crested grebe, ranged anywhere from fifteen to forty-five minutes, no one had seen anything out of the ordinary.

  “Well, our killer certainly picked his time well,” I said to Michael in an undertone.

  “Yes,” Michael said. “Almost every birder on the island passed by his house sometime yesterday, and not a single one of them saw the murder.”

  “Where’s your father?” someone asked. I turned, to see Jeb Barnes and Mamie Benton looking very stern.

  “Up at Aunt Phoebe’s cottage, recovering from his ordeal,” I said.

  “I got through to the police briefly,” Jeb said. “They’re going to want to talk to him.”

  “Talk to Dad?” I said, feigning innocence. “Why?”

  “I’d say he’s their prime suspect,” Mamie said, sounding rather smug. “No alibi for the time of the murder, and everyone knows there was no love lost between him and the deceased.”

  “Oh, and everyone else on the island adored the old curmudgeon and has an ironclad alibi?” I said. “I can think of a few other possibilities. You might tell them to keep their eyes out for the missing Will, for example.”

  “What, Resnick’s will?” Jeb asked.

  “How do you know it’s missing?” Mamie asked. “And what’s the problem if it is? Far as I know, he used a mainland law firm; they’ll have a copy on file.”

  “Not Resnick’s will,” I said. “Will Dickerman.”

  “Haven’t seen him on the island in months,” Mamie said.

  “No, not since he skipped bail on those grand theft auto and assault charges, I expect,” I said.

  “What the devil—,” Jeb began.

  “How on earth did you find out about that?” Mamie asked.

  Not wanting to admit that we’d rummaged through Victor Resnick’s files, I settled for looking inscrutable.

  “Well, he’s not on the island anyway,” Mamie said. “I’d have seen him get off the ferry.”

  “How do you know he didn’t come over on a private boat before the hurricane hit?” I said.

  Mamie blinked. Jeb chuckled.

  “Yeah, normal weather, he could have come over most anytime,” he said. “But even if he had, what does that have to do with the murder? I mean, you’re not thinking that just because he’s had a few brushes with the law, he’s got to be the killer, are you?”

  “No,” I said. “But he’s definitely someone we want to keep an eye on, considering that he’s a fugitive from justice with a reason to hate Victor Resnick and a history of whacking people with blunt objects.”

  “Reason to hate Resnick?” Jeb echoed. “I’m sure he didn’t like Resnick any more than the rest of us, but what reason does he have to hate him? With all those steam baths and cattle prods and such Resnick has up at that house, he’s the Dickermans’ best customer. Was their best customer. Why would Will want to spoil that?”

  “Because Resnick had bought up Mr. Dickerman’s loans and was about to foreclose on them,” I said. “About to take away the power plant. So if you see Will Dickerman, he’s a suspect all right. For that matter, I’m sure the police will take a very close look at everyone who has had adverse financial dealings with Victor Resnick.”

  I looked at Mamie Benton when I said it, and felt a guilty satisfaction at seeing her turn pale.

  “Take a damn long time to do that,” Jeb Barnes said. “Not a person on the island the bastard didn’t try to rook sometime or other. Me included. Liked to run a tab with me, and then when I’d try to make him pay, he’d argue. Claimed he’d never gotten things. I finally cut him off, and now the bastard does—well, did—all his shopping over on the mainland.”

  “Then I suppose they’ll cross-examine everyone on the island,” I said.

  “I suppose they will, which means you don’t have to go poking your nose in it,” Jeb retorted as he and Mamie turned to leave. “You just let us handle it until the police get here.”

  I stepped forward, about to tell them just what I thought of how they were handling things, but Michael grabbed my arm, pulled me back, and gave me a warning look. I fumed silently until Jeb and Mamie were out of earshot.

  “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you’re going to take that advice?” Michael asked.

  “Not when they’re trying to railroad my Dad, no,” I said. “Let’s get out of the rain a minute; I need to think.”

  We shook the standing water off two metal Adirondack chairs on the front porch of the Island Inn and sat down. The birders continued to mill about in the square in front of us, trading bird news and crime rumors.

  “Okay,” I said when I felt a little calmer. “Let’s make a mental list of the things we need to do.”

  “A pity, you didn’t bring along the notebook that tells you when to breathe,” Michael said, referring to the organizer I normally took everywhere. For some reason, people interpret my attachment to my organizer as a sign that I am unnaturally organized. I’m not, really; just the opposite. I long ago accepted the fact that if I write something down, I’ll probably get it done, and if I don’t, all bets are off.

  I’d left the organizer behind, though; which shows you just how complete a getaway from my day-to-day life I’d been planning. A pity, as I could have used it now. But before I could even begin my plan for the afternoon, Rob appeared out of the crowd, dragging Spike, who was making heroic efforts to bite unwary passing birders.

  “Could you hang on to Spike while I run into the general store?” Rob asked, holding out the leash.

  “They don’t mind dogs in the general store,” I said.

  “They mind Spike, ever since he took a chunk out of that woman who runs the gift shop,” Rob said. “And Mother sent me to fetch some cream for Dad’s coffee when he wakes up.”

  “Oh, all right,” I said.

  I watched as Rob ambled across the muddy square and disappeared into the general store.

  “Help me keep an eye out for Rob,” I said.

  “Why?” Michael asked. “Is he in danger?”

  “He will be if he tries to sneak off and leave me with Spike,” I said. “If the general store had a back door, I wouldn’t have let him out of my sight.”

  But while we stared at the door, watching for Rob’s reappearance, a commotion elsewhere in the square distracted us. Mrs. Peabody, the stout birder, had intercepted Jeb and Mamie and was haranguing them. She was thrusting something at them, and they were backing hastily away from her. After several attempts to give them whatever she was holding, Mrs. Peabody shook her finger at them.

  “What’s got them all fired up?” came a voice from behind us. I glanced up, to find Ken Takahashi looking over our shoulders. I deduced from the little bits of cork all over his clothes that he hadn’t had much fun opening his Chardonnay.

  “The murder, of course,” Michael said. Takahashi shuddered.

  “Do you have any idea if the ferry’s running today?” he asked, zipping up his parka.

  “No, but I bet they know over at the general store,” I said. “Let’s go and ask.”

  “Are we really that interested in the ferry’s whereabouts?” Michael asked as the three of us strolled across the street.

  “I’m more interested in Rob’s whereabouts,” I said. “He’s been in there long enough to buy a case of cream. If he’s gone off and left us with Spike, Jeb may have another homicide on his hands.”

  “She’s only kidding,” Michael said quickly. Takahashi looked as if he didn’t quite believe him.

  The locals all looked up when we entered, and several of them actually nodded. I stayed near the door, where they’d be less likely to object to my bringing in Spike. Evidently, Takahashi hadn’t quite given up the idea of charming the locals o
ut of their real estate. He pasted a bright smile on his face.

  “My God, it’s like the North Pole out there,” he said, shoving back the hood of his parka and shaking himself.

  A couple of the locals huddling around the fire frowned. I suspected that any second we’d start hearing mutters about “weak-livered city folk.”

  “What brings you here, Mr. Takahashi?” Jeb Barnes asked.

  “Do you know if the ferry’s running today?”

  “Doubt it,” Jeb said. “Why?”

  “I’d like to know how much longer I have to stay in this hellhole,” Takahashi said, his charm slipping for a moment.

  The native Monheganites bristled visibly at this. Even Takahashi noticed, and he returned to full-blown salesman mode.

  “I mean, it’s all very well for you hardy New England types, but I’m from Atlanta,” he said. The drawl was heavier than before; he made it sound as if the name Atlanta had at least twelve syllables. “I can deal just fine with ninety-eight in the shade and near one hundred percent humidity. But this kind of weather—call me a wimp, but I just don’t understand how y’all can bear it. I’d have double pneumonia half the time if I lived here. In fact,” he said, sniffling audibly, “I think I am coming down with something now. I don’t suppose I could buy a cup of hot tea?”

  “I can put the teakettle on,” Jeb said. “We don’t have fancy herbal teas, though, like they do down the street. Just plain old supermarket tea.”

  “As long as it’s hot,” Takahashi said.

  “I wouldn’t mind some myself,” Michael said. “What about you, Meg?”

  “Actually, we’re just looking for my brother, Rob,” I said. “You haven’t—”

  Just then, the door flew open and a swarm of birders burst into the store.

  “That’s him! That’s him!” they shouted, pointing to Ken Takahashi.

  CHAPTER 22

  Tell Me How Long the Puffin’s Been Gone

  I was afraid the birders planned to lynch Takahashi, for some unknown reason. And when I looked around for Jeb Barnes, I found that he’d slipped away into the store’s back room. Ostensibly to put the teakettle on, I supposed, though surely he could hear the commotion out here in the store. Takahashi quailed behind Michael. I was relieved to see a few familiar faces entering at the tail end of the birder mob, including Winnie and Binkie.

  “Now then, let’s calm down,” Binkie called out in a surprisingly penetrating voice. “Let’s have a little order here!”

  The shouting died down, and the birders stood back as Binkie pushed her way to the front of the crowd.

  “One of you tell me what’s going on here,” Binkie ordered. “Just one!” she added as several birders began to speak.

  Mrs. Peabody stepped forward and pointed a quivering hand at Ken Takahashi.

  “He’s the one!” she said.

  “What one?” I asked. “Do you mean you think he’s the murderer?”

  “Well, that’s for the police to find out, isn’t it?” Mrs. Peabody said. “All I know is, he’s the one pretending to be a birder.”

  “Pretending to be a birder?” I said. I glanced at Takahashi, somewhat disappointed. I’d hoped the phony birder would turn out to be our missing biographer. Ken Takahashi seemed too down-to-earth to have written that much purple prose. Still, a way of testing the possibility occurred to me.

  “Walking around, pretending to be one of us, when he doesn’t know a tern from a seagull,” Mrs. Peabody said. “Probably in league with that lunatic who was trying to wipe out the bird population of the island.”

  Considering what Takahashi and Resnick had planned for the island, she wasn’t that far off the mark.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Takahashi said. He reached inside his coat, probably to pull out his business cards. “I’m—”

  “Mr. Takahashi!” I snapped. He froze. In fact, everybody froze.

  “Hold on a second,” I told Mrs. Peabody, the ringleader.

  “If you don’t mind …” I said to Binkie. She looked puzzled, but nodded.

  I handed Spike’s leash to Michael, drew Takahashi aside, and spoke to him in an undertone.

  “Are you sure you want to tell them what you do? These are rabid environmentalists. They’re very militant about development.”

  Takahashi turned pale.

  “What am I supposed to tell them?” he asked.

  A thought struck me.

  “What do you know about the Unheralded Genius of the Down East Coast?” I asked, recalling the subtitle of Resnick’s biography.

  “It’s another of those birds, isn’t it?” Takahashi said without enthusiasm.

  “‘Who could have predicted this event, at once so joyous and so tragic?’” I quoted. “‘Who can calculate the import this occurrence would present upon his life and art?’”

  Takahashi began edging away from me. Okay, so he wasn’t the biographer. Just checking.

  “Inside joke,” I said. “Just leave it to me.”

  “What’s going on anyway?” Mrs. Peabody asked, tapping her foot with impatience.

  As Takahashi continued to sidle farther away, I beckoned Mrs. Peabody to join me—which took her out of earshot of the other birders.

  “You can’t reveal this to a soul,” I said in a low voice.

  “No, of course not,” she said eagerly.

  “Are you familiar with the Unheralded Genius of the Down East Coast?” I said.

  “No,” Mrs. Peabody said, looking at Takahashi. “Is that him? What’s he supposed to be a genius at?”

  Okay, so neither of the Peabodys was masquerading as James Jackson, either. It was worth a shot.

  “Well, I can’t say too much—but would it surprise you to learn that a certain environmental organization had taken an interest in Victor Resnick’s less savory activities?”

  Takahashi looked as if it would surprise the hell out of him, but he managed a feeble smile when Mrs. Peabody put on her reading glasses and inspected him at length.

  “Well, that’s quite a different kettle of fish,” she said finally. Takahashi must have passed muster; she grabbed his hand and shook it vigorously for several seconds. “Carry on, then!” she ordered before turning on her heel and beginning to shoo the other birders out of the room.

  “No, it’s not what we thought,” I heard her telling several people. “I can’t talk now, but I’ll tell you all about it later.”

  So much for not telling a soul.

  “What am I supposed to do now?” Takahashi asked.

  “As little as possible, until the ferry comes,” I suggested.

  “Right,” Takahashi said, looking around nervously. “You really think one of them would harm me?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “But if I were you, I wouldn’t take chances. For all we know, one of the birders could have knocked off Victor Resnick. If some kind of environmental vigilante is running around loose on the island, you don’t want to make yourself the next target, do you?”

  “But what am I supposed to do if they ask me why I’m here?” Takahashi said, looking perplexed.

  “Tell them you’re under orders not to reveal that information,” Michael said.

  “Whose orders?” Takahashi persisted.

  “Mine,” I said. “But don’t tell them that, of course. Just say orders.”

  “Right,” Takahashi said.

  “And stop the masquerade; just carrying around a pair of binoculars isn’t going to make anyone think you’re a birder.”

  “Binoculars? I don’t even own binoculars.”

  Well, that was odd. Had the birders imagined the binoculars, or was there another imposter masquerading as a birder?

  But before I could interrogate him further, Mrs. Peabody burst back into the room.

  “Is there something else wrong, Mrs. Peabody?” I asked.

  “There certainly is,” she boomed. “Look at this!”

  She thrust something under my nose.

  For a split second,
I wasn’t sure what it was. And then I realized that it was a puffin. Not one of the plush stuffed puffins from Mamie Benton’s shop. Right general size, shape, and color. But even a stuffed puffin left out overnight in the hurricane wouldn’t be quite such a limp, bedraggled mess. This was the real thing. Or had been, when it was alive.

  “I thought the puffins were long gone by now,” Michael said. “Out to sea for the winter or something.”

  “Well, this one obviously wasn’t in any shape to make the trip,” I said. “Where was it anyway?”

  “Down by Victor Resnick’s house,” she said. “Near that tidal pool you found him in. The poor thing was probably his last victim.”

  “And when did you find it?”

  “An hour ago,” she said.

  “An hour ago?” I echoed. Something about this didn’t make sense. “Would you mind showing us where?”

  “Not at all,” said Mrs. Peabody. To my relief, she whisked the dead puffin out from under my nose and began striding toward the porch steps. “It’s about time somebody did something about this! Clearly the local authorities aren’t going to take any action!”

  I looked around for Rob, but he had fled, and Mrs. Peabody was rapidly disappearing.

  “Arg!” I exclaimed, taking the end of Spike’s leash. “Come on, you little monster.”

  He followed me, barking with glee. As I expected, I had to pick him up and carry him after about fifteen feet—although, to his credit, he managed to pick up a remarkable amount of new mud during his short time on the ground.

  To my dismay, other birders began following Mrs. Peabody as she strode through town. I suppose, given the weather, there wasn’t all that much else for them to do, since most of the birds remained sensibly out of the rain. We had collected fourteen or fifteen stragglers by the time we reached Resnick’s house. Mrs. Peabody led us past the house and down to the tidal pool, along the path the rising tide had prevented Michael and me from using yesterday.