Murder With Puffins Page 21

  “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 advice,” 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 overactive 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.

  “Hypothetically, if I were representing any parties involved in the situation you des
cribe, 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, well-bred 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.

  Mamie had raised her hand to knock again when the door opened slightly, with the sort of creak they use in movies to suggest that maybe this is a door you’d be better off not entering. But there wasn’t a monster or a wicked witch hiding behind the door. Just poor Rhapsody, who peeked through the narrow opening as if she were the one expecting monsters.

  “Rhapsody, we’re so sorry to intrude, but Meg’s parents want to buy a painting,” Mamie said.

  Rhapsody didn’t seem reassured by Mamie’s words, but after staring at us blankly for a few seconds, she opened the door a little wider and scuttled back to let us pass.

  “I’ll make tea,” she murmured, and fled down the tiny hallway while Mamie led us into the living room. I instantly wished I’d suggested inviting Rhapsody down to the general store or to Mamie’s house. Her decor gave me galloping claustrophobia. Not so much the furniture, although she had too much of it—fussy little chairs that would collapse instantly under anyone over a hundred pounds; rickety-looking tables about to overturn under their loads of knickknacks; spindly cabinets whose glass fronts bulged outward from the further hoard of knickknacks within. You could have sewed all the frayed antimacassars and antique doilies together to make several bedsheets, and from the number of puffin-related items among the knickknacks, I gathered that Rhapsody was Mamie’s best customer.

  And apart from the black and white of the puffins and the various wood tones, everything in the room was colored some shade of lavender, purple, or lilac.

  Everything also carried a visible coating of dust. I sneezed four times while poking around the room to find a chair I would feel safe sitting on.

  Mamie beamed with pride at the decor. Dad gazed at me, clearly awaiting brilliant deductions. I could tell Michael wanted to make a break for the wide-open spaces. I tried to stifle my sneezes by concentrating on the pictures on the wall. She had about thirty of them, all book covers or illustrations from the Puffin Family series. At the lower left-hand corner of every painting was Rhapsody’s signature—a fussy, overelaborate design, barely recognizable as the letter R, in luminous purple paint.

  Rhapsody emerged from the kitchen, wearing a frilly lavender dress that served very well as camouflage, considering her decor. She carried a tray, from which she handed out tea in eggshell-thin antique china. The idea of actually grasping the delicate gold-and-lavender handle of the cup was more than I could manage; I was sure to break it. Besides, I could tell
from the smell that she’d made some kind of odd-tasting herbal muck. So I cleared a space among the fragile-looking knickknacks on the doily-covered end table, set down my cup, and tried not to watch what Dad was doing with his.

  “By the way, before we talk about the painting, I have a question about puffins,” I said.

  “I don’t really know that much about them,” Rhapsody said, her voice hardly more than a whisper. “I just paint them.”

  “Yes,” I said. “That’s what I wanted to ask you about.”

  She smiled nervously. I got the idea that four people were almost more of an audience than she could handle. I felt a sudden surge of impatience and claustrophobia and decided not to waste time beating around the bush.

  “You had a dead puffin you used as a model, right?” I asked. “You kept it in your freezer.”

  She stiffened but said nothing.

  “Oh, come on, Rhapsody,” I said. “We saw you down by Victor Resnick’s house on the day of the murder and—”

  Rhapsody shrieked, burst into tears, and threw herself on the sofa. Mamie Benton hurried over and began patting her back.

  “There, there,” she said, glaring at me. “That wasn’t a very funny joke, but I’m sure Meg didn’t mean anything by it.”

  Mamie acted as if she’d caught me torturing a small child, which I suppose wasn’t far from the truth. Dad had that “I’m disappointed with you” look, and even Michael seemed rather uncomfortable.

  “I didn’t do it on purpose!” Rhapsody wailed. “It was an accident! Honestly!”

  Rhapsody lapsed into hysterical sobs. The others gaped when they heard her words, and Mamie froze, her hand still outstretched toward the sobbing woman’s shoulder.

  “You don’t mean—” She gasped.

  “Aha!” Dad said. “I knew you’d solve this!”

  “She can’t possibly have done it!” Mamie wailed. “Oh, this is awful!”