Murder With Puffins (29 page)

"I understand," he said. "It's not as if you can take it out on your dad; he didn't mean to get lost just at the one moment when we really could have used his expertise. Look, don't worry so much about Jackson; I'm sure we'll figure out some way to--"

"Great news," said Kenneth Takahashi, appearing beside us. "I mean, I'm sorry the old goat's dead, but thank God it was an accident."

I noticed that Takahashi had learned one thing from the birders at least. He had grasped the concept of protective coloration, and now he wore clothes as faded and mud-stained as the best of them.

"Well, don't let your guard down yet," I said. "Some of the birders would still give you quite a hard time if they knew why you came here."

"Oh, that's all right," he said, waving his glass genially. "If they ask me what I do, I'll tell them I'm in land use. Sounds vaguely conservationish. They seem to like that. They keep trying to feed me."

I had a sudden mental image of birders trying to coax him out of a tree with handfuls of sunflower seeds and cracked corn.

"Pity there isn't a decent restaurant on the island," he added.

"Is that your latest development project?" I asked, fearing the worst.

He shuddered.

"Good heavens, no!" he exclaimed.

"That's good," I said. "I think the people who come here like roughing it a little."

"Obviously," he said. "Each to his own; me, I plan to do everything I can to make sure I never have to come back here in my entire life. Up till now, my idea of roughing it was staying at a hotel without a four-star restaurant nearby."

Somehow, I had a feeling that Ken Takahashi's rather jaundiced view of Monhegan would soon make the rounds to every real estate development firm on the East Coast. Which should do much, I thought with satisfaction, to discourage any other developers who might have their eyes on the island.

"That reminds me of something," Michael said. "Could I have a word with you?"

He dragged Takahashi off into the corner and the two of them began an animated discussion about something. I leaned back and tried to concentrate on a yoga breathing technique that was supposed to improve one's mood.

"Meg?"

Of course, you had to do the breathing for a little more than ten seconds before it started to have any effect. I bit back an oath and opened one eye. Rob stood in front of me.

"Dr. Peabody and that other birder want their digital cameras back," he said.

"We have to give the photos to the police," I said.

"But if it's not a murder…"

"We don't know that until the police say so," I said.

"But can't we just--"

"No."

"I could download the photos if you like," Rob offered.

"Then we could just give the data files to the police."

"Good idea," I said. "Want to do it now, since the power's on?"

Rob looked plaintively at his champagne glass.

"Then I'll hold on to them until you're ready," I said. I picked up the knapsack containing cameras in question then stormed into a corner, where it was quieter.

Get over it, I told myself. What harm would it really do to let them have their silly cameras? I took the other birder's camera out of my knapsack and began flipping through the photos. I was brooding over one that showed the fateful tidal pool when Mother came up behind me and looked over my shoulder.

"Oh, what a lovely view of the shore," she said. "You should print that out and have it framed, dear."

I wondered if I should tell her that this picture showed where we'd found the body of her late beau. Better not, I decided. I flipped to the next photo, one of the tidal pool from a slightly different angle.

"I liked the first one better," Mother said. "More unspoiled."

I peered at the photo. It looked much the same as the first, except that in one corner you could see a tiny flash of orange.

"I know the electricity makes it so much easier, especially for the islanders who live here year-round," Mother said. "But I do wish they'd find a way to bury the wires, instead of having all those blue pipes and orange extension cords all over the place. So… untidy, really."

I opened my mouth to explain the impossibility of burying pipes and wires in the island's rocky terrain, then closed it again.

Mother was right. An orange extension cord.

I flipped through the rest of the photos. The extension cord appeared in several, snaking down toward the tidal pool. No wonder all the birders thought Resnick had been killing puffins. They
had
seen some kind of electrical gadget near the tidal pool.

I closed my eyes and thought back to how the pool had looked when Michael and I had found the body. No, I thought. I'd have seen an orange extension cord. It hadn't been there.

Who had moved it? And when? And for that matter, exactly where had the extension cord come from? Hard to tell from this angle. For all I knew, it came from out in the ocean.

I had to go back to Resnick's house and see.

I grabbed two flashlights, snagged one of Dad's hiking knapsacks, stuffed the digital cameras inside, and went in search of Michael.

I found him backed into a corner, enduring a lecture from two birders.

"--vital for every educated citizen to take action!" one of them was exclaiming as I walked up. He shook his finger in Michael's face. "We cannot afford to sit idly by and watch these large corporations--"

"Sorry," I said, coming up and taking Michael's arm. "Hate to interrupt you, but we have to be somewhere, remember?"

Michael started and looked at his watch.

"Oh, sorry… yes… have to run," he said as we backed away. From their expressions, I could tell the birders wanted to ask what kind of urgent appointment we could possibly have elsewhere on the island at this time of night.

"Hurry!" I stage-whispered to Michael.

We made it to the front door, grabbed two ponchos from the pile of several dozen identical drab, damp ones, and slipped out onto the front deck. Michael looked surprised when I turned on my flashlight, pulled up my hood, and headed for the driveway.

"We're not really going anywhere, are we?" he asked.

"Oh, would you rather stay here and talk to the bird-watchers? I got the distinct impression you didn't mind being rescued."

"I would rather be with you any day, even if it means circumnavigating the island again," he said with an exaggerated bow. "Only it's night, not day; and it's still rather cold and wet out here. Couldn't you have found some way to rescue me that didn't involve going outdoors?"

"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 hike 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 tomorrow. With the press hot on their heels, no doubt."