Murder With Puffins (7 page)

"You know perfectly well who I am!" the man shouted. He threw the rock in my direction, then reached for his gun. I quickly followed Michael's advice and we ducked behind the crest of the path, but instead of firing, the man stormed back toward the house. I suppressed a giggle; he was getting himself even grimier than before, stomping through the mud like that. And when he slammed the door, I burst out laughing: the huge, pretentious--and, no doubt, expensive--front door didn't fit quite right. Perhaps all the dampness had warped it. He had to spend several minutes wrestling it closed, his struggles clearly visible through the sweeping glass wall and slanted glass roof of the entrance hall.

"I'll refrain from saying anything about people who live in glass houses," Michael said. "But they shouldn't shoot rifles at people, either."

"And they definitely shouldn't live this close to the ocean," I said, giggling. A seagull had just flown in from the ocean, banked gracefully over the house, and landed, with a clumsy thud, on the glass roof of the entranceway, which was somewhat sheltered by the rest of the house from the full brunt of the wind. Several other gulls followed, and enough bird droppings coated the glass to show that this wasn't the first time the birds had discovered this refuge. The lunatic suddenly appeared behind the glass of the entranceway, causing both Michael and me to jump. The gulls, however, stared down unmoved as he thumped with a broom handle on the heavy plate glass beneath their feet.

"Serves him right," I said. "I hope that creep has to wash all those windows every day."

And he certainly had a lot of windows. In addition to the main house, we saw a smaller glass building nearby. A studio, apparently; while off-white curtains screened the lower six feet or so of its glass walls, from our place on the hill we could see the tips of several easels peeking over the top of the fabric. Even the nearby woodshed, while not made of glass, looked considerably newer, not to mention more expensive and stylish, than most of the actual houses on the island.

"Who on earth could possibly afford to build a place like this on Monhegan?" I wondered aloud. "Do you have any idea how much it costs to bring supplies and workmen over here?"

"Well, whoever he is, I'm sure he can afford to pay for a lawyer," Michael said. "Let's go back to the village and file charges against him."

"No sense tempting fate, though," I said. "Let's retrace our steps a bit; I think I can find a shortcut through the interior of the island."

As we retreated along the trail, I saw a flash of lavender disappear around a rock ahead of us. Somebody else watching our encounter with the mad hermit, no doubt. I nodded with satisfaction; it looked as if we'd have plenty of witnesses.

My shortcut didn't seem much shorter than going all the way back around the island, but at last we arrived at the village.

"I don't recall seeing a police station," Michael said. "Where are we going to report that lunatic?"

"There isn't a police station," I said. "They call the police over from the mainland when they need them. But a local resident acts as constable until the police arrive. Let's go into the general store and ask who it is."

We squished down the main drag until we reached the general store, then squelched up the front steps.

"I remember him," I said, pointing to a sign in the window that said
JEBEDIAH BARNES, PROPREITOR
. "His family's run this place for two or three generations now."

"That's good," Michael said. "Maybe he'll remember you; otherwise, we may have a hard time making him believe what just happened."

The store was blissfully warm inside; an old-fashioned potbellied stove burned full blast, and a small crowd of local residents sat or stood around the stove, drinking coffee and listening to what sounded like an all-weather radio station. Hurricane Gladys still hovered offshore, according to the announcer.

Michael headed for the coffeepot while I strode over to the counter where the storekeeper stood.

"Where do I find the constable?" I asked him.

"You're looking at him," he said. "Jeb Barnes. What can I do for you?"

"I'd like to report an assault," I said.

At the word
assault
, Jeb Barnes's jaw dropped, and the desultory conversation around the stove stopped cold. I could almost hear their ears turning in our direction. Jeb glanced nervously at Michael. He'd jumped to a very wrong conclusion, obviously; but at least I'd gotten his attention.

"Some lunatic fired a gun at us," I went on. "I realize you probably can't do anything until the storm passes and the ferry's running, but I'd like to make a report now so you can contact the mainland police as soon as possible."

"Fired a gun at you?" Jeb repeated. "Where?"

"We were trying to follow the public path around Puffin Point," I said.

The constable closed his eyes and sighed. Michael handed me a steaming cup of coffee and put some money down on the counter.

"Resnick again," said one of the locals by the stove.

"Crazy bastard," said another.

"Going to kill someone one of these days," said a third.

"He's done this before?" I asked. "And you haven't done anything?"

"We've formally warned him he has no right to block the path," Jeb Barnes said defensively. "And we're looking into the possibility of a lawsuit about that pile of junk he calls a house. We can't do anything about the alleged shooting incidents. No one who lives here wants to tick him off any more, and none of the damn fool tourists want to stay around to testify, so we haven't found anyone willing to press charges."

"Well, I will," I said. "I'm self-employed, so I can arrange my schedule to be here for the trial. And I'm sure Aunt Phoebe will let me use the cottage when I come back."

The constable sighed again. Here I was, offering to press charges against his biggest local scofflaw, and he wasn't acting the least bit grateful.

"You're Phoebe Hollingworth's niece?" he asked finally.

"Meg Langslow," I said, holding out my hand. Jeb Barnes shook it with obvious reluctance.

"One of them Hollingworths," I heard one of the locals mutter. "They'll take him on."

I was glad to see Mother's family name was still a force to be reckoned with here on Monhegan.

"Yeah, they're all crazy enough," agreed another local.

Well, I couldn't exactly argue with him. I heard Michael make a noise that sounded like a cough but had no doubt started out life as a chuckle. I decided to bring him onstage. Why should I have all the fun?

"And this is Michael Waterston, a family friend. I'm sure Professor Waterston will also want to press charges."

"Naturally," Michael said. "What a pity I haven't been admitted to the bar in Maine."

I had to hand it to Michael: he carried that off beautifully. Jeb Barnes turned pale.

"What about that cousin of yours in Bangor?" I said, picking up on the improvisation.

"He doesn't practice anymore," Michael said.

"Oh, I like that," I said. "Elect the guy to the legislature and suddenly he's too good to represent us common people."

"He has to avoid conflict of interest," Michael said. "But as soon as the phones are working again, I'll give him a call; I'm sure he knows someone who can help."

"You've got a cousin in the legislature?" asked one of the locals.

"A very distant cousin," Michael said.

Our joke had backfired, big-time. We spent the next half hour listening to a point-by-point analysis of a bill pending before the state legislature that Monheganites considered the last hope of preserving their lobster industry. By the end of the discussion, I still didn't understand the issue, but I had grasped that if anyone asked me where I stood on the lobster bill, I should express enthusiastic support for the town proposal and apologize for not being a registered Maine voter. Either that or turn tail and run the minute they brought up the subject.

We finally escaped, after Michael had promised to fill his cousin in on the details of the Monhegan bill. I had to admire the way he'd changed the conversation every time anyone tried to ask which legislator his cousin was. It wasn't as if we could make a name up; Maine had fewer than two hundred legislators, and the townspeople knew exactly how every one of them felt about their bill.

"And another thing," Jeb Barnes called out, following us out onto the front porch of the store. "Don't you listen to that Resnick fellow. He's got investments in foreign lobstering interests. Been spending a lot of money trying to kill our bill."

"Considering that he takes potshots at us whenever we get near him, it's not very likely we'll discuss it, now is it?" I said. "Don't forget to file my complaint with the mainland police if the phones come back up."

As I suspected, this sent Jeb scurrying back into the store.

"Everyone's quite impassioned about this lobster thing," Michael remarked.

"Well, it is the main local industry," I said.

"I thought that was tourism."

"Okay, the other main local industry. And no one's going to get all worked up about anyone preying on the tourists; they're not in short supply."

"But what am I supposed to do if someone corners me and asks about my cousin?"

"We'll ask Aunt Phoebe; she's sure to know a legislator on the right side of the issue, and she'll persuade him to adopt you."

"Speaking of your aunt Phoebe, shouldn't we get back to the house?"

"You want to go back to the house?" I said. "We'll be cooped up with my family soon enough when the hurricane actually hits. Do you really want to get a head start?"

"Well, it is warm and dry there," Michael said, pulling up the hood of his parka.

"It's warm and dry in the house," I said. "But right now I doubt if they'd let us stay inside."

"Why on earth not?"

"Look around you," I said. "What do you see?"

"Birders," he said automatically.

"Aside from the birders."

Just then, Fred Dickerman drove by at his usual breakneck speed. We leapt into some bushes by the side of the road while a flock of lady birders squawked and scattered like geese before his honking horn.

"The natives are getting hostile?" he asked.

"The natives are busy." I pointed out the half a dozen locals boarding or taping their windows, trudging back from the grocery stores with bags and boxes of supplies, and frantically trying to tie down or carry indoors every object smaller than a Volkswagen.

"With the exception of that crowd of old-timers killing time in the general store, you're right."

"If we go home now, Aunt Phoebe will find half a hundred chores for us to do, most of them outdoors," I said.

"And those same chores won't be waiting for us when we get back?"

"With any luck, she'll manage to get Dad and Rob to do quite a few of them while we're gone."

"So what should we do?" Michael asked. "I'll tell you straight out--I'm not up for another hike around the island, even if it wasn't infested with armed lunatics."

"We're going shopping," I said. "Monhegan has a few artists' studios and craft shops. You're not going to go back to Yorktown without a present for your mom, are you?"

"Now that's a good idea," Michael said.

We spent the next hour inspecting the remarkable number and variety of closed for the season signs in the windows of the island shops and studios. Some of them were genuine works of art in their own right, but I wasn't having a lot of fun viewing them on water-soaked, locked doors or through rain-splattered windowpanes while my feet remained firmly planted in the mud.

At one point, we actually saw Victor Resnick stalking down the street in a disreputable mackinaw that made him look more like a scarecrow than ever. We ducked behind a building until he'd passed.

"He doesn't have his gun," Michael reported, peering around the corner. "If I were the constable, I'd tackle him now."

"I wouldn't count on it, though," I said, getting up the nerve to poke my head out.

Resnick stood in front of the general store, talking to someone--a young Asian man.

"Who do you suppose that is?" Michael said. "Doesn't have binoculars, so I doubt he's a birder."

"Definitely not a birder," I said. "He's wearing a necktie underneath his raincoat."

"The men at the general store did say something about Resnick having ties with foreign lobstering interests," Michael said. "Maybe he's from some Japanese seafood conglomerate."

"That's possible," I said. "Although around here, the word
foreign
just means 'not from Monhegan.' But he definitely looks corporate."

Resnick's discussion with the corporate man had grown heated. They stood nose-to-nose, both talking and gesturing furiously. Resnick's complexion grew redder and redder, and he shook his finger in the Asian man's face. Obviously, our visitor from the East hadn't heard about Resnick's readiness with firearms; he gave back as good as he got. A pity the wind, rain, and surf kept us from hearing what they said. Well, if the argument turned violent, we'd have plenty of witnesses, I realized. I could see at least three other people hiding behind nearby buildings, although I had no idea whether they wanted to avoid Resnick or eavesdrop on his conversation.

Suddenly, Resnick whirled and began striding down the street the way he'd come--toward us.

"Oh my God, he's coming this way," I whispered. We both jerked back, but not so far that we couldn't see what went on.

"You can go to hell for all I care!" Resnick shouted over his shoulder.

The Asian man opened his mouth as if to reply, then stopped, took a deep breath, and shoved his hands in the pockets of his raincoat. He stood there for a few moments, staring after Resnick, then turned on his heels and began walking in the other direction.

About then, Michael and I scurried around the corner of the building to avoid Resnick. When we peeked out a minute or two later, both he and the Asian man with the necktie had disappeared.