Murder With Puffins (8 page)

After that brief flurry of excitement, we resumed our shopping quest and finally ended up down by the ferry dock in the only gift shop still open--probably because it doubled as the island-side office for the ferries.

We flung open the shop door, shook ourselves like large dogs, and said good morning to the shopkeeper and her one other customer. The shopkeeper was a stout sixtyish woman, sensibly dressed in boots, jeans, and several layers of sweaters. I couldn't remember her name--probably a subconscious form of revenge, since during my last visit to Monhegan I'd tried, without success, to get her to sell my ironwork in her shop.

The other occupant was a rather odd-looking woman in her forties, dressed in a peculiar multilayered medley of black, purple, and violet, topped with a limp lavender-trimmed straw hat. Not one of the birders, obviously; probably an artist or craftswoman.

"My God," Michael said, looking round. "Is the puffin the state bird here or something?"

He had a point; the shop was a puffin lover's paradise. Puffin posters, puffin T-shirts, puffin sweatshirts, puffin key chains, and so many stuffed toy puffins of all sizes that the place looked like Santa's workshop on December 23.

"We're very proud of our puffins," said the shopkeeper. "Maine is the only state in the union that actually has nesting puffins."

"Yes, so Meg's aunt Phoebe has told us," Michael said, breaking in to stem the tide of puffin lore.

"Oh, you're Meg?" the shopkeeper said. "I didn't recognize you; it's such a long time since you've been here. Your father's told us about all your detective adventures this summer."

I winced. I should have known that my mystery-buff dad couldn't spend five minutes anywhere without bragging about his daughter, who had actually solved a real live murder. Listening to Dad, you'd think any minute I'd quit my career as a smith and open up a detective agency.

"You know, we never did finish those arrangements for selling some of your ironwork here in the shop," the woman went on.

I snapped to attention. A more accurate statement would be that I'd never convinced her my occasional summers on the island constituted enough of a local tie to warrant my inclusion in the "Crafts of Monhegan" section of the shop. But if my past summer's adventures had made me notorious enough to interest her, thus opening up a profitable new market--well, I wasn't about to let the opportunity go to waste.

In minutes, the shopkeeper and I were deep in discussions of the quantity and type of merchandise she thought she could use and whether she would buy them outright or take them on consignment Michael wandered off to inspect the puffin paraphernalia, and after a few minutes, the woman in lavender picked up her purse.

"Bye, Mamie" she whispered, and slipped out of the store.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to drive a customer away."

"Oh, she's not a customer," Mamie said. "That's one of our other island celebrities. That's Rhapsody." From the tone of voice, I suspected Rhapsody was one of those people who strenuously resisted admitting that they owned a last name. And that she was somebody I ought to have heard of.

"Rhapsody?" I said.

"You know, she does the children's books. They call her the 'Puffin Lady of Monhegan.'"

"Oh, the Happy Puffin Family," I said.

"That's right," she said, beaming.

I hadn't actually heard of the Happy Puffin Family before, but though my detective skills are overrated, they were sufficient to let me spot the giant display of Happy Puffin Family books right beside the cash register.

"I keep meaning to read one of her books," I said. "I'm sure my sister, Pam, has some around the house for her kids, but I never find the time when I'm home."

"Oh, they're wonderful!" Mamie exclaimed.

While Michael continued to inspect puffin tea towels and puffin ashtrays with a suspiciously serious look on his face, I poked through the display rack. Evidently, the Puffin Lady was reasonably prolific; the shopkeeper had at least a dozen titles displayed.

Even as a child, I had what Dad called a "deplorably literal streak." When presented with a book that was part of a series--
The Borrowers
, for example, or
Little House on the Prairie
--I would insist on beginning with the first in the series and working my way through in order. I therefore examined the copyright dates and passed up
Puffin in the Rye
("The Happy Puffin Family Visits a Farm!")
The Daring Young Puffin on the Flying Trapeze!
("The Happy Puffin Family Visits the Circus!"), and
Snow Falling on Puffins
("The Happy Puffin Family Goes Sledding!") in favor of the original volume,
Hark the Herald Puffins Sing
("Christmas with the Happy Puffin Family!").

I hoped the Puffin Lady's artistic and literary skills had improved over time. I wasn't much impressed with either in her first opus. The puffins looked vaguely inauthentic--either she didn't draw all that well or perhaps she had taken liberties with their anatomy to make them more anthropomorphic. Or perhaps it was the props and costumes. She liked decking the poor birds out in brightly colored bits of human clothing, or having them carry things like yo-yos and lollipops. They were colorful and eye-catching. But she hadn't succeeded in making them all that appealing, as far as I could see; in fact, they looked faintly reptilian. I saw more charm in one mass-produced plush stuffed puffin from the gift shop than in Rhapsody's whole book.

It was the beaks and the eyes. The puffins' beaks might be picturesque and unusual, but they weren't designed for expressing human emotion. Whatever charm the Puffin Lady had tried to create with cute little props and costumes, she hadn't managed to make those huge cartoonlike beaks look any different. Happy, sad, angry, or surprised, the puffins all had the same lack of expression. And the eyes--maybe it's just me, but I've always found birds' eyes a little cold and alien. You get the feeling they're off thinking strange, fluttery little splinter thoughts; and you hope it's all about seeds and nuts and where to find a birdbath, and not something like acting out in real life their great-greatgrandfathers' starring roles in
The Birds.
Maybe I'd done her artistic skills an injustice. Rhapsody had captured everything I disliked about birds' eyes so accurately that a chill went down my spine.

"You're not really thinking of buying that," came a voice, interrupting my thoughts.

I looked up, to see one of the birders, a matronly woman who had both the inevitable binoculars and a pair of reading glasses dangling over her ample bosom, not to mention a camera hanging by a strap from her wrist. I wasn't sure, but I thought she might be one of the birders who'd snapped pictures of the lunatic shooting at us, so I resolved to be as polite as possible.

"Just trying to see what the fuss is all about," I said. "She seems such a local celebrity."

"I can't for the life of me see why," the birder said. "It's not as if she's particularly good at it."

Actually, I agreed, but the birder's bullying manner irritated me, so I said only, "Oh, really? How so?"

"Her stuff's shockingly inaccurate," the birder said with a sniff. "Shoddy research all around. Worse than useless from a scientific point of view."

I looked back at the brightly colored page, where the Happy Puffin Family was sitting down to Christmas dinner. The little Puffins, complete with napkins tied bib-fashion around their necks, looked eagerly toward their mother--you could tell her by the flowered hat. Mama Puffin stood beside the table, holding a giant covered dish with the tips of her wings. I flipped the page. The dish now rested in front of Papa Puffin, who was about to wield a carving knife on its contents--not turkey, thank goodness, but an enormous smiling fish. The small Puffins jumped up and down in their seats, and even the main course looked implausibly cheerful, as if they hadn't quite gotten around to telling him exactly what role he was to play in the upcoming feast.

"I didn't realize she intended to be accurate," I said, flipping the page again and holding up a scene of the Happy Puffin Family sledding. "I mean, I'm sure she realizes that puffins don't actually wear little red mufflers and woolly caps."

"I'm not talking about the anthropomorphizing," the birder said. "That's silly, but not actually harmful, considering the age group. But look at their bills! And their plumage!"

A plump beringed finger, quivering with indignation, planted itself just below the picture of little Petey Puffin. I had to admit, I didn't like the look of him, but I had no idea what she thought was wrong with him. I noticed that, like bird guidebooks, the Puffin Lady never showed her subjects head-on. The Puffin Family invariably stood in profile. She must copy them from bird books, I realized. That would account for the strangely mechanical and puppetlike quality. But no; if she copied them from bird books, then they'd be accurate, wouldn't they? And then the birders wouldn't complain.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm not awfully knowledgeable about puffins. What's wrong with it?"

"This is not the picture of an immature puffin," the birder said. "An immature puffin looks like this." She plopped one of the ubiquitous blue bird guides open atop
Hark the Herald Puffins Sing
and pointed out a black-and-white shape. "And he's in breeding plumage. By Christmas, adult puffins have long since shed their colorful bill plates and their faces darken. Like this," she added, indicating yet another black-and-white shape.

I studied the page before me. Yes, the puffin in winter was a drab bird indeed compared to what he would look like in mating season. I'd almost have taken him for a different species. And all the Puffin Family were in breeding plumage, right down to diaper-clad baby Patty.

"I see what you mean," I said. I didn't add that I didn't see what was so important about the distinction. Perhaps they planned to haul Rhapsody before the Audubon Society on morals charges for turning an infant puffin into some kind of avian Lolita.

I was relieved when Michael joined us. Probably not an accident; we'd both become a little wary of the more rabid birders.

"Found something interesting," he said, holding up the back cover of another book. "Look familiar?"

He held out an oversized art book--a collection of Victor Resnick's paintings. On the back of the book was a picture of our gun-toting lunatic. Only in the picture, he wore a clean fisherman's sweater, his hair and beard were combed, and he looked quite distinguished. The picture was in three-quarters profile. Resnick's chin was lifted, and he gazed into the distance with a lofty, otherworldly look. He really appeared every bit the distinguished artist, already planning his next brilliant work.

"Yes, that's the jerk," I said. "Almost wouldn't have recognized him."

I turned the book over and began leafing through it. I sighed. The man might be a jerk, but he was definitely a talented jerk.

"Someone should do something about that horrible man," the birder said.

"Well, Mrs. Peabody, that's very difficult," Mamie said. "He's quite an important person…."

"That's irrelevant," I said, glad to find a conversational topic other than puffins. "I don't care how important they are, people can't run around shooting off rifles or shotguns or whatever he's using."

"My God!" exclaimed Mrs. Peabody. "He's not shooting them, is he? I'd heard about the electric shocks; we've gotten up a petition about it. But this is beyond all belief! Shooting the birds!"

She whirled and ran for the door, knocking down a stack of stuffed puffins on her way.

"We can't let him get away with this," she shouted. "There's not a moment to lose!"

"Wait," I called, starting after her. "I didn't say he was shooting the birds; I just said he was shooting at us!"

But Mrs. Peabody didn't hear me. And the electric lights chose that moment to flicker and die. In the sudden near darkness, I tripped over the fallen puffins and sent the rack of Rhapsody's books sprawling. Mamie scurried over to pick them up while Michael leapt to my side and spent rather more time than strictly necessary making sure I'd suffered no damage in the fall. By the time he finally relented and helped me to my feet, the birder had vanished.

"Don't worry about it," Michael said as we pitched in to put the book display back together again.

"She'll tell everyone Resnick is shooting birds," I said. "They'll probably all go hiking up to confront him."

"And either they'll lynch him or he'll shoot one of them, and either way, maybe you won't have to file charges against him."

"Are you going to file charges against him?" Mamie asked, wide-eyed.

"Yes, at least if Constable Barnes ever takes me seriously."

"Good," she said, patting my shoulder with approval. "Someone needs to do something about that man. He's absolutely beastly to poor Rhapsody. She had a one-woman show here last summer of some of her paintings from the books. You should have heard some of the things he said to her. Absolutely savage. Someone really ought to do something. Do you have any matches?"

I thought for a moment she was enlisting us to help burn Resnick at the stake, but apparently she'd decided the power wasn't coming back anytime soon. She pottered through her drawers until she found some matches, then began lighting oil lamps.

I glanced back at the book of Resnick's paintings. I'd paused at a painting of the Black Head. He'd precisely captured the way the sky had looked all day; only slightly cloudy, but somehow full of vague future menace. I could imagine what he would have to say about poor Rhapsody's puffins.

"She went into quite a slump and almost missed her deadline for
Puffin in the Rye
" Mamie said. "I really thought for a while she'd give up painting entirely."

I continued to leaf through the book of Resnick's work while Michael bought a puffin sweatshirt for his mom. I was torn. The more I looked at the paintings, the more I wanted to buy the book; Resnick had really captured the beauty of the island in a way that photographs couldn't quite manage. But I didn't want to risk the shopkeeper's disapproval. And for that matter, I had mixed feelings about giving any support, financial or otherwise, to the wild-eyed lunatic who'd fired a gun at me and built that horrible eyesore on one of my favorite parts of the island. Ironically, the book even included several paintings of the picturesque shack he'd demolished.