'No, and I'm sure your mother and father weren't expecting that dreadful Resnick person to be here,' Binkie said. 'Terribly awkward, under the circumstances.'
'Awkward?' I repeated.
'Oh, leave it alone, Binkie,' Winnie said. 'It's all over and done with.'
I felt a little miffed at their quick dismissal of our ordeal. Unless by 'awkward' they meant some past conflict--perhaps this wasn't the first time Victor Resnick had taken violent measures against trespassers. Perhaps it wasn't the first time Aunt Phoebe had attempted to thrash him.
'And do be careful,' Binkie added. 'I've heard reports of an imposter running around the island.'
'An imposter?' I echoed.
'Yes, someone carrying binoculars and a bird book and pretending to be one of us, when he doesn't know a tern from a seagull,' Winnie said, frowning. 'Up to no good, whoever he is, if you ask me.'
But before I could ask what possible harm the so-called imposter could do, Winnie and Binkie spotted another party of birders down the road and tripped off to compare notes.
I shrugged. The fake birder wasn't my problem; my family, on the other hand…
'I wonder if it was wise, letting Aunt Phoebe run off like that,' I said, fretting.
'She's a grown woman,' Michael said as we turned into the lane to the cottage. 'She can take care of herself, and besides, the constable will referee. Let him take care of her.'
'I suppose we'll have to,' I said.
'Look, there's Rob,' Michael said. 'What's he doing there on the beach?'
'Posing,' I said. 'He probably saw us coming.'
Rob stood on the narrow strip of beach, hunched against the cold, one hand jammed in his pocket, staring out to sea. Trying, no doubt, to achieve an air of picturesque, Byronic melancholy. Someone should break the news to Rob that blondes can't do Byronic. Michael, on the other hand, managed it without even trying; I particularly liked the way the breeze ruffled the lock of hair mat had fallen over his eyes.
Then again, Michael wasn't handicapped by Spike. Rob held one end of a very long leash; on the other end, Spike was chasing the waves. When a wave fell back toward the ocean, Spike would pursue it, barking bravely, convinced he had terrified the water into flight. When the water turned and thundered back toward the beach, Spike would turn and run away, tail between his legs, howling in terror. Rob was pretending to be oblivious to the whole spectacle.
'Well, at least Spike's having fun,' I said as I drew up beside Rob.
'Miserable little mutt,' Rob muttered. 'Sorry, Michael.'
Michael shrugged.
'Don't look at me,' he said. 'The miserable little mutt belongs to my mom.'
'You think he'd get tired of it,' Rob said, frowning, as Spike chased the water back and forth again.
'I'm sure he will after a while,' I said.
'I've been here two hours,' Rob said. 'He's not getting tired. Just hoarse.'
'Well, hoarse might be an improvement,' I said. 'Why on earth have you been standing here for two hours? Is something going on?'
'Not much,' Rob said. 'Everyone's getting hysterical about some guy who's running around shooting the puffins. That's about it.'
'He's not shooting the puffins; he's shooting us. At us anyway,' I said.
'Us? You mean you and Michael?' Rob asked.
'Yes.'
'Wow, are you going to file charges?'
'Yes,' Michael said. 'And when you've passed the bar, you can handle the civil suit, if you like.'
'Cool,' Rob said. 'So what's going on with the puffins?'
'Nothing. They've left the island,' I said.
'Lucky them,' Rob muttered. 'Here, take him for a while, will you?'
'No thanks,' I said, backing away. 'We've got our hands full of groceries.'
Which was true, but Rob still glowered at me as he strode off down the beach, Spike skittering along at his heels. Michael and I headed back to the cottage.
'I wish Aunt Phoebe would come back,' I said, glancing down the lane.
'Don't worry,' Michael said. 'Everything will be fine.'
I always get nervous when people say that.
Chapter 10
'There you are!' Mrs. Fenniman said, pouncing on us the second we entered the cottage. 'It's about time someone showed up to do some work around here!'
Before we knew it, Mrs. Fenniman had drafted us into hurricane preparations. Apparently, Dad had vanished shortly after Michael and I left, leaving her with only Rob to order around.
Fortunately, Aunt Phoebe's house was built along sensible lines, with working shutters. All you had to do was close them and make sure the latch was secure, thus sparing us the nightmare of boarding and taping that some residents had to do. Rob and Dad had apparently managed to deal with the shutters before they debunked. Probably took them all of half an hour.
Michael and I weren't so lucky with the lawn and deck furniture. Before dashing off to deal with Victor Resnick, Aunt Phoebe had left orders for us to bring every movable object inside. Mrs. Fenniman took her quite literally. The deck alone housed a dozen plastic chairs, three tables, a gas grill, half a dozen sets of wind chimes, and several dozen wooden planters or clay pots, with or without vegetation. The yard contained two picnic tables, three birdbams, a rain gauge, a sundial, a second grill, a badminton net, a croquet set, a set of horseshoes, a pair of flagpoles, several dozen more flower boxes, an awesome assortment of lawn ornaments, and a never-ending supply of bird feeders and bird-houses. We finally convinced Mrs. Fenniman that the slate flagstones and the bricks bordering the flower beds could probably cope by themselves. And since the garden shed was already overflowing with junk not actively in use, we had to drag everything into the house and shove the furniture around until we could fit it all in somehow.
We had nearly finished and were looking forward to resting when Mother suddenly appeared on the upstairs landing, her hair falling down her back. She was wringing her hands, looking fit to give a bang-up performance of Ophelia's mad scene.
'Have you seen your father?' she demanded.
'Not since this morning,' I said.
'Don't worry, Margaret,' Mrs. Fenniman said. 'He'll be fine.'
'Where's Phoebe?' Mother asked.
'Up at the village,' I lied, not wanting Mother to start worrying about Aunt Phoebe, too.
'You go back to your nap,' Mrs. Fenniman put in. 'She'll be back anytime now, and James, too.'
'What if something has happened to him?'
'What could happen to him?' Michael asked.
'He said he was going to go out to Green Point and watch the hurricane hit the island,' Mother said. 'I told Phoebe not to let him go, and now she's gone, too.'
'Oh Lord. I thought he was kidding about that,' I said.
'You should know your father by now,' Mother said pointedly.
'Well, at least he didn't go off with your aunt Phoebe to tackle Victor Resnick,' Michael put in.
So much for not worrying Mother.
'Victor Resnick?' Mother repeated. 'Is he on the island?'
'Yes, why wouldn't he be?' I asked. 'He owns a house here.'
'Oh dear,' Mother said. 'Your father doesn't know Resnick is here, does he?'
