bumped off by tourists or summer people instead of by some good, solid, salt-of-the-earth Monheganite.
The weather outside had gone beyond frightful. The wind drove the rain into our skin like cold needles, and at times we had to clutch fences and buildings to keep from being knocked down.
We seriously contemplated taking refuge for a while in the village church. Candlelight flickered invitingly in the windows, and the birders camping inside were having a splendid time, despite the lack of creature comforts. We could hear a spirited rendition of 'Kumbayah' in three-part harmony.
'I'm not looking forward to going back to the cottage without Dad,' I shouted over the wind as we struggled down the lane. Is the wind really that much worse, I wondered, or does it just seem that way this close to the water?
'Your mother will be frantic,' Michael shouted back as we paused for a moment to steady ourselves.
'I'm already frantic,' I bellowed back. 'But there's no way we can keep looking when the storm's like this. We'll just have to hope that he's got the sense to--my God, what was that?'
Michael raised his arm instinctively to shield me as a gust of wind slammed a large metal object down the road a few inches in front of our feet and then swept it over the side of the road and down toward the beach. I could hear a metal clanging noise as it hit the rocks of the breakwater below.
'An aluminum lawn chair, I think,' Michael answered, staggering over to the edge of the road. 'It almost--oh no!'
I straggled to his side and peered over the edge of the road. I could see someone crouching on the rocks, perilously close to the edge of the water.
Mother.
Chapter 14
'Why on earth is she out in this weather?' I asked. Normally, we could barely coax Mother out on the deck on a perfect summer day, and even then she'd be well nigh invisible beneath the sunblock, the giant sunglasses, the parasol, and the mosquito hat. But for her to go out in the hurricane…
'She must be in a panic about your dad,' Michael said, echoing my thought. 'We'd better go rescue her.'
We crawled down the breakwater toward her. She clung to a rock with one hand, but when she saw us coming, she waved at us with--What the devil did she have in her other hand?
An umbrella. Or what remained of one after the wind had turned the frame inside out and ripped away all but a few shreds of fabric.
'Hello, dears,' she said when we reached her side. 'I'm very glad to see you. I've hurt my ankle and I was beginning to wonder how I'd get home.'
'What on earth are you doing out here?' Michael asked.
'Looking for James. Have you found him yet?' she asked. Beneath her usual calm tone was an edge of panic. Or was it pain? Either way, I'd have given anything to have some good news to tell her.
'Not yet, and there's no way we can keep looking at night, not in this weather,' I said as calmly as I could manage. 'I'm sure he's holed up somewhere and we'll find him in the morning.'
She looked at me for a few seconds, and I tried to project calm, reassurance, and confidence. But after thirty-odd years, I should have known better than to try fooling her. She nodded slightly, and I could see her jaw clench.
'Let's continue this back at the house,' Michael said. 'Can you walk?'
'No, dear,' she said. 'I think I must have done something unfortunate to my ankle.'
I twitched up the hem of her skirt and took a look. Yes,
'Good grief,' I said. 'It's no wonder you hurt yourself, wearing these things. Why didn't you put on a pair of sneakers or something? Something practical you could walk in.'
'I walked all over Paris in these,' she said. 'They're the most practical ones I have with me.'
'You should have borrowed a pair of mine.'
'At least these fit,' she retorted. She had a point; her feet were three sizes smaller than mine. But still…
'We'll have to carry her,' I said, turning to Michael.
Just then a wave, slightly larger than the rest, lapped over Mother's foot.
'I think I'm ready to leave now,' she said, clutching Michael's hand.
I couldn't help thinking, as we half-pulled, half-carried Mother home, how much easier it had been with Resnick--even though he'd been a deadweight and Mother helped as much as she could. But the storm had gotten so much worse in the last couple of hours. And then again, we didn't have to worry about hurting Resnick; Mother was fighting back tears of pain by the time we finally staggered up the front steps of Aunt Phoebe's cottage.
Mrs. Fenniman leapt up from the couch when we sloshed into the living room.
'Good heavens, Margaret,' she exclaimed. 'I thought you were upstairs napping!'
'Napping?' Mother snapped back. 'Napping, with James out there in the storm, and for all we know--' She stopped, and settled for frowning at Mrs. Fenniman.
'Well, what do you two have to say for yourselves?' Mrs. Fenniman said, turning on us. 'Have you managed to find anyone?'
'We haven't found Dad, we haven't found Aunt Phoebe, and someone knocked off Victor Resnick,' I said.
'Knocked off?' Mrs. Fenniman exclaimed. 'As in murdered?'
'Oh my God,' Mother murmured. 'You should be out looking for your father.'
'That's what we've been doing,' I said. 'But we can't possibly do any good right now; we'll go out again in the morning, assuming the storm has let up and there's a ghost of a chance of finding him without killing ourselves in the process.'
'But we can't just leave him out there in the storm!' she protested, blinking back tears.
'Mother, he has his knapsack,' I said. 'Which means he's got supplies--food, water, Gatorade, flares, a flashlight, a first-aid kit, and even that silver blanket that's supposed to help you retain ninety-five percent of your body heat. He's got everything he needs to survive.'
Except, of course, for the common sense that would have kept him from venturing out into the storm in the first place, but I wasn't going to bring that up.
Just then, the front door burst open and Rob stumbled in, bringing a gust of wind and spray with him. He had to struggle to close the door, then leaned against it, panting.
'It's impossible out there,' he said finally. I glanced at Mother's face and had to look away.
'Come on, let's get you patched up,' Mrs. Fenniman said, helping Mother toward the stairs. Mother stopped at the bottom step and fixed me with her sternest glance. She looked at me for a full minute, as if it were my fault Dad had gone off on another crazy expedition.
'First thing in the morning,' she said. And then she shook off Mrs. Fenniman and limped up the stairs by herself, leaning heavily on the banister all the way.
Michael, Rob, and I fetched dry clothes and they chivalrously insisted I take first turn in the shower. I would have loved to stand under the spray for an hour, until I felt really warm again, but I knew the meager hotwater supply would barely let all three of us wash off our coatings of mud.
'I suppose I should fix something for us to eat,' I said, slumping on the couch as I dried my hair.
'I'll do it after my shower,' Michael said.
'Leave the cooking to me,' Mrs. Fenniman said. 'You come and tell me about the murder.'
'Dinner sounds like a good idea,' Rob said, disappearing into the bathroom. 'I'll be out in half an hour.'
'Don't you dare use all the hot water, Rob,' I called. 'Leave some for Michael.'
'Don't worry about it,' Michael said. 'I'll manage.'
