Murder With Puffins

'No, somewhere between Resnick's house and the gully,' she said.

'That only covers half the island,' I said. 'I don't suppose you could widen the search area a little?'

'I wasn't thinking about my stick,' she said. 'I was hopping mad, and I took the long way around to blow off steam. I know I'd lost my stick by the time I got to the gully, because I remember thinking I wouldn't have fallen in if I'd had it. Careless damn fool thing to do.'

Or incredibly clever, if the walking stick was the murder weapon. She had only to toss it off the cliff and no one would ever see it again. Except that I couldn't quite picture Aunt Phoebe as a murderer.

We were all silent for a few minutes.

'There's no way they could prove first-degree murder,' Rob said, finally.

'Not now, Rob,' I said.

'I mean, manslaughter's probably the most they could even hope to--'

'Shut up, Rob!'

'You didn't see James on your way home, did you?' Mother asked.

'Haven't seen him since he took off for Green Point to watch the hurricane hit the island,' Aunt Phoebe said. 'Have you looked there?'

'Yes, that's how we came to find Resnick's body,' I said.

'I'm sure something has happened to him,' Mother said.

'He'll be fine, Mother,' I said. 'He'll turn up in the morning, full of enthusiasm about what an exciting adventure he's had.'

I tried to sound as if I really believed it. I wasn't sure I'd fooled anyone. Probably not, since Michael chose that moment to take my hand and give it a reassuring squeeze. Aunt Phoebe had fallen very silent, and, worse yet, she'd stopped eating. Definitely a bad sign.

'Well, I'd better get myself off to bed,' Aunt Phoebe said, startling us by thumping the floor with her makeshift walking stick--a flagpole we'd dragged in from the porch--as she struggled to her feet. 'I want to look my best when I turn myself in tomorrow.'

'Oh, Phoebe, no!' Mother cried.

'No help for it,' Aunt Phoebe said. 'I can't keep quiet any longer and run the risk that someone innocent will suffer for my crime.'

'Ought to give you a medal, considering who you bumped off,' Mrs. Fenniman remarked.

'It doesn't matter,' Aunt Phoebe said, striking a noble pose. 'I must pay the consequences of my actions.'

'Ingrid Bergman,' I said.

Everyone looked at me as if I were crazy. Except for Michael.

'In Joan of Arc?' he asked.

I nodded.

'I can see that,' he said. 'Although actually I thought more of a Katharine Hepburn.'

'In what movie?' I asked.

'I hadn't quite figured out yet. It'll come to me.'

'Sylvia Scarlett, maybe,' I said. 'Or, better yet, Mary of Scotland.'

'Oh, that's the ticket. Definitely Mary of Scotland.'

'You're both crazy,' Mrs. Fenniman announced. 'Rob, come help your aunt and your mother with the stairs; they both need their rest.'

Michael leapt up to help as well, and after they'd hauled Aunt Phoebe and Mother upstairs, everyone drifted off to bed. Just as well. I was exhausted, too. I retrieved the folders I'd left by the umbrella stand, but then I stuffed them in my suitcase to look at in the morning and took myself to bed. I wasn't sure I could manage dawn, but I knew I'd have to get up pretty early to resume the hunt for Dad. And I wanted to tag along when Aunt Phoebe turned herself in. I didn't for a minute believe she'd murdered Resnick. I couldn't exactly say why, but her story sounded phony to me. Maybe I'd figure out why in the morning, after a good night's sleep.

Of course, a good night's sleep was exactly what I didn't get. The first couple of times I woke up, the storm had definitely gotten worse, as if the cottage were in a wind tunnel, with a herd of elephants pounding on the walls and tap-dancing on the roof. And Michael either had the world's worst case of insomnia or thought he could avert some danger by patrolling the cottage half the night, checking doors and peering out of windows. After about 2:00 or 3:00 a.m. either the hurricane started moving again or I got used to the noise, and I finally got a few hours of sleep.

Mother woke me up at dawn.

'Time to get up and start looking for your father again,' she said, leaning over me.

Spike, sleeping on my chest again, growled at her. For once, I agreed with him.

'I don't dare get up till he does,' I said, and closed my eyes again.

A few minutes later, I heard the refrigerator door opening and closing several times, followed by pots and pans rattling, and then the crinkling noise of a cellophane wrapper.

Spike lifted his head.

Mother appeared in the doorway, massaging a half-empty potato chip bag.

Spike jumped off my chest and ran over to her, wagging his tail. He followed her back into the kitchen and then out again. She no longer held the potato chip bag, and from the look on Spike's face, I doubted he'd gotten any of the contents.

'You could at least feed him, if you're going to torture him like that.'

'I'll feed him after you're gone,' she said.

'Don't leave without me,' came Aunt Phoebe's voice from above. She stumped down the stairs with her flagpole. Michael and Rob, both half-dressed, trailed after her, trying to help and being firmly shooed away.

'I'm going down to see the constable now,' she announced when she reached the ground floor.

'It's only six a.m.; does the store open this early?' I asked.

'It doesn't matter; Jeb Barnes lives behind it,' she said. 'I don't want to put it off any longer.'

'And what about the hurricane?' I asked.

'Moving out to sea,' Mrs. Fenniman said. 'We're just seeing the tail end of it now.'

She could be right, I thought; I hadn't actually heard the wind slam anything into the side of the house for the whole ten or fifteen minutes I'd been awake. Probably a good sign.

'I can't let a little rain stop me,' Aunt Phoebe said.

'I think you should have a good last meal first,' Mrs. Fenniman announced, knocking over a clump of pink plastic flamingos on her way to the kitchen.

'No, I can't think of food right now,' Aunt Phoebe said. 'I just want to look around one last time. Who knows when I'll see my own hearth again?'

I wasn't sure she could see the hearth now, considering the amount of junk in the room, but I suppose she was speaking metaphorically.

'Hang on a minute while I throw some clothes on,' I growled. 'I won't let you go into the lion's den alone.'

I suppose that struck the right melodramatic note; at any rate, she waited, tapping her foot, until I had dressed, gulped down a few ounces of coffee, and grabbed my knapsack. Then she, Michael, and I set off for the village.

Of course, we had to clear quite a bit of debris off the deck before we could escape the house. Leaves, twigs, branches, limbs, and even whole trees were strewn about everywhere, and the number of smashed lobster pots littering the landscape made me worry about how the fishermen would manage next season.

'What a morning,' I grumbled as we preceded Aunt Phoebe down the path, moving the worst of the debris out of the way as we went.

'Oh, come on; think what an interesting adventure we're having,' Michael said.

'Are you usually this cheerful in the morning?' I asked.

'Why? Is cheerful in the morning a good or a bad thing, in your opinion?'

'Cheerful's fine, as long as it's quietly cheerful until I'm completely awake.'

'I'm not awake at all myself,' Michael said. 'Never am before ten. I'm only this cheerful because I'm