sleepwalking.'
'That's much better. Sleepwalking I can understand.'
'Come on, you two!' Aunt Phoebe called out 'Look sharp up there! Can't keep the law waiting!'
'In a hurry to hang herself, isn't she?' Michael said.
'Do you mean that literally?' I asked. 'I mean, does Maine actually have capital punishment?'
'Guess we'll find out,' Michael said.
The worst of the storm appeared past, but Hurricane Gladys couldn't have gotten all that far away. It was still raining and blowing heavily, and we had trouble keeping upright. Aunt Phoebe let us help her over the rough spots until we got to the door of the general store. She insisted on walking up the steps and into the store on her own, with the help of the flagpole. Michael opened the door and Aunt Phoebe limped dramatically into the store.
Jeb Barnes already stood behind his counter, despite the early hour, and the usual collection of locals had already gathered around the stove, listening to a battery radio. Or perhaps they'd never gone home last night. Mayor Mamie sat among them, sipping a cup of coffee.
'I've come to turn myself in,' Aunt Phoebe announced in ringing tones. 'I killed Victor Resnick.'
Chapter 17
When the commotion died down, Aunt Phoebe described her confrontation with Victor Resnick with a great deal of gusto. Perhaps she had been too tired to go into much detail the night before, or perhaps she found the gang at the general store a more congenial audience. At any rate, she produced a great many more details than she had the first time around. The bit at the end, where she left Resnick lying senseless in the middle of his yard with the hurricane howling around him, was particularly effective. By the time she got to that part of her story, everyone in the general store was speechless with amazement I was surprised no one applauded. Back home, my family would have.
'Well, I guess that about wraps it up,' Jeb Barnes said, when he finally found his voice.
'So you might as well arrest me now,' Aunt Phoebe said.
The constable frowned. I suspected he was wondering what to do. I doubted the island had a jail.
'Why don't you have her go back to the cottage and consider herself under house arrest?' I said. 'It's not as if she can go anywhere before the ferry starts running.'
'Just what I was thinking,' Jeb Barnes said. 'Consider yourself under house arrest, Miss Hollingworth. Don't leave the island.'
'You'll know where to find me, Constable,' Aunt Phoebe said. She turned and limped across the room, head held high. Her grand exit was a little spoiled by the blast of wind and rain that burst into the room when she opened the door, nearly knocking her over, but she recovered rapidly and slammed the door behind her.
'What a grand old lady,' Jeb Barnes said.
Murmurs of agreement came from the crew around the stove.
'Yes, she is,' I said. 'She's not your murderer, of course; but she did make a grand confession. I almost believed it myself. But ever since she told us last night, something about her story's been bothering me, and I finally figured out what's wrong with it.'
'So what's wrong with it?' Jeb said, giving me a wary look.
'You heard what she said: They were struggling over the gun, and she rapped him on the noggin.'
Jeb looked blank.
'Oh, I see,' Michael said. 'Allow us to demonstrate.'
He plucked two umbrellas from a stack dripping by the front door and handed one to me with a flourish.
'My umbrella represents Resnick's gun, and Meg's is her aunt's stick,' he said.
Jeb nodded.
Then we pretended to grapple over the gun umbrella. Michael allowed me to wrest it away from him and then, when he tried to grab it back, I rapped him lightly on the head with the top of the walking-stick umbrella.
The crowd around the store was entranced. To my satisfaction, scattered applause greeted the conclusion of our reenactment.
'Notice anything?' I asked.
'Looked pretty authentic to me,' Mamie said, sipping her coffee. 'Pretty much as she described it.'
'Exactly,' I said. 'So if they were struggling like that, how did she hit him on the back of the head? That's where the wound was; in fact, it was pretty far down the back of the head. I can manage the forehead--like this.'
I tapped Michael on the forehead. Just at the hairline, where I remembered seeing the bruise on Resnick's face.
'I can even manage the top of the head,' I continued, demonstrating.
'But there's no way I can manage the back of the head unless he turns his back to me. Her confession doesn't hold water.'
'Then why'd she do it?' Mamie asked. 'Confess, I mean.'
'She probably feels guilty over having hit him on the head,' I said. 'She's had all night to stew about it; by this time, she probably really believes she killed him. You know my family; by tomorrow, she'll be convinced that she left him lying in a pool of blood with her stick stuck through his heart like a stake.'
The nods and chuckles from the locals around the stove showed I'd hit home. I didn't mention the other possibility: that Aunt Phoebe might be covering for someone. Mamie and Jeb looked at each other.
'Go look at Resnick's wounds if you like,' I offered. 'I'm sure you'll see what I mean.'
'No, no,' Mamie said. 'I mink you're right. We'll pass that along to the police.'
'And another thing. Jeb, remember we told you Aunt Phoebe was going up to Resnick's. And you went dashing up in Fred Dickerman's truck, right?'
He nodded warily.
'So why didn't you see this supposed murder? You couldn't have gotten there before she did, or you'd have seen her come storming up a few minutes later. And if she really left him lying dead in the middle of the yard, you'd have found him there. But you found him alive, remember? And madder than a wet hen; I believe that was the expression you used. And according to Aunt Phoebe, she left him lying dead in his yard. So how did he end up floating in the tidal pool?'
'That's right,' Jeb said. 'Guess it's not her after all.'
'No problem,' one of the locals said. 'Not as if they have to look far for a suspect.'
Murmurs of agreement followed this statement, and I could see my worst fears coming true. By the time the police arrived, the locals would have Dad tried and convicted in the court of public opinion.
Of course, at the moment, they were doing it in absentia, which reminded me of my real mission, now that we'd defused Aunt Phoebe's confession.
'By the way,' I began, but before I could get much further, the door burst open, letting in another blast of wind and water. We all turned to see who was coming in.
'Dad!' I cried, and ran over to hug the wet, bedraggled figure staggering into the store. I felt as if someone had just lifted an enormous weight from my shoulders, and I heard Michael sigh with relief.
Dad was covered with mud and had bits of leaves and twigs stuck in his eyebrows and clinging all over his clothes. The bandage was half off his head, and the gash had opened up again.
'Meg!' he said. 'And Michael! I thought I saw you two in here. What are you doing out in the storm?'
'Never mind that; where have you been?' I asked.
'I got lost and had to spend the night under a bush on the far side of the island,' he announced, as if he'd managed to pull off something clever. 'Did you miss me?'
'You have no idea,' I muttered.
'Meg, you should have seen what it was like, watching the hurricane hit!' he cried, waving his arms as if trying to imitate a gale-force wind. 'It was awe-inspiring! Invigorating! Absolutely breathtaking! I feel reborn!'
