'Now what?' Michael asked.
'Now, if you're up for it, we're going to burgle Resnick's house,' I said.
By the time we left the inn, the birders had started to emerge from shelter, although the absence of any birds to watch reduced them to wandering around marveling at the storm damage. Michael and I pretended to do the same as we strolled nonchalantly out of the village and up the path to Resnick's house.
'Would you look at that?' I said, pausing on a hilltop to look down at the glass monstrosity. 'It's a good thing Resnick isn't here.'
'You mean, apart from the fact that he'd have a clear shot at you standing there?' Michael said, joining me on the crest.
'No, I mean imagine how he'd feel if he saw what's happened to his house.'
A large branch had crashed through one of the ten-foot square glass walls flanking the front door. I counted at least two more cracked panes, and we hadn't even seen the more exposed ocean side yet.
'People who live in glass houses…' Michael began.
'Should have some way of protecting them in nor'easters,' I replied. 'I wonder if he was killed before he had a chance to board it up, or if he was really fool enough to think all that glass would survive a hurricane.'
'We'll never know. But he strikes me as the kind of guy who'd call his insurance company five minutes after it happened, demanding that they send someone out immediately to fix it'
'Only there wouldn't have been any phone service.'
'True,' Michael said. 'That would really have set him off.'
'Come on,' I said very loudly as I started down the path. 'We need to take care of this.'
'Take care of what?' Michael called after me.
'Resnick's house.'
'I thought that's what we were here for,' Michael said. 'To burgle--'
'Shh!' I hissed. 'Not so loud; there could be birders lurking in the bushes.'
'Oh, I get it,' he hissed back, and then said more loudly, 'The storm's passing; it's not likely to break any more windows.'
'Yes, but there's enough wind and rain to do considerable damage to everything inside,' I said. 'Someone should make sure anything valuable is safely stowed away.'
'Someone also wants to snoop around and see if there's any useful evidence,' Michael added more softly as he caught up with me.
'Well, that's the whole idea of burgling his house, isn't it? You didn't think I'd suddenly decided to turn daring international art thief, did you?' I asked as I picked my way carefully through the leaves and glass shards to the gaping hole by the door where the glass panel used to be. 'It's not as if anyone else is doing anything useful.'
'Everyone else is wisely waiting until the mainland authorities arrive,' Michael said, following me.
'By which time, anything could happen.' I said, stepping into the house. 'The wind and rain could reduce any important documents to papier-mache. Or break any valuable antiques. And he's sure to have paintings--'
Yes, he had paintings. I stopped just inside the hallway and stared open-mouthed at the one I saw there. Michael bumped into me.
'Sorry,' he said, grabbing me to keep from knocking me over. 'If you're going to snoop, better not get cold feet just inside the door, where your accomplices might trample you on their way in.'
'Oh my God,' I said. 'Michael, look!'
Michael followed my finger with his eyes. He looked puzzled for a moment, and then I had the satisfaction of seeing his jaw drop in amazement 'Is that who I think it is?' he asked.
'It can't possibly be,' I said.
Resnick was mostly famous for his landscapes, but, if the picture before us was anything to go by, not from any lack of talent at painting interiors or the human figure. You could almost have warmed yourself at the roaring fire in the painted fireplace, and the way the half-filled champagne flute reflected the firelight was extraordinary. You could all but feel every hair of the white bearskin rug on your own skin, and I suspect had I been a man, I'd have felt an erotic response instead of envy at the flawless skin and perfect figure of the nude blond woman sprawled on the rug. Under other circumstances, I'd have admired the painting enormously. As it was…
'That can't possibly be Mother,' I said finally.
Chapter 19
'It certainly looks like your mother,' Michael said, tipping his head to scrutinize the painting. 'Or at least looks like what I gather she would have looked like at that age, from the photo albums we looked at last night. The face anyway; I wouldn't know about the rest of it.'
'Well, yes, that's what she looked like at that age,' I said. 'As far as one can tell from pictures of her in swim-suits. But surely you don't think Mother would actually have posed for something like that?'
'It's definitely got her attitude.'
He was right. The woman in the picture lay full length on the rug, facing the viewer, her head and shoulders propped up by a couple of pillows covered with Oriental fabric. One hand was behind her head and the other held the champagne. One leg was bent slightly at the knee and the other outstretched fully, with a high-heeled fur mule dangling from the toes. Her face showed no sign of awkwardness or embarrassment, only an expression of pride and absolute confidence. I couldn't imagine Mother posing nude for a painting, but if she had decided to, I'm sure she would have stared out at the artist with just that air of arrogant self-assurance.
'She'd never wear a tacky fur slipper like that,' I said defensively. 'And the bearskin's pretty cliched, too.'
'He could have done it from photos,' Michael said.
'Of course he did it from photos,' I snapped. '
'Let's make sure it's out of the rain,' Michael said. 'We can worry about the rest later.'
We took the nude down and carried it with us into the living room.
Michael gasped. 'What a view!'
I frowned at him. My mind was still on the picture we carried, and it took me a second to realize he was talking about the room we'd entered.
A giant wall of glass gave a sweeping view of the shore and the sea--a very gray and turbulent view, at the moment. The inside was a mess, too. The panes of glass forming the wall were slightly smaller than the ones beside the door--perhaps because this was the ocean side of the house. Even so, something had bashed one of them in, and mud and leaves littered the room. Several paintings on the wall were getting a bit damp. Only landscapes, I noted with a sigh of relief.
We hauled the paintings to the driest corner of the living room and continued our explorations.
'Impressive kitchen,' Michael said. 'You could run a small restaurant out of this place.'
'Pretentious,' I said. 'I bet he hasn't cooked a dozen meals here since he moved in. Look how spotless everything is.'
'Maybe he's just a good housekeeper.'
'No,' I said. 'There's a difference between spotless from regular cleaning and spotless from disuse. This is disuse. Trust me--I know what disuse looks like from the occasional flying visit to my own kitchen.'
'Well, pretentiousness has its advantages,' Michael said. 'Take a look at this wine cellar.'
'Pretentious is right,' I said. His wine cellar was probably larger than all my closets combined. 'But what use is it? Unless you're suggesting that we take advantage of Resnick's wine collection, since he's not around to complain?'
'It's a tempting thought,' Michael said, examining the labels of a few bottles with obvious interest. 'Actually, I thought we could stash the paintings in here. No windows, and the walls are designed to protect the contents.'
'Good idea,' I said. We stowed the nude safely along one wall, then put the slightly damp landscapes from
