Murder With Puffins

'Makes you wonder how he could afford to live like this,' Michael said, looking around. 'Imagine how much this house must have cost.'

'We don't have to imagine,' I said. 'We've got the files right here.'

From the house construction files, we deduced that Resnick had gotten along about as well with his architect and his general contractor as he had with the rest of humanity. He had withheld some of the money he owed them until they fixed various minute flaws. Strangely enough, though, considering the local uproar about the house, we found almost no paperwork on approval for the construction--just a standard building permit for 'renovations' signed by Mrs. M. A. Benton, Mayor.

'Renovations?' Michael exclaimed. 'Who did he think he was kidding? He definitely got special treatment. Wonder if he had some kind of hold over the mayor?'

'Pay dirt!' I shouted, holding up a stack of files. 'Here's the stuff on the resort project'

I'd found a file marked 'Coastal Properties, Ltd' and another marked 'New England Development Associates.' Both full of correspondence that would no doubt fascinate a corporate lawyer but which only reminded me how little sleep I'd gotten the night before. A third file was more interesting; it contained a map of the island, with all the property boundaries marked and a number assigned to each plot Parts of the map were colored in solid blue, parts in blue and white stripes, and a few in pink. Behind that was a list of numbers from the map, with people's names written beside them.

'What's this supposed to be?' Michael said, studying the map.

'If I'm reading this list correctly, the blue is property he owned. See, here's where we are now, in blue. The gift shop by the dock, that's in blue, too. And the blue and white stripes are places where he'd negotiated some kind of option to buy.'

'And the pink?'

'I'm guessing mere are places he'd tried and been turned down flat Yes, mere's Jeb Barnes's store in pink. Remember what Jeb said? That Resnick had tried to buy the general store and Jeb told him to take a hike?'

'Yes, but isn't that your aunt Phoebe's cottage there?'

'You're right,' I said, frowning.

'I think she'd have mentioned it if he'd tried to buy the place.'

'Maybe it just means places he expected to have problems buying,' I suggested.

'That sounds logical,' Michael said. 'He colored your aunt Phoebe's lot a particularly intense pink, compared with some of the others.'

We went on through the rest of the files, which were all marked with the names of local citizens. Some of them-- Mamie Benton's, for example--contained bills of sale. Apparently, Mamie had once owned the building in which her gift shop was located, but now she rented it from Resnick. Other files--including Frank Dickerman's file-- contained long documents in legalese. Options to buy, as far as I could tell.

But he had a file on everyone on the island, not just the property owners. And along with the contracts or details of any negotiations he'd been conducting, all the files contained notes--sometimes pages and pages of notes--about the owners, including any dirt Resnick had dug up about their personal and financial peccadilloes.

'Michael, the man was a monster,' I said after browsing in a few files. 'He was blackmailing people into selling him their property.'

'Well, he's a dead monster now, and these files could very well contain the motive for his murder,' Michael said. 'We have to turn these over to the proper authorities.'

'You mean to Mayor Benton, who, according to her file, had to sell her building to him to pay off her gambling debts and then rubber-stamped the building permit for this house to keep him quiet? Or Constable Barnes, who hadn't yet agreed to sell the store, but might have changed his mind if Resnick had threatened to tell his wife about that fling he had with Candi, the hairdresser over in Port Clyde?'

'I see your point,' Michael said. 'The mainland authorities. Well, this is interesting.'

'Whose file are you reading?'

'The Dickermans'. One of those blue-striped pieces is their house, and it was about to go solid blue.'

'Why?' I asked. 'The power company isn't making a profit?'

'The power company's doing fine, but they're probably going to lose that, too. Mr. Dickerman senior borrowed money from Resnick to bail two of his sons out of jail on charges of grand theft auto. And assault. Our charming friend Fred and a brother named Will, whom we probably won't be meeting, because he skipped out on his bail, bringing the whole family economy crashing down in ruins. Resnick threatened to foreclose on the loan in a few weeks.'

'Now, there's a motive.'

'And the assault consisted of Will hitting someone on the head with a lug wrench.'

'Ooh, I like it!' I said. 'I mean, it's terrible, of course; but I'm sure the mainland police will find it fascinating, having someone with a motive and a history of bludgeoning his victims.'

'And consider Will Dickerman a far more likely suspect than any of your relatives.'

'Him or Fred, either one,' I said. 'I've never met Will, at least not since we were kids, but if you asked me who of all the people I've met on Monhegan in the past few days was the most likely to have bashed someone's skull in, Fred Dickerman would be my number-two choice.'

'Only number two?' Michael said, raising one eyebrow. 'Who's number one?'

'The victim himself.'

'And, unfortunately, he's out of the running.'

'True,' I said. 'Suicide by blunt instrument's pretty hard to accomplish. Oh, good grief!'

'What's wrong?'

'Is there anyone on this island who doesn't have a guilty secret in their past?'

'I see you're holding your aunt Phoebe's file; don't tell me he dug up any dirt on her!'

I scanned her file quickly.

'No, thank goodness. The only charges he's logged against her are a complete lack of tact and caring more about birds than humans.'

'Guilty on both counts, if you ask me,' Michael said with a chuckle.

'Agreed. But I've never heard either of those is even a misdemeanor. Besides--'

'What's that?' Michael said, pointing to the glass wall behind me. I saw only the rain-soaked shrubbery outside.

'What did it look like?' I asked, going over to the window.

'I thought I saw someone behind that bush.'

Just then, I saw a flicker of motion at the edge of the yard and caught a glimpse of someone disappearing into the woods.

'Rhapsody,' I said. 'Wonder what she's doing here?'

'Maybe she's researching her latest book,' Michael said.

'To Kill a Puffin,' I suggested. 'The Happy Puffin Family Solves a Grisly Murder.'

'Or Silence of the Puffins?' Michael countered.

'I know!' I said. 'The Puffin of the Baskervilles!'

'You're right; that's it,' Michael said as we dissolved into laughter.

'Ah, well,' I said. 'Maybe we should wrap things up here before someone else comes along snooping. I think we've found as much as we're going to. At least until the power comes on and we can get into his computer.'

'By the time that happens, we'll have police all over the place,' Michael said.

I didn't answer. He was right, of course.

'Let's check the studio,' I said.

We locked the last of the papers up in the wine cellar and went back out the smashed window in the front hall. Unfortunately, the studio had weathered the storm far better man the house. The only broken glass was in the roof, way beyond our reach.

'I think if we had a rope, we could let ourselves down through that hole from one of those trees,' I said.

'Aren't we supposed to have ropes in our knapsacks?'

Michael asked, shrugging his off his shoulder.

'Yes, but we used them hauling Resnick's body up, remember? And we never got them back.'