Murder With Puffins

We stowed our two borrowed digital cameras safely in my knapsack and headed for the path.

'So, what has the defrosted puffin told you?' Michael said as we picked our way up the side of the cliff.

'Not a thing; he's keeping his beak shut,' I said in a passable imitation of a thirties movie gangster. 'But give me a few minutes alone with our feathered friend and I'll make him sing like a canary.'

Well, Michael thought it was funny. Mrs. Peabody said, 'Humph!' and strode off ahead of us.

'Seriously, I don't know if the puffin tells us anything useful,' I said in a more normal tone. 'So far, it's just another puzzle: Why would someone keep a dead puffin around for months, then leave it at the scene of a murder the day after the body was discovered? It makes no sense.'

'Maybe it's symbolic,' Michael suggested. 'That he was killed to revenge his crimes against puffinkind?'

'Possibly, but it doesn't narrow down our suspect list,' I complained.

'Maybe it does,' Michael said. 'Whoever left the puffin here has to be a local with a freezer to keep it in, right?'

'Not necessarily,' I said. 'One of the birders could have brought it over on the ferry. Can you swear there wasn't a cooler containing a dead puffin somewhere in that mountain of luggage on the dock when we arrived?'

'True,' he said.

'And even if a local put the puffin there, we don't know for sure that the puffin has anything directly to do with the murder.'

'What other reason could anyone have for putting it there?' Michael asked. 'To throw us off the scent?'

'When we find whoever put it there, we'll ask,' I said.

'When you find whoever put it there?' Jeb echoed from above. 'I thought I told you to keep your nose out of this.'

'Well, I assume when the police find out who put the puffin there, they'll let all of us know,' I said as I reached the top of the path. 'Surely there's no harm in being curious.'

Michael chuckled.

'Well, at least Jeb's taken custody of the puffin,' Michael said in an undertone.

'Even if he's only doing it because he thinks we want it,' I answered. 'Whereas the only one who really wants the damned thing is Spike.'

'Speaking of Spike, where is he?'

'Oh damn,' I said, turning around. 'Still down by the rock, chasing the waves, I suppose. I'd better get him before the tide carries him away.'

'I don't see him down there,' Michael said, frowning.

'Oh bloody hell,' I said. 'Your mother will kill us if anything happens to him.'

'Well, with any luck, she'll only kill Rob,' Michael said. 'But it would break her heart. Let's go down and look for him.'

We called back Jeb Barnes and Mrs. Peabody, and the four of us scrambled around the area by the tidal pool, frantically calling Spike's name and looking in every crevice. The waves started to wash over the rocky, flat area, drenching us and narrowing our search with every passing minute.

'We'll have to give it up,' Jeb said finally. 'The tide'll cover the path in a minute.'

'No, we have to find him!' I said.

'Meg, he's right,' Michael said.

He half-dragged me up the path behind Jeb and Mrs. Peabody. We had to wait for a moment between waves to cross one spot, but we made it up to the top of the hill and stood looking down at the churning mass of water occupying the spot where we'd been standing--well, wading anyway--only a few minutes before.

'I'm so sorry about the poor little dog,' Mrs. Peabody said. She sounded genuinely sympathetic, probably because she hadn't known Spike very well. And probably never would now.

'Oh damn,' I said. I was astonished and embarrassed to find tears welling up in my eyes.

Chapter 25

Puffin, Come Home

Of all the stupid things, I told myself as I scrubbed at my eyes with the back of a sleeve that was already sopping wet. I take everything in stride--a dead body, a murder, my own aunt confessing to the crime, both parents nearly managing to get themselves killed in a storm. And now I break down over Spike, of all things.

'Don't worry; he'll probably turn up,' Michael said, putting his arms around me. 'And if he doesn't, we'll figure out some cover story to tell Mom.'

'No, we'll tell her the true,' I said, standing up straight and bracing my shoulders. 'That I carelessly took him out in a hurricane and callously ignored him while the surf carried him away and it's all my fault'

'It's not your fault,' Michael began.

'No, it's all my fault, and I'll never forgive myself,' I said. 'Please, let him turn up somewhere. If we could just find him safe and sound, I promise I'll--'

Just then, a familiar yapping broke out somewhere behind us.

'Spike!'

We all whirled, and I was relieved to see Spike running toward us.

'What was it you were about to promise if Spike turned up safe and sound?' Michael asked.

'Not to feed him to the sharks on the trip home,' I said.

Michael chuckled.

'Good dog!' I added, rather pointlessly, as Spike arrived at my feet, panting and still yapping.

His normally sleek black-and-white fur was now a uniform muddy grayish brown, and I didn't envy whoever had to wash him before Michael's mother saw him again. Not me, I vowed, no matter how glad I was to see him un-drowned.

I quickly noticed that he wasn't just barking. He was running back and forth between my feet and a pile of rocks at the edge of the cliff, yapping all the way.

'Are you trying to tell us something?' Michael asked, leaning down toward Spike the next time he arrived at my feet. Spike growled at him and turned back to me.

'You're both watching far too many Lassie reruns,' I said as Spike ran off again. 'The bit where Lassie finds the lost child is an overdone cliche; and besides, we've already found all our lost relatives.'

'Oh, you're no fun,' Michael said, pretending to sulk. 'Can't we just go see what he's found?'

'Dead fish washed up from the storm, I expect,' Jeb put in.

'Never mind, then,' Michael said.

'Let's head down and see how Dad's doing,' I said. 'And then--'

I heard a low rumble down by my ankles.

'Cool it, Spike,' I said.

Spike growled again, then butted my ankle with his head. I glanced down and started.

'What the hell has that fool dog got there?' Jeb asked.

'Aunt Phoebe's walking stick,' I said.

Noticing we were paying attention to him, Spike began wagging his tail and trying to bark, his efforts a little muffled by the walking stick in his mouth. He held it at one end--the lower, narrower end. The stick had been pretty battered and gnarled to begin with, but I could see several obviously new chips and scratches. And was I imagining the telltale dark stain on the top third?

'Is that blood on one end of it?' Jeb Barnes asked.

'Could just as easily be mud,' Michael said.

'Careful!' I said as Jeb reached down toward the stick. 'He bites!'

'Well, not with that stick in his mouth,' Michael said. 'But he could choke himself trying.'

'We don't want him to run off with it,' Jeb said.

'How fast can he run?' Michael said. 'The thing's so heavy, he can barely drag it'