'Someone give me a handkerchief,' I said. 'I'll try to get it away from him.'
Holding Michael's handkerchief behind my back with my right hand--fluttering cloth sometimes spooked Spike--I knelt in the mud and extended my left hand.
'Here, Spike,' I called, fixing an insincere smile on my face. 'Here, boy. Come here, boy.'
Spike paused six feet away and looked at me, then at the others.
'Back away some more,' I said, not taking my eyes off Spike.
'If we back any farther away, we'll fall off the cliff,' Jeb said.
'Here boy,' I called to Spike. 'Come and give me the stick, you miserable little fur ball.'
'You're not going to get him to come to you, calling him names like that,' Jeb said.
'He doesn't care what names I call him,' I said in my most coaxing voice, eyes still locked on Spike's. 'It's the tone he's listening for. I could call him a mangy little cur, and as long as I smile when I say it, he won't care. Will you, Spike?'
Spike wagged his tail.
'Here, you ornery little mutt,' I said, smiling harder and beckoning. 'Come to Aunt Meg. Don't make me wring your wretched little neck.'
Spike wagged harder, then staggered over to me, dragging the stick behind him.
'That's a good little monster,' I said, patting him. Spike had to drop the stick to begin his usual pastime of licking me obsessively, which gave me the chance I needed to grab the walking stick with the handkerchief and hand it over to Jeb Barnes. I reattached Spike's leash while Jeb juggled the puffin and the stick.
'Yes, that's Phoebe's cane,' Jeb said.
'Stick, not cane,' I corrected. 'Don't let Aunt Phoebe hear you calling it a cane; she'd kill you. Not literally,' I added, seeing the startled expression on Jeb's face. 'That was a figure of speech.'
'Right,' he said. I wasn't sure he believed me. 'I thought she said she'd lost the… stick when she fell.'
'No,' I said, starting down the trail toward the village. 'She told us she lost it before she fell.'
'It could be evidence,' Jeb said, falling into step beside me. 'After all, she did confess to the murder this morning.'
'She did?' Mrs. Peabody said with a gasp. 'Well, I never!'
'Yes, but you'll remember I pointed out exactly why her confession didn't hold water.'
'Good,' Mrs. Peabody said. 'I can hardly imagine a dedicated environmentalist like Phoebe committing murder.'
'Not even of someone like Victor Resnick?' Michael asked.
Mrs. Peabody didn't answer. I glanced back. She had paused at a fork in the trail and seemed to be seriously thinking over the question. Much too seriously.
'That dark stuff on the stick really looks like mud to me,' Michael said.
'We'll let the police decide that,' Jeb said.
'Exactly,' I said. 'Let's just get the stick safely locked up until the police can do a forensic examination.'
'Locked up where?' Jeb asked.
'In the locker with the body, I suppose,' I said. 'Bodies, if you include the puffin. After all, the damned stick's survived a hurricane; a little cold won't hurt it.'
'Yes, that would work,' Jeb said.
We watched as Jeb trudged off toward the Anchor Inn with the puffin and the walking stick in hand. Mrs. Peabody trailed after him, presumably to keep her eye on the puffin.
'Let's go get a rope and do our burgling,' I said. Michael nodded and fell into step beside me as we headed back to Aunt Phoebe's cottage.
'Aunt Phoebe did say she lost her stick before she fell into the gully,' I said. 'She just didn't say how long before.'
'Still, it doesn't look good, her walking stick turning up so near the scene of the crime. And with blood on it.'
'You're the one who keeps saying it's mud.'
'Could be mud,' he said. 'Could be blood, too.'
'True,' I agreed. 'And that makes two possible murder weapons that have some association with Aunt Phoebe.'
I brooded on that a while longer.
'Of course,' Michael put in, 'The sheer improbability of the story she told goes in her favor.'
'Yes, except that if she were guilty and knew all the details of the crime, she could make up an improbable story better than anyone.'
'Is she that devious?'
I had to think about that one.
'I don't think so,' I said finally. 'Normally, I tend to think of Aunt Phoebe as abrupt and straightforward. But if she'd brooded a lot about the crimes she thought Resnick had committed against the birds… who knows?'
'Or if she's particularly good at thinking on her feet.'
'Exactly. And then again, there's the question of why she would tell such a howler in the first place.'
'Because she's covering up for someone else?'
'Yes,' I said. 'And people would naturally assume that someone is Dad. Which isn't an idea we want to encourage.'
Just then, I saw Jim Dickerman shambling along the path toward us.
'Afternoon,' I said as he drew near.
'Yeah, I know,' he snapped. 'Give me a break.'
'Pardon?'
'Look, I'll get it running as soon as I can, damn it. I stayed up all night trying to fix the damned thing. I'm going back up now, but I had to get a couple hours of sleep.'
'Hey, calm down,' I said. 'Aunt Phoebe isn't even hooked up to your generator, remember? I wasn't asking when you'll have the thing fixed or giving you a hard time; I just said good afternoon.'
'Sorry,' he said, fighting a yawn. 'Bad night.'
His eyes were bloodshot, and he looked as if he hadn't shaved, combed his hair, or changed his clothes in several days.
'You look as if you could use a lot more sleep,' I said. 'Let the generator wait a few more hours.'
'Too many people complaining,' he said, stifling another yawn.
'One less than there used to be at least,' I said.
'Yeah,' he said with a startled laugh. 'I guess so. And the bastard was the biggest complainer of all. Course, he was our biggest customer, too. Pity.'
'I don't suppose you saw anything useful,' I asked. 'Any possible clues or anything?'
'I wasn't down by Resnick's yesterday,' Jim said, shrugging. 'Too busy with the generator.'
'What about your windows?' I asked. 'I should think you have a pretty good view from there.'
'When they're not shuttered up,' he said. 'Got 'em nailed shut for the storm right now.'
'That's true,' I said. 'When did you do that?'
He thought for a few seconds.
'Day before they stopped the ferry,' he said. 'That'd be Thursday afternoon.'
'So I don't suppose you saw much of what went on around the island yesterday and today, then?'
He shrugged.
'Only when I went outside,' he said. 'Damn birders all over everywhere.'
'You don't like the birders?'
'Can't see what the big deal is, but I've got nothing against them. Mess up the island less than most damn tourists.'
What a relief to see that Resnick's death wouldn't completely deprive the island of curmudgeons. I wondered if Jim and Victor Resnick had actually gotten along in their own gruff way. And then a thought hit me--Jim…
James--what if Jim Dickerman was the phantom biographer?
'Tell me,' I said. 'Do you know anything about the
