I rummaged through my suitcase until I found the files I'd dragged down from the attic.
'You're not going to slog away at that while we're eating?' Michael asked.
'There're only a few of them,' I said. 'I just want to get to them before something else interrupts us.'
Michael rolled his eyes and returned to his sandwich.
Most of the files were pretty boring. My grandfather Hollingworth's correspondence with a contractor about renovations to the cottage. Bills from someone named Barnes--Jeb's father or grandfather, presumably--for groceries and supplies.
I came close to giving up on the files and sticking them back in the attic, when I ran across a file marked 'Resnick.'
I was relieved at first to see that it contained only a series of increasingly angry letters from Grandfather to Resnick. Apparently, Grandfather had bought a painting, which Resnick had procrastinated about delivering. How odd; as far as I knew, my grandfather had a reputation as a canny businessman, but he wasn't exactly a patron of the arts. Perhaps he'd been canny enough to recognize Victor Resnick as a young artist on the rise and had bought a painting as an investment. Then again, having seen the painting in Resnick's house I could think of another reason for the transaction. Especially when I found the last documents in the files: a canceled check for ten thousand dollars, made out to Victor Resnick, and two copies of a bill of sale.
'Michael,' I said. 'Where's that book of Resnick's paintings?'
'Good question,' he said, looking around the living room.
'Help me find it, will you?'
After a prolonged search, we finally found the book behind a stack of flowerpots, sitting on a coiled garden hose. I flipped through the first chapter, searching for dates.
'What's up?' Michael said, leaning over my shoulder. I lost track, just for a moment, of why I was looking through the book. Oh, right, Resnick's paintings.
'Aha!' I said, when I found the right page. 'Victor Resnick made his first major sale in 1956. For the princely sum of five thousand.'
'Think what a bargain that would be today,' he said. 'Now that he's selling for a hundred times that much.'
'More like twenty times, maybe, but yes, it's a bargain. But up till 1956, his sales were for peanuts. Where's that sales log of his anyway?' I asked, fishing through my knapsack. 'Aha. See. Nothing over a thousand until 1956.'
'True.'
'So what would you say if I told you that in 1953, someone paid Resnick ten thousand for a painting?'
'I'd say the buyer was either very gullible, very farsighted, or buying something more than just a painting.'
'And that it wasn't recorded in the sales log?'
'Scratch out gullible and farsighted.'
'Right,' I said, handing him the canceled check. 'Take a look at this.'
'R. S. Hollingworth--let me guess, your maternal grandfather,' he said. 'It doesn't say, but I'd bet anything we've seen the painting in question.'
'The nude.'
'So how does this relate to the murder?' Michael asked.
'I have no idea,' I said. 'Not at all, I hope. Though if the police start poking into the case, I'm sure it will all come out, whether it's related or not.'
I began reading the letters in the file again. I looked up
when I heard a snort of laughter from Michael. He was playing with the digital cameras again.
'What's so funny?' I asked.
'Nothing,' he said, pressing a button on the camera.
'Let me see the camera,' I said.
I had to wrestle with him for it, which would have distracted both of us from my original request if Mrs. Fenniman hadn't kept wandering in and out. He finally let me have the camera, and I turned it on to see what he was looking at.
This was the second camera, the one whose owner claimed to have photos of Resnick shooting at us. He had indeed caught some interesting shots of the confrontation. First, a none-too-flattering view of my rear end as Michael and I scrambled over the top of the hill. Then a shot or two of Resnick waving his gun around. And one of me looking very Neanderthal, standing on the top of the hill, threatening Resnick with my rock.
'I think I'll ask for a copy of some of these,' Michael said.
'Very funny,' I said, pressing the button to remove my picture from the little screen. 'I really don't see why…'
I found myself staring at the next picture in the camera.
'What's wrong?' Michael said, looking over my shoulder.
'Look at this,' I said.
'It's the tidal pool,' he replied. 'So?'
'You can see part of a figure there in the corner.'
'Since we have no idea who it is, what's the use?'
'It's Rhapsody,' I said.
'Rhapsody? How can you tell?' Michael asked, peering more closely at the camera.
'The lilac and black clothes, combined with that hunched-over, 'Please don't hurt me' posture.'
Michael studied the photo.
'You could be right,' he said. 'But it looks pretty light in this picture. Must have been taken fairly early in the day.'
'It was, obviously; before the pictures of us confronting him anyway.'
'Then what's the point?'
'I don't know,' I said. 'I just think it's funny that she was there at all. And she was hanging around the house again today; I'm sure that it was Rhapsody we saw through the windows. We need to find a way to ask her about it.'
'I'm sure you'll manage,' Michael said.
'Oh, there you are, dears,' Mother said, looking down from the balcony above. 'Your father isn't up yet; I'll keep you company until he's awake. Let me just find my embroidery.'
She disappeared again.
'Your mother does a great deal of embroidery, doesn't she?' Michael said.
Was that simple admiration in his voice, or was there some kind of subtext? As in 'Why don't you do something decorative and feminine, instead of dragging me all over the island in the rain while you play sleuth?'
'She doesn't actually
'Then why does she do it?'
Before I could answer, Mother limped into the room. She settled herself on the sofa opposite us. We watched as she laid out several dozen skeins of brightly colored embroidery thread on the sofa beside her and covered half the coffee table with the contents of her sewing basket. She fussed with the items for a while, like a decorator primping a floral arrangement. Then she picked up her hoop and her needle and looked at us with a smile, one eyebrow raised, as if asking whether the stage set looked just right. Or possibly hinting that we should entertain her while she worked.
Out of the comer of my eye, I could see Michael's mouth twitching.
'How's the new embroidery coming, Mother?' I asked.
She cocked her head to one side, like a wren, and studied the cloth on her lap.
'Slowly,' she said with a sigh.
