Michael made a strangled noise, and Mother took three or four leisurely stitches before stopping to examine her progress from several angles. Michael now sat with his elbow on his knee and his hand over his mouth, a very serious look on his face. In fact, he looked rather like the Thinker come to Me, except that I somehow couldn't imagine the Thinker ever wheezing with suppressed chuckles.
I hated to put a damper on his fun, but something preyed on my mind. I glanced around to make sure no one else could overhear before turning to Mother.
'Mother,' I said. 'We found an interesting painting up at Victor Resnick's house. A portrait.'
I should have known better than to expect a dramatic reaction from Mother.
'Oh?' she said, pausing, her needle poised gracefully over the embroidery hoop.
'I didn't know he even did portraits,' Dad put in, peering down from the balcony. So much for my carefully chosen moment. 'Thought he only did landscapes.'
'Well, apparently he did in his youth,' I said.
'I've never heard of any,' Dad said, rubbing his eyes as he ambled down the stairs. 'And there weren't any in that book about him.'
'Are you sure, Dad?' I asked.
'Well, yes, of course,' he said. 'I'll show you. Where's that book anyway?'
'Out in the kitchen, I think,' I said, shoving the edge of the book in question out of sight under the couch. Dad trotted out to the kitchen.
'I doubt if he ever exhibited this painting,' I said, my voice too low for Dad to hear in the kitchen. 'I think it was done for his own private enjoyment.'
Mother looked up again.
'Oh really?' she said. 'What makes you think that?'
'The subject was… rather unconventional.'
To my amazement, Mother smiled.
'Yes, he was rather unconventional as a young man,' she said. 'And terribly wild.'
My jaw dropped.
'Gifted with an overactive imagination, of course,' she said. 'And not very honest, I'm afraid.'
'Yes,' I said. 'Taking payment for something and then never delivering it isn't very honest, is it?'
'Well, he did deliver it eventually,' Mother said. 'I rather wish he hadn't; I was so provoked when your grandfather burned it.'
'Burned it!' Michael and I echoed.
'Yes, can you imagine it?' Mother said. 'Burning a genuine Victor Resnick! Of course, we didn't know then how famous he'd become, but still. I would so like to have that painting. It would bring back such fond memories.'
Michael and I looked at each other in consternation. What kind of fond memories? I wondered. Memories of an affair with Resnick? Or just of the days when she looked the way she looked in the painting?
'Well, you may be in luck,' I said. 'Apparently, he painted at least one more portrait of you.'
'Another portrait?' Mother asked, looking very interested. 'What was it like?'
'Well,' I said, and then froze. I looked at Michael for assistance.
'Not a painting I can imagine Meg's grandfather would approve of,' Michael said.
'No, I imagine not,' Mother murmured. 'Well, that explains a lot.'
'A lot of what?'
'I think he expected someone to come over and collect it this weekend,' she said. 'Perhaps you and Michael could take care of that?'
'No, at least not without some kind of proof that we're not pulling a million-dollar art heist,' I said.
'Oh, well,' Mother said. She dropped the embroidery into her lap, reached over to the end table for her purse--an impractical scrap of velvet, lace, and satin that would probably survive five minutes if I tried to carry it-- and pulled out a small envelope.
'Here,' she said, handing it to me.
There was no stamp. 'Margaret Langslow' was written on the front in the same bold, angular hand I recognized from Resnick's files. I hesitated before opening it, and Mother gestured impatiently.
'My dear Maggie,' it began.
'Maggie?' I said aloud.
'I never liked that nickname,' she said, shrugging.
'I have something of yours that I'd like to give you--that painting your father admired so much. Come and see me; we can talk about old times. Vic.'
It was dated Friday--the day after she'd arrived on the island. He hadn't lost much time.
'How did you get this?'
'Your aunt Phoebe found it slipped under the door sometime after we arrived.'
'Did you go to see him?'
'Of course not,' Mother said. 'I had no interest in seeing him, and even if I had, why would I want to walk that far in this weather? And I thought he was lying about the painting.'
'Maybe Grandfather lied about burning it.'
'Oh, no,' Mother said. 'He made me watch while he burned it.'
Somehow I could picture the scene: Grandfather sputtering like a firecracker while Mother coolly pretended indifference to the fate of the painting.
'Well, Resnick has this one hanging in his hallway,' I said. 'I don't think he'd had it there long, though, or everyone on the island would have heard about it.'
'Is it still there?' Mother asked. She didn't look alarmed, just interested.
'No, we put it and some of the other paintings away where the rain couldn't damage mem.'
'That's nice,' she said. 'Well, go along and collect it. I'm sure it would cause all kinds of confusion if the police found it.'
'It's not out there,' Dad said, popping in from the kitchen.
'Oh, I'm sorry,' I said. 'I just found it here under the couch.'
For the next half hour, I had to keep my composure while Dad thumbed through the book with one hand and ate with the other. And he commented all the while, with his mouth full, on what a genius Resnick was and what a shame such a great artist had been such a difficult person, and what a pity it was he had come to such an untimely end. Mother continued to fuss over her embroidery and practice her patented Mona Lisa smile, occasionally reminding Dad not to drop food on my new book.
Well, it wasn't as if Dad had ruined my chance to find out more about the painting. Mother had obviously said all she planned to say about it. Whether she had posed for it or whether Resnick had done it from memory or imagination, I'd probably never find out. In fact, I wasn't even sure I wanted to know.
I decided not to worry about the painting until tomorrow. In fact, I wasn't going to worry about anything until tomorrow. As soon as possible, I was going to go to bed. I might even take a nap right now, I thought, leaning back into Michael's arm and closing my eyes with a contented sigh. I felt Michael shift his weight and then felt his breath in my ear. Yes, I thought, a very nice time to whisper a few sweet nothings in my ear.
'Things would be a lot easier if we didn't have all these damned birders underfoot,' he murmured.
'Yeah,' I agreed. Not to mention my family. I opened one eyelid to check on what our unintentional chaperones were up to. Dad was studying a photo with a magnifying glass. Mother was contemplating her embroidery with a dreamy expression on her face.
'I mean, they're very useful for establishing the time line, but there are just too many of them, and any one of them could be the murderer. In fact… What's so funny?'
Mother and Dad both glanced up, wondering what the joke was, and Michael and I fled to the kitchen, where we could talk with more privacy.
'I thought you were talking about our situation, not the latest homicide,' I said, giggling.
'Yeah, well, that, too,' he said, sheepishly. 'But you've got to admit, it's intriguing.'
'It's completely baffling,' I said. My sleepy mood had vanished. 'Too many suspects, all with motive, means, and opportunity.'
'I like Will Dickerman for it,' Michael said. 'Perfect casting for the murderer.'
