Rob had perched on top of a trunk, with the strap of his laptop over one shoulder and Spike's leash wrapped around the other wrist. He clutched the wooden crate containing Mother's portrait and Rhapsody's puffin painting-- clutching it so tightly with both hands that his knuckles had turned white. Spike strained at the leash, barking at a seagull that seemed to enjoy sitting just out of his reach, on top of another larger crate that someone was shipping some paintings in. And someone with more courage than sense had managed to paste one of the police inspection stickers to the back of Spike's head.
'Spike's a lost cause,' I said. 'But you'd think Rob could control his nerves better.'
'Yes,' Michael said. 'Someone should explain to him that the key to pulling off a daring daylight art heist is to look nonchalant and unconcerned.'
'I did,' I said. 'Several times. We'll just hope they chalk up that anxious, furtive look to worry about his computer.'
'I wouldn't count on it,' Michael said. 'Luckily, with Spike around, even the police won't want to get close enough to question him.'
'I just wish Rob would move away from that other crate,' I fretted. 'It's so obviously a painting-shaped crate; what if someone notices the similarity in shape and makes the connection?'
'Don't worry; we do have bills of sale that will serve for both paintings, remember?' Michael said.
'I'm not worried that they'll think we're stealing it; what if they insist on unwrapping it out here on the dock?'
'We'll insist they take it inside, out of the rain,' Michael said, jerking a thumb at the ramshackle baggage shed near the end of the dock. 'Oh, hang on a minute; here's Ken Takahashi. I need to ask him something.'
He strolled over to the other side of the dock and greeted Takahashi. I wondered what they kept finding to chat about Suddenly, they both glanced over at me. Takahashi pulled something out of his inside jacket pocked, scribbled on it, and handed it to Michael. Then they laughed and shook. No one talked to me, of course. I'd blown the whistle on Jim, and apparently some of the birders had dubbed him a hero. An environmental warrior, doing battle against a bloodthirsty bird-killer. I more than half-suspected they might help him hide. I hoped the police realized this; they'd have to keep a sharp eye out when the ferry began loading, in case someone tried to sneak Jim aboard in their party.
The birders were also taking up a collection, although the reason for donating varied from birder to birder. Some thought they were contributing to Jim's defense fund, others to a fund to rescue the Central Monhegan Power Company, and a few to the expense of tearing down Resnick's house and restoring Puffin Point to its natural, unspoiled condition.
I found myself resenting the great outpouring of sympathy for Jim and the Dickermans. After all, no matter how nasty Victor Resnick had been, that didn't give anyone the right to kill him. Not to mention trying to kill Michael and me, which they were all conveniently overlooking. And had it dawned on anyone that if I hadn't already fingered Jim as the murderer, they'd probably all still be stuck on the island being questioned and investigated? Or maybe they didn't resent me for fingering Jim, just for losing him. Yes, that was it; they thought it was my fault we were looking over our shoulders nervously every five minutes while the police ransacked our luggage.
And then there was Michael. He was astonishingly cheerful about leaving. Granted, this hadn't exactly been an ideal vacation. And looking back, I realized that I had rather neglected him, taken him for granted while we chased up and down the island looking for miscreants and lost relatives. But still, did he have to look so damned happy about escaping? Had last night made up for the several miserable days before it, or would this weekend manage to kill our grand romance before it really got off the ground?
'Hello!' came a soft voice from my elbow.
Rhapsody. With luggage.
'I didn't know you were leaving the island,' I said. 'I thought you stayed here year-round.'
'Well, usually I do,' she said. 'But the puffins are gone for the winter, and who knows when they'll manage to arrest that horrible murderer? So when your mother invited me to visit all of you in Yorktown, I thought, Why not?'
'How nice,' I said with as much sincerity as I could muster. Had Mother gone mad? For that matter, had she completely forgotten how many stray relatives we already had staying with us? And with Rhapsody underfoot, how could she continue to pull the wool over Dad's eyes about who had painted the nude?
'I'm so excited,' she said. 'I'm so looking forward to studying you.'
'Studying us? Why?'
'Well, you mostly.'
'Me?'
'Yes,' she said, beaming. 'You've inspired me!'
'Inspired you how?'
'I'm planning a whole new series of books based on you!'
'On me?' I squeaked.
'Yes!' she said, clasping her hands. 'You'll be a friend of the Puffin Family, a brave and clever girl detective! Can't you just see it?'
Unfortunately, I could. Did she really mean a girl detective, or did she plan to puffinize me? Either way, I could see it all too clearly: a tiny, round Meg conversing stiffly, in profile, with little Petey and Patty and all the beady-eyed members of the Happy Puffin Family. Probably carrying a magnifying glass and wearing a deerstalker hat. I supposed I should have been happy that someone wasn't mad at me, but the idea of becoming a badly drawn cartoon character filled me with despair.
Rhapsody must have noticed my lack of enthusiasm.
'Don't you like the idea?' she asked.
She looked so fragile that I couldn't bring myself to confess how much I hated it, so I settled for saying, 'Well, I'm having a hard time seeing myself as a puffin.'
'So was I,' Rhapsody confessed. 'So I've decided to branch out. I'm going to make you an owl! A wise, clever owl!'
Well, marginally better than a puffin, I thought.
'And Michael will be a falcon!' she added, eyes shining.
I managed to keep a straight face, but I suddenly felt very sorry for Rhapsody's editor--she had an editor somewhere, didn't she, seeing that she never went beyond a certain level of inanity? I had a feeling the editor would have quite an eye-opening experience when Rhapsody's first owl and falcon adventure landed on his desktop, no doubt seething with barely repressed eroticism.
'Don't you think murder's a little much for a kid's audience?' I asked.
'Oh, yes,' she said. 'So I'm going to start with having them find Patty Puffin's little lost kitten.'
Did she have any idea what a real owl or falcon would probably do to a little lost kitten if they found it? Oh, well. Editor's problem, not mine.
I glanced down. Rhapsody was making a few tentative sketches of her owl detective. They were, alas, enough like me to be identifiable. In fact, if I crossed my eyes and pasted feathers all over my face, the likeness would be uncanny.
I made a solemn vow to evict the sculptor squatting in my studio within the next two weeks, even if I had to break the doors down and hire a forklift to move his fifteen-foot work in progress.
'Well, I guess we'll see you back for the trial,' Jeb said, coming up to shake my hand.
'Assuming they ever find Jim,' I said.
'He'll turn up sooner or later,' Michael said, rejoining me.
'That's so,' Jeb said. 'Hard to hide that long on an island this small. Course, they'll probably have the trial over on the mainland. Don't want to inconvenience all the summer folk.'
'I'm sure we summer folk will all be properly grateful,' I said.
'Well,' he said, clearing his throat. 'Some of you aren't so bad. Time comes that you want to get away from the laziness over there, you call one of us up. Someone'll have a room free.'
With that, he nodded and stumped away up the hill.
I'm not entirely sure, but I think that counts as an extravagant compliment,' I said.
'Sounded that way to me,' Michael said.
