Much Ado About Puffins
“I think the coast is clear,” Michael said as he shook me awake.
“Or as clear as it’s going to get,” I said, peering out the door of Resnick’s garden shed, where we’d taken refuge until the crowds died down. Jeb Barnes had drafted most of the spectators into the search parties that were, even now, combing the island for the missing Jim. Only two people stood guard by the studio, and both of them were swathed in wraps, huddled against a tree, and, most important, facing in the other direction. We slunk across the lawn and paused in the shadows outside the entry to make sure no one had seen us. The guards hadn’t moved.
“Some guards,” Michael muttered. “Probably asleep. And why did they have to leave guards at all; do they really think Jim’s likely to come back here?”
“No, but given the way everyone feels about Resnick’s house, I think they want to make sure it doesn’t go up in smoke, too.”
“And this would be a bad thing?”
“No, as long as we get one more chance to snoop around before it happens. After all, Jim proving himself the murderer only solves one of our problems. There’s still the biographer to deal with. Before he or she tries to capitalize on the notoriety of Resnick’s death. Maybe if we can get into Resnick’s computer, we can find a clue to the biographer’s identity.”
“Actually, I think I know his identity,” Michael said, giving me a hand through the broken glass into Resnick’s front hallway.
“You do!” I exclaimed. “Who?”
“I’ll tell you in a second. Stay here while I check out something.”
“But—”
“Humor me, just this once,” he said.
So I stood in the hallway while Michael padded softly into the living room.
“Aha!” he called back. “I thought so.”
“Thought so what?”
“Resnick’s biographer is no longer in any condition to reveal anything,” Michael called back.
“You don’t mean—”
“Yes,” Michael said. “Come and see who is—or rather, was—writing the biography.”
I took a deep breath and walked into the living room, expecting to see a bloody corpse lying on the floor. Instead, I saw Michael. He held up an eight-by-ten print of a photo—the photo of Resnick that had appeared on the back of the book of paintings.
“You mean Resnick?” I said. “He’s the biographer?”
“Bingo,” Michael said, setting down the photo.
“How do you know?”
“Well, right at the moment, it’s sort of a hunch, but now that the power’s on, I bet we can find the drafts of the thing in his computer.”
“Okay,” I said, reaching for the switch to turn on the computer. “So you think it was an autobiography?”
“No, I think he wanted it published under a pseudonym, so it would look like a genuine critical biography.”
“Fat chance,” I said. “Only one person in the world has that high an opinion of Victor Resnick. That should have given us a clue right there.”
“Too true.”
“Yeah, and I guess if he planned to reveal the scandals of his youth, it was a lot easier to pretend that someone else had dug it up, instead of having to face the criticism if anyone like Mother
objected. It makes sense, but I still don’t understand what gave you the idea that Resnick was the biographer.”
“The paintings,” Michael said
“The paintings? What about them?”
He held up his hand to show me a smear of blue paint on the palm.
“He did those paintings recently,” Michael said. “Recently enough that the one we used to help escape from the studio was still wet—I got this on my hand helping you carry it.”
“You’re sure it wasn’t just melting from the fire?”
“No, the painting wasn’t hot when we picked it up, and it wasn’t wet on the surface—I put my finger on a blob and paint squished out. That’s what happens when you put on a thick layer of oil paint; it dries from the outside in.”
“But how does that explain the headless paintings?” I asked. “He was getting them ready, but he couldn’t do the heads until Mother showed up? It’s not as if he could use the present-day Mother as a model, you know.”
“I also found this,” Michael said, plucking something out of his shirt pocket.
A faded photograph of Mother as a teenager. Clothed. In fact, she wore the same bathing suit we’d seen in Aunt Phoebe’s photo album.
“I suspect we’ve just solved the mystery of the missing photos,” he said. “And maybe he only recently managed to get into your aunt Phoebe’s cottage to filch these.”
“Everyone kept telling us he painted from photos,” I said, shaking my head.
“Yes, and that his style hadn’t changed appreciably during his whole career,” Michael said. “So if he just waited until they dried, who would have any doubt that they were older paintings?”
“I think they have ways of figuring out the age of a painting,” I said. “For example, do you really think they’re still manufacturing the same oil paint, canvas, and varnish he used forty or
fifty years ago, with no modern improvements that would show up in an analysis?”
“But why would they even bother if they got it from the artist and it was clearly in his style?”
“Yes, and why would anyone bother to forge a Resnick when for the same amount of effort they could forge the work of someone a lot more famous? And for that matter, does it really count as forgery if the only thing false is the date he painted it?”
“I don’t understand why he painted them in the first place,” Michael said. “Was writing about his youth making him nostalgic? Or did he think he had to have some paintings of the people involved to prove the truth of his biography?”
“More likely, he just wanted to stir up trouble,” I said. “That’s perfectly in character. In fact—my God, that’s it!”
“What’s it?” Michael said.
“Consider the detective’s report.”
“You’re right,” Michael said, his shoulders slumping. “That doesn’t add up. I can see why he would have the detective’s report on your mother, maybe to try to find out what she’d done with her life after they’d parted. But why those other women—unless maybe it was camouflage,” he added, looking up with a hopeful expression.
“No, I think the detective’s reports were just what they looked like—he wanted to find out more about those women to see who could be his long-lost sweetheart.”
“But surely he knew who she was.”
“Not if he invented the whole love affair,” I said. “And wanted to find out which woman had a gap in her life that would match the story he’d made up.”
“Made up? But why? That’s an absolutely crazy idea!”
“Crazy like a fox,” I said. “I know exactly why he did it. Just look at that stack of books on his desk.”
“Books?” Michael said, glancing over. “They’re art books; wouldn’t you expect a painter to have them?”
“Yes, but these aren’t books with pictures of paintings. They’re biographies. The one on top’s a dead giveaway: a biography of Andrew Wyeth.”
“So?”
“So remember the whole Helga thing? When Andrew Wyeth revealed that for fifteen years he’d been painting this beautiful redheaded model without his wife knowing it? And suddenly, he’s on the cover of Time and Newsweek. Of course, I don’t know if it did Wyeth’s career good or harm in the long run, and I don’t suppose it would ever have occurred to Resnick that Wyeth might be a better painter. All Resnick saw was that after the Helga paintings came out, Wyeth got more media attention than he could handle. And Resnick wanted some.”
“And what better way to get it than to rake up an old scandal and suddenly reveal that he’s got a collection of highly erotic paintings featuring a beautiful underage model,” Michael said, shaking his head. “It’s tailor-made for the tabloids.”
“And I bet there’s not a word of truth in it anywhere. Look, there’re also books about van Gogh, Picasso, Franz Liszt, and even Byron, for heaven’s sake. He was going for notoriety.”
“So let’s search his computer and see what we find,” Michael said, hitching a chair up to the desk.
What we found was six earlier drafts of the book, stretching back over a period of two years.
“Obviously practice doesn’t always make perfect,” I said. “I don’t think his drafts were getting any better.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Michael said. “I don’t recall seeing this bit about her turquoise eyes rolling on the floor in the draft we found. Sounds more like a game of marbles than a love scene.”
“Sounds painful, if you ask me. Yes, and some instinct for self-preservation made him take out all the bits about him nurturing other artists’ careers. I somehow doubt that he even met Keith Haring and Basquiat, much less nurtured them.”
“I think we’ve pretty well established who the biographer is,” Michael said. “Now we have to decide what to do about it.”
I sighed. For my part, I wanted to reformat the hard drive and burn every scrap of evidence that the biography had ever existed. But I had a dreadful feeling Michael wouldn’t consider this ethical.
“What do you think we should do?” I asked, and braced myself for an answer I wasn’t going to like.
“Reformat the computer and burn every scrap of paper,” Michael said readily. “Don’t you agree?” he asked, seeing my jaw drop. “I mean, we have to reformat it; you can recover deleted files with a good utility program. We can back up the nonbiography stuff to diskettes before we do it.”
“Sounds great to me,” I said. “But I wasn’t sure you’d see it that way.”
“We know Jim Dickerman killed Resnick,” Michael said. “At best, all this stuff will only embarrass your family. At worst, Jim’s lawyer could use it to cast doubt on his guilt.”
“What about the painting?” I asked.
“We’ll take it with us.”
“Take it with us?”
“The old coot owes us something,” Michael said. “After all, we solved his murder, at considerable personal risk.”
“And if someone catches us with it?”
“We’ve got the bill of sale from your grandfather’s files, remember?”
“I like the way you think,” I said, grabbing an armload of papers and heading for the fireplace. “Let’s do it.”
“No, no!” Michael said. “Not that fireplace; do you want everyone on the island to see? We’ll use the one in the bathroom—there’s no window in there. You work on the computer; I’ll take care of the fire.”
I sat and watched the computer grinding away, first backing
up Resnick’s other files—there weren’t many—then reformatting. Michael ferried armload after armload of papers back to the bathroom fireplace.
“How’s it going?” he asked, coming up behind my chair and putting his hands on my shoulders.
“Nearly there,” I said. “How’s the fire?”
“It’ll take a while,” he said. “But I figure we’ll have to hang out here until all the firemen go home or fall asleep, so that’s no problem.” He straightened up and went out into the kitchen.
Checking for papers there, I assumed. Probably not a bad idea.
I heard a sudden loud pop from the kitchen.
“Michael?” I called. “Is something wrong?”
“Everything’s fine,” he said, reappearing with two filled champagne flutes. “Absolutely fine.”
“Isn’t that Resnick’s champagne?” I asked.
“Yes, and a very fine one at that,” he said, handing me one flute. “Like I said, the old coot owes us one. To our host!”
“To our host!” I echoed, and sipped the champagne.
“Why don’t you take these in and keep an eye on the fire?” Michael said, handing me his flute. “I’ll see what we have in the pantry. Oh, and I found a jar of bath salts; goodness knows what Resnick wanted with that.”
The bathroom was warm and wonderfully scented. Steam rose from the tub, and the fire blazed away merrily. From the size of the paper mound, I knew we’d need quite a few hours to burn them all. And who knows how many glasses of champagne.
“To our host,” I said again, raising my glass. And then I fed a few more pages of the biography into the fire and kicked off my sneakers.