Anatomy of a Puffin
And so for the next half hour, Rhapsody told us about the sad fate of the puffin. Now that she’d confessed her dread secret, she was pathetically eager to spill everything. I waited patiently and let Michael respond to her description of how she’d found the puffin and what had occurred while she’d had it in her custody. I cared more about her two most recent visits to Resnick’s house.
“So anyway,” she said finally. “I hid the puffin under a cloth in the bottom of my wicker basket and went up the path toward that horrible man’s house.”
“Weren’t you afraid of meeting him?” I asked.
“Oh yes!” she said. “So I found a place to sketch where I could overlook the path and see when he went down to the village. I think I ruined my sketchbook, sitting out in the rain all that time.”
She gestured toward the fireplace, where a book bound in lavender velvet stood on end, its pages fanned open toward the thin warmth of her fire.
“I was just looking around the house, trying to decide where to put the puffin, when I heard a noise down on the shore. I thought at first it was Mr. Resnick, coming back from another direction, but when I ran back down the path, I almost knocked him over. So he hadn’t been down on the shore after all.”
“Probably the murderer,” Dad said with obvious relish.
Rhapsody looked stricken, and her hands flew to her mouth, stifling a shriek.
“Nonsense,” I said. “Probably only a birder, taking advantage
of Resnick’s absence to look for that rare whatsit that’s nesting by his house.”
“Yes, I’m sure that’s all it was,” Michael said, patting Rhapsody’s shoulder again. I braced myself for more hysterics, but our reassurances—well, Michael’s anyway—did the trick.
“Do you really think so?” she said, gazing up at him with an expression of frail, helpless innocence that would have looked perfect on the face of a Victorian maiden. For that matter, it had probably served Rhapsody rather well in her twenties.
“After all that, I’m amazed that you managed to go back the next day,” I said. “That took a lot of courage.”
“Well, I had nightmares all night,” she said. “I knew I just had to return the poor little puffin so he could rest in peace. I decided that even if that dreadful man tried to stop me, I was going to march right down there and put the poor little thing somewhere near Puffin Point, where he belonged. And I did. Not near the house, of course; but I thought he belonged by the shore.”
A pity she hadn’t chickened out again; if she had, we wouldn’t have wasted so much time on a red herring.
Rhapsody had no other useful information to offer, at least none we could extract during another twenty minutes of questioning, so I decided to call it quits.
“Well, we’d better run along,” I said, standing up. Surely Winnie and Binkie would have found Dr. Peabody by this time. My head felt far too near the ceiling—doubtless an optical illusion created by the busy lavender-and-white-patterned wallpaper overhead.
“Oh, can’t you stay a little longer?” Rhapsody said. To her credit, she was looking at me, with barely a sidelong glance toward Michael. “I could make more tea.”
“No,” I said. “But if you like, come down to the cottage if the rain lets up a little. We can talk more, and Mother would enjoy the company. She gets out so little in this kind of weather.”
As we all milled about in the tiny front hall, poking one another
in the noses with our elbows as we struggled into our rain gear in the confined space, a thought hit me.
“Oh, by the way,” I said. “May I borrow your sketchbook?”
“My sketchbook?”
“Yes, the one you had the day you staked out Resnick’s house. Who knows, perhaps something you sketched may give us a clue.”
“Staked out Resnick’s house,” Rhapsody repeated. “Oh, yes, of course! Let me find something to wrap it in!”
We set out finally, with her battered velvet-covered sketchbook wrapped in several layers of plastic in my knapsack. Rhapsody stood in her doorway, waving a fond good-bye to us.
“Now look what you’ve done,” Michael said. “I’m sure she’ll come down to the cottage in a few hours, panting to know what clues you’ve discovered in her sketchbook.”
“The sooner the better,” I said.
“Do you really want her hanging around?”
“I want to get her into Mother’s clutches as soon as possible,” I said. “Now that Dad’s home safe, Mother will start getting restless and looking for something to do. I think Rhapsody’s just the thing.”
“And what’s your mother supposed to do with Rhapsody?” Michael asked.
“Well, either Mother will decide to take Rhapsody in hand or Rhapsody will be overwhelmed with Mother and begin imitating her. Preferably both. Rhapsody’s an attractive woman, but I get the feeling she’s been stuck in that Haight Ashbury Pre-Raphaelite-style garb since the late sixties. She could do worse than pick up some of Mother’s style. And Mother would love to have a docile, cooperative protégée; she’s certainly had no luck working her magic on me.”
“Thank goodness,” Michael said. “Much as I adore your mother, I like you just fine the way you are.”
Well, those were encouraging words, I thought. Not to mention
the look that went with them, which went well past encouraging. As a teenager, I’d always resented how easily Mother charmed my boyfriends. With some of them, I’d never shaken the feeling that they only took up with me in the hopes that ugly duckling Meg would eventually blossom into a swan like Mother.
Just then, Mamie, who had stayed behind to talk to Rhapsody, came out of the lavender cottage. She saw us standing there and strode up.
“I heard Jeb tell you to keep your nose out of this,” she began.
“Yes, but when Mrs. Peabody insisted on dragging that miserable puffin up, I knew we had to do something,” I said. “I mean, if we hadn’t cleared this up, Rhapsody might have had to talk to the police!”
I tried to give my voice an authentic quaver, calculated to create the impression that Rhapsody was in genuine danger of being beset by the minions of the law, bearing handcuffs, rubber hoses, and truncheons. Whatever truncheons were. Mamie frowned, then nodded and walked off.
“Bring the damned camera,” she said over her shoulder.
We followed Mamie to the Anchor Inn, where Jeb, Binkie, and Dr. Peabody already waited.
Considering how cold, wet, and miserable conditions still were outside, I found myself surprisingly reluctant to step inside the Anchor Inn. Get a grip, I told myself. It’s dry, warmer than outdoors, and solidly built. Compared with some of the island buildings, the Anchor Inn, I felt sure, could withstand whatever huffing and puffing the departing Gladys could manage outside.
Yes, quite solidly built, and rather well insulated. Once we all stumbled inside and slammed the door shut behind us, the noise of the storm was a lot less overpowering. Almost muted. For some reason, that wasn’t comforting. In fact, it was downright spooky.
“Quiet as a tomb in here,” Jeb remarked. He sounded nervous.
“Let’s not waste time, then,” Dad said.
“This really isn’t my specialty,” Dr. Peabody said apologetically. “I’m a dermatologist.”
Smart man, I thought. In grade school, when Dad had managed to give us the impression that as Langslows we were doomed to medical careers, Rob and I had debated at length what kind of specialist to become, our main criteria being the ease of avoiding dead bodies and large quantities of blood. I’d opted for psychiatry, but I had to admit dermatology seemed a reasonable choice for someone like Rob, who fainted at the sight of rare roast beef. Fortunately for the skins and minds of our countrymen, neither of us had actually allowed Dad to bully us into medical school. Evidently, Dr. Peabody’s parents had found him more malleable. He looked greener than any of us, and we hadn’t even gotten near the deceased yet.
Jeb led the way through the silent front room of the restaurant and back into the kitchen. We stood around looking at the door to the meat cooler as he fumbled through his pockets and finally located the key to the padlock holding the door closed.
“In here,” he said after he’d unlocked and opened the cooler door.
Dad and Dr. Peabody peered in. I looked over their shoulders at the blanket-covered bundle on the floor of the cooler.
“Well, let’s get him out here where we can take a look at him,” Dad said.
Jeb and Michael looked at each other. Having taken my turn carrying Resnick’s body when Michael and I first found it, I decided I could honorably wimp out this time and let the men do the heavy lifting.
“You’ll need more light,” I said. “I’ll see if I can find some lanterns.”
I uncovered a stash of oil lamps in a cabinet, and enough lamp oil to fill half a dozen of them. While I bustled about trimming wicks and lighting lamps, the four men, after a bit of nervous hemming and hawing, picked up Resnick and laid him on the
long wooden table I had cleared. Binkie stood watching them with her arms crossed, looking stern and vigilant.
Dad whisked back the blanket to reveal the late Victor Resnick. He didn’t look much like the distinguished figure on the back of the book I’d bought. From our brief acquaintance, I suspected the angry expression on his face was a lot more characteristic than the lofty, noble, far-seeing expression the photographer had captured. His face was pale and had a sort of weird bluish color to it. His eyes were open, and his hair and beard wildly disheveled. The impulse to run screaming out of the room fought in my mind with an irrational urge to close his eyes, smooth his hair, and remove a little bit of seaweed tangled in his beard.
“Hmm,” Dad said. That knocked some of the fright out of me, and replaced it with irritation. I hate it when doctors do that. “Hmm” can mean just about anything. “How soon can I get this disgustingly healthy person out of my office and go on to someone with an interesting ailment?” or “Yikes! How can I possibly break it to her that she’s got maybe six weeks to live?” or “Chinese or tacos for lunch?” Give me a doctor who babbles out exactly what he’s thinking.
Dr. Peabody looked faint. He examined the body visually, but from rather a distance, with his hands clasped tightly behind his back. Dad was doing his Sherlock Holmes act, inspecting every inch of Victor Resnick with great attention. Jeb scrutinized the Anchor Inn’s kitchen fixtures as if he planned on buying the joint. Michael was snapping pictures frantically. Only Binkie and I paid attention to Dad’s examination. I wondered what he found so interesting about Victor Resnick’s fingernails.
“Let’s turn him over,” Dad said after a while.
Binkie and I supervised again while the men did the turning.
Dad repeated his detailed inspection on this side of Resnick, with particular attention, naturally, to the head wound, which didn’t look all that bad now. I thought I had seen quite a lot of
blood on Resnick’s head when we first found him floating face-down in the pool, but there wasn’t much when you looked at it close-up. Had a lot of it washed off while we were hauling him up here to the Anchor Inn? Or had I overreacted when I first saw him—when I thought, for a heartbeat, that it might be Dad. Close-up, the wound looked so small that I wondered how it could have been fatal.
“Very interesting,” Dad said at last. “Let’s turn him over again.”
“So, did he die of drowning or from getting hit on the head?” Jeb asked when the body was right side up again.
“Neither,” Dad said.
“Neither? Then how the blazes did he die?”
“Electrocution.”