The store was blissfully warm inside; an old-fashioned potbellied stove burned full blast, and a small crowd of local residents sat or stood around the stove, drinking coffee and listening to what sounded like an all-weather radio station. Hurricane Gladys still hovered offshore, according to the announcer.
Michael headed for the coffeepot while I strode over to the counter where the storekeeper stood.
"Where do I find the constable?" I asked him.
"You're looking at him," he said. "Jeb Barnes. What can I do for you?"
"I'd like to report an assault," I said.
Chapter 7
I Fought the Puffin and the Puffin Won
At the word assault, Jeb Barnes's jaw dropped, and the desultory conversation around the stove stopped cold. I could almost hear their ears turning in our direction. Jeb glanced nervously at Michael. He'd jumped to a very wrong conclusion, obviously; but at least I'd gotten his attention.
"Some lunatic fired a gun at us," I went on. "I realize you probably can't do anything until the storm passes and the ferry's running, but I'd like to make a report now so you can contact the mainland police as soon as possible."
"Fired a gun at you?" Jeb repeated. "Where?"
"We were trying to follow the public path around Puffin Point," I said.
The constable closed his eyes and sighed. Michael handed me a steaming cup of coffee and put some money down on the counter.
"Resnick again," said one of the locals by the stove.
"Crazy bastard," said another.
"Going to kill someone one of these days," said a third.
"He's done this before?" I asked. "And you haven't done anything?"
"We've formally warned him he has no right to block the path," Jeb Barnes said defensively. "And we're looking into the possibility of a lawsuit about that pile of junk he calls a house. We can't do anything about the alleged shooting incidents. No one who lives here wants to tick him off any more, and none of the damn fool tourists want to stay around to testify, so we haven't found anyone willing to press charges."
"Well, I will," I said. "I'm self-employed, so I can arrange my schedule to be here for the trial. And I'm sure Aunt Phoebe will let me use the cottage when I come back."
The constable sighed again. Here I was, offering to press charges against his biggest local scofflaw, and he wasn't acting the least bit grateful.
"You're Phoebe Hollingworth's niece?" he asked finally.
"Meg Langslow," I said, holding out my hand. Jeb Barnes shook it with obvious reluctance.
"One of them Hollingworths," I heard one of the locals mutter. "They'll take him on."
I was glad to see Mother's family name was still a force to be reckoned with here on Monhegan.
"Yeah, they're all crazy enough," agreed another local.
Well, I couldn't exactly argue with him. I heard Michael make a noise that sounded like a cough but had no doubt started out life as a chuckle. I decided to bring him onstage. Why should I have all the fun?
"And this is Michael Waterston, a family friend. I'm sure Professor Waterston will also want to press charges."
"Naturally," Michael said. "What a pity I haven't been admitted to the bar in Maine."
I had to hand it to Michael: he carried that off beautifully. Jeb Barnes turned pale.
"What about that cousin of yours in Bangor?" I said, picking up on the improvisation.
"He doesn't practice anymore," Michael said.
"Oh, I like that," I said. "Elect the guy to the legislature and suddenly he's too good to represent us common people."
"He has to avoid conflict of interest," Michael said. "But as soon as the phones are working again, I'll give him a call; I'm sure he knows someone who can help."
"You've got a cousin in the legislature?" asked one of the locals.
"A very distant cousin," Michael said.
Our joke had backfired, big-time. We spent the next half hour listening to a point-by-point analysis of a bill pending before the state legislature that Monheganites considered the last hope of preserving their lobster industry. By the end of the discussion, I still didn't understand the issue, but I had grasped that if anyone asked me where I stood on the lobster bill, I should express enthusiastic support for the town proposal and apologize for not being a registered Maine voter. Either that or turn tail and run the minute they brought up the subject.
We finally escaped, after Michael had promised to fill his cousin in on the details of the Monhegan bill. I had to admire the way he'd changed the conversation every time anyone tried to ask which legislator his cousin was. It wasn't as if we could make a name up; Maine had fewer than two hundred legislators, and the townspeople knew exactly how every one of them felt about their bill.