"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm not awfully knowledgeable about puffins. What's wrong with it?"
"This is not the picture of an immature puffin," the birder said. "An immature puffin looks like this." She plopped one of the ubiquitous blue bird guides open atop Hark the Herald Puffins Sing and pointed out a black-and-white shape. "And he's in breeding plumage. By Christmas, adult puffins have long since shed their colorful bill plates and their faces darken. Like this," she added, indicating yet another black-and-white shape.
I studied the page before me. Yes, the puffin in winter was a drab bird indeed compared to what he would look like in mating season. I'd almost have taken him for a different species. And all the Puffin Family were in breeding plumage, right down to diaper-clad baby Patty.
"I see what you mean," I said. I didn't add that I didn't see what was so important about the distinction. Perhaps they planned to haul Rhapsody before the Audubon Society on morals charges for turning an infant puffin into some kind of avian Lolita.
I was relieved when Michael joined us. Probably not an accident; we'd both become a little wary of the more rabid birders.
"Found something interesting," he said, holding up the back cover of another book. "Look familiar?"
He held out an oversized art book--a collection of Victor Resnick's paintings. On the back of the book was a picture of our gun-toting lunatic. Only in the picture, he wore a clean fisherman's sweater, his hair and beard were combed, and he looked quite distinguished. The picture was in three-quarters profile. Resnick's chin was lifted, and he gazed into the distance with a lofty, otherworldly look. He really appeared every bit the distinguished artist, already planning his next brilliant work.
"Yes, that's the jerk," I said. "Almost wouldn't have recognized him."
I turned the book over and began leafing through it. I sighed. The man might be a jerk, but he was definitely a talented jerk.
"Someone should do something about that horrible man," the birder said.
"Well, Mrs. Peabody, that's very difficult," Mamie said. "He's quite an important person…."
"That's irrelevant," I said, glad to find a conversational topic other than puffins. "I don't care how important they are, people can't run around shooting off rifles or shotguns or whatever he's using."
"My God!" exclaimed Mrs. Peabody. "He's not shooting them, is he? I'd heard about the electric shocks; we've gotten up a petition about it. But this is beyond all belief! Shooting the birds!"
She whirled and ran for the door, knocking down a stack of stuffed puffins on her way.
"We can't let him get away with this," she shouted. "There's not a moment to lose!"
Chapter 9
Twelve Angry Puffins
"Wait," I called, starting after her. "I didn't say he was shooting the birds; I just said he was shooting at us!"
But Mrs. Peabody didn't hear me. And the electric lights chose that moment to flicker and die. In the sudden near darkness, I tripped over the fallen puffins and sent the rack of Rhapsody's books sprawling. Mamie scurried over to pick them up while Michael leapt to my side and spent rather more time than strictly necessary making sure I'd suffered no damage in the fall. By the time he finally relented and helped me to my feet, the birder had vanished.
"Don't worry about it," Michael said as we pitched in to put the book display back together again.
"She'll tell everyone Resnick is shooting birds," I said. "They'll probably all go hiking up to confront him."
"And either they'll lynch him or he'll shoot one of them, and either way, maybe you won't have to file charges against him."
"Are you going to file charges against him?" Mamie asked, wide-eyed.
"Yes, at least if Constable Barnes ever takes me seriously."
"Good," she said, patting my shoulder with approval. "Someone needs to do something about that man. He's absolutely beastly to poor Rhapsody. She had a one-woman show here last summer of some of her paintings from the books. You should have heard some of the things he said to her. Absolutely savage. Someone really ought to do something. Do you have any matches?"
I thought for a moment she was enlisting us to help burn Resnick at the stake, but apparently she'd decided the power wasn't coming back anytime soon. She pottered through her drawers until she found some matches, then began lighting oil lamps.
I glanced back at the book of Resnick's paintings. I'd paused at a painting of the Black Head. He'd precisely captured the way the sky had looked all day; only slightly cloudy, but somehow full of vague future menace. I could imagine what he would have to say about poor Rhapsody's puffins.