Murder With Puffins(25)

"We didn't actually see him shoot any birds," I said finally. "But he certainly shot at us. Probably thought we were birders trespassing on his land."

This tactic generated a satisfactory level of sympathy and outrage. Especially after one of the birders informed the rest that Resnick's land was the only place on the island where some rare bird had been sighted a day or two earlier.

Leaving the assembled birders debating whether the once-in-a-decade chance to add the bay-breasted warbler to their life lists was worth the risk that it might become the last bird they ever saw, Michael and I escaped and headed back to Aunt Phoebe's cottage.

We ran into Winnie and Binkie on the way.

"Meg, dear," Binkie called. "How are you enjoying your stay?"

"Well, it's not quite what we expected," I said. "We didn't expect to run into the whole family here."

"No, and I'm sure your mother and father weren't expecting that dreadful Resnick person to be here," Binkie said. "Terribly awkward, under the circumstances."

"Awkward?" I repeated. Awkward didn't even begin to describe the sensation of having a gun fired over one's head.

"Oh, leave it alone, Binkie," Winnie said. "It's all over and done with."

I felt a little miffed at their quick dismissal of our ordeal. Unless by "awkward" they meant some past conflict--perhaps this wasn't the first time Victor Resnick had taken violent measures against trespassers. Perhaps it wasn't the first time Aunt Phoebe had attempted to thrash him.

"And do be careful," Binkie added. "I've heard reports of an imposter running around the island."

"An imposter?" I echoed.

"Yes, someone carrying binoculars and a bird book and pretending to be one of us, when he doesn't know a tern from a seagull," Winnie said, frowning. "Up to no good, whoever he is, if you ask me."

But before I could ask what possible harm the so-called imposter could do, Winnie and Binkie spotted another party of birders down the road and tripped off to compare notes.

I shrugged. The fake birder wasn't my problem; my family, on the other hand…

"I wonder if it was wise, letting Aunt Phoebe run off like that," I said, fretting.

"She's a grown woman," Michael said as we turned into the lane to the cottage. "She can take care of herself, and besides, the constable will referee. Let him take care of her."

"I suppose we'll have to," I said.

"Look, there's Rob," Michael said. "What's he doing there on the beach?"

"Posing," I said. "He probably saw us coming."

Rob stood on the narrow strip of beach, hunched against the cold, one hand jammed in his pocket, staring out to sea. Trying, no doubt, to achieve an air of picturesque, Byronic melancholy. Someone should break the news to Rob that blondes can't do Byronic. Michael, on the other hand, managed it without even trying; I particularly liked the way the breeze ruffled the lock of hair mat had fallen over his eyes.

Then again, Michael wasn't handicapped by Spike. Rob held one end of a very long leash; on the other end, Spike was chasing the waves. When a wave fell back toward the ocean, Spike would pursue it, barking bravely, convinced he had terrified the water into flight. When the water turned and thundered back toward the beach, Spike would turn and run away, tail between his legs, howling in terror. Rob was pretending to be oblivious to the whole spectacle.

"Well, at least Spike's having fun," I said as I drew up beside Rob.

"Miserable little mutt," Rob muttered. "Sorry, Michael."

Michael shrugged.

"Don't look at me," he said. "The miserable little mutt belongs to my mom."

"You think he'd get tired of it," Rob said, frowning, as Spike chased the water back and forth again.

"I'm sure he will after a while," I said.

"I've been here two hours," Rob said. "He's not getting tired. Just hoarse."

"Well, hoarse might be an improvement," I said. "Why on earth have you been standing here for two hours? Is something going on?"

"Not much," Rob said. "Everyone's getting hysterical about some guy who's running around shooting the puffins. That's about it."

"He's not shooting the puffins; he's shooting us. At us anyway," I said.

"Us? You mean you and Michael?" Rob asked.

"Yes."

"Wow, are you going to file charges?"

"Yes," Michael said. "And when you've passed the bar, you can handle the civil suit, if you like."

"Cool," Rob said. "So what's going on with the puffins?"

"Nothing. They've left the island," I said.

"Lucky them," Rob muttered. "Here, take him for a while, will you?"