Then again, with both Dad and Aunt Phoebe missing, I also had ample reason for worrying about what might be happening to them. I couldn't help fretting that if Hurricane Gladys didn't get them, the unknown killer would. And occasionally, just by way of a change, I glanced over at Michael and worried a little about what he thought of all this. Bad enough I'd dragged him off for a so-called vacation under cold, wet, primitive conditions that offered even less privacy than we'd had in Yorktown. Now I'd dragged him into the middle of another homicide.
Stop worrying, I told myself, though I might as well have told the wind to stop blowing. I come from a long line of Olympic-caliber worriers.
When we got to the gravel path to Resnick's house, Fred Dickerman stopped his track and we all climbed out.
"We'll have to send someone up to the power plant to fetch Jim," Mamie boomed at us. "Hate to take him away from his repair work, but the Mayfields have a small backup generator; I think he can get that going to run the cooler."
"Can't Fred do that?" Jeb asked.
Fred shrugged.
"Jim's the one knows generators," he said.
"We'll fetch him," I volunteered. "You'll have no trouble finding the body; it's in his woodshed."
"You have to show us where you found the body," Mamie said.
"We can't," I said. She looked up with a frown. "Not until low tide anyway. We found him facedown in a tidal pool at the foot of the cliffs."
"Good thing you came along when you did, then," she said. "He'd have washed away by now if you hadn't brought him up."
I wondered if she was sincere or if, like me, she'd realized how much less trouble we'd have if Michael and I hadn't found Resnick. If the storm had washed his body away, they might never have found him. Or if they had, they'd probably have assumed the gash on the back of his head happened in the storm. Nonsense, I told myself; you've prevented a murderer from getting away with his crime.
"We'll show you tomorrow," I said. "After it's light. And after we find my dad and Aunt Phoebe."
"Good Lord, don't tell me they're still out there," Mamie said.
"Jeb says we can't send out search parties until the storm blows over," I said.
"No, we can't," Mamie said. "Let's go get the body."
As she headed down the path toward Resnick's house, I could have sworn I heard one of the three mutter, "Damn fool tourists." Maybe I was imagining things. Maybe not. And they needn't have muttered; I'd have agreed with them.
Michael and I toiled up the road a little farther, heading for the power plant.
"We should come back up here when the storm's over," I said as we rested before the final, nearly vertical stretch of road. "You get a beautiful view of this whole end of the island from up here. The village on this side, and the wild, unspoiled landscape on the other. At least you could the last time I came up here," I added with a frown. "Who knows--maybe between the power plant and Resnick's monstrosity, there isn't much unspoiled view left."
With that cheerful thought, we attacked the last hill. Up this high, we had little shelter from the wind, which blew the raindrops nearly horizontal at times. We could never have found the shed housing the power plant if not for the flickering lantern light in the windows. We felt our way around the side of the building until we came to a door, then began pounding as loudly as we could.
"I don't suppose it would occur to anyone to build a front porch to this thing," Michael shouted as we pounded.
"It's only a shed," I shouted back. Although I did think that even with a shed, any sane builder would have gone to the trouble of putting up gutters--so when it rained, you could get inside without walking through sheets of water running straight off the steeply slanted roof.
The door finally opened and a bearded face peered out from considerably above my eye level. Could this be little Jimmy Dickennan?
"I'm working on it," he said, and started to shut the door.
"Wait," I said, inserting my foot in the frame. "What do you mean, 'I'm working on it'? You don't even know why we came up here."
He looked at me as if I were crazy.
"Same reason everybody else comes up here when the phones are out," he said. "To ask when the generator's going on-line again. And the answer's the same I'd give anybody: I don't know yet, and I'm working on it."
"Fine," I said. "Except that's not why we're here. Mamie sent us. Can we come in? It's pouring out here."
Jim looked at us for a minute, then nodded and turned to walk back into the shed. Michael and I followed.
"Good Lord!" Michael exclaimed, looking around. The shed contained a jungle of odd-shaped metal tools, parts, and machines. I remembered Jim, as a child, filling the Dickerman house with odd bits of half-assembled machinery that he was tinkering with or saving for some inscrutable purpose. He'd expanded the scope of his operations considerably since then. I once saw a picture of an elephant graveyard, littered with the skeletons and tusks of elephants who'd gone there to die. Jim had created the mechanical equivalent. No wonder Mrs. Dickennan had sounded so happy when she talked about her Jimmy up here tinkering with his machines. At least she had her living room back.