Mamie had gone, but Jeb Barnes and Fred Dickerman still stood guard. Jeb stood beside the cooler door, looking around as if he expected body snatchers to leap out from behind the cabinets. Fred sat as far from the cooler as possible, smoking a cigarette. I wouldn't have pegged him for the squeamish or superstitious type, but I noticed that his hand shook a bit.
"You find Jim?" Jeb asked.
"He's out back," Michael said.
"Are the police coming over?" I asked.
Jeb snorted.
"In this weather? Hell no. Maybe tomorrow, but probably not till Monday."
A sudden rumbling noise filled the building. A light over in the far end of the kitchen came on, and the meat locker began humming.
"Well, that's taken care of anyway," Jeb said. He stood up and began donning bis rain slicker. "You and Jim keep an eye on the place, make sure the generator's running."
"Right," Fred said. He still had all his rain gear on, and from the haste with which he buttoned his slicker on his way to the door, I had a feeling he'd keep an eye on the place from a distance.
"Shall we go?" Michael asked.
I started. I'd been lost in thought. If the police couldn't come out for a day or so, all the better, as far as I could see. I wanted time to find out some things before the authorities showed up. Like how Dad had managed to drop his map of the island at the murder scene. And where he and Aunt Phoebe were, and what really had happened when she confronted Resnick. After all, we were longtime summer people, but we were only summer people. Which in the local hierarchy put us only one step above day tourists, and considerably below lobsters and puffins. And I had a feeling that even the mainland police would rather have their internationally famous corpse bumped off by tourists or summer people instead of by some good, solid, salt-of-the-earth Monheganite.
The weather outside had gone beyond frightful. The wind drove the rain into our skin like cold needles, and at times we had to clutch fences and buildings to keep from being knocked down.
We seriously contemplated taking refuge for a while in the village church. Candlelight flickered invitingly in the windows, and the birders camping inside were having a splendid time, despite the lack of creature comforts. We could hear a spirited rendition of "Kumbayah" in three-part harmony.
"I'm not looking forward to going back to the cottage without Dad," I shouted over the wind as we struggled down the lane. Is the wind really that much worse, I wondered, or does it just seem that way this close to the water?
"Your mother will be frantic," Michael shouted back as we paused for a moment to steady ourselves.
"I'm already frantic," I bellowed back. "But there's no way we can keep looking when the storm's like this. We'll just have to hope that he's got the sense to--my God, what was that?"
Michael raised his arm instinctively to shield me as a gust of wind slammed a large metal object down the road a few inches in front of our feet and then swept it over the side of the road and down toward the beach. I could hear a metal clanging noise as it hit the rocks of the breakwater below.
"An aluminum lawn chair, I think," Michael answered, staggering over to the edge of the road. "It almost--oh no!"
I straggled to his side and peered over the edge of the road. I could see someone crouching on the rocks, perilously close to the edge of the water.
Mother.
Chapter 14
A Long Day's Journey into Puffins
"Why on earth is she out in this weather?" I asked. Normally, we could barely coax Mother out on the deck on a perfect summer day, and even then she'd be well nigh invisible beneath the sunblock, the giant sunglasses, the parasol, and the mosquito hat. But for her to go out in the hurricane…
"She must be in a panic about your dad," Michael said, echoing my thought. "We'd better go rescue her."
We crawled down the breakwater toward her. She clung to a rock with one hand, but when she saw us coming, she waved at us with--What the devil did she have in her other hand?
An umbrella. Or what remained of one after the wind had turned the frame inside out and ripped away all but a few shreds of fabric.
"Hello, dears," she said when we reached her side. "I'm very glad to see you. I've hurt my ankle and I was beginning to wonder how I'd get home."
"What on earth are you doing out here?" Michael asked.
"Looking for James. Have you found him yet?" she asked. Beneath her usual calm tone was an edge of panic. Or was it pain? Either way, I'd have given anything to have some good news to tell her.
"Not yet, and there's no way we can keep looking at night, not in this weather," I said as calmly as I could manage. "I'm sure he's holed up somewhere and we'll find him in the morning."