I forced a smile and handed Binkie her binoculars. The weather would have to let up more than a bit before I'd set out from Monhegan again in a boat. But if by some misfortune Winnie and Binkie succeeded in convincing a suicidal boat captain to take them out puffin-watching, I'd find some excuse.
"Just what is a puffin anyway?" Michael asked.
I winced. Dangerous question. The Burnhams and several nearby birders pulled out their field guides and began imparting puffin lore.
If I'd been explaining, I'd have said to keep his eye out for a black-and-white bird about a foot high that looked like a small penguin wearing an enormous clown nose over his beak and bright orange stockings on his feet. The birders did a good job of describing the beak--a gray-and-yellow triangle with a wide red tip--but they went into too much detail on the chunky body, the stubby wings, the distinctive, clumsy flight, and the precise patterning of the black-and-white feathers. I doubt if Michael needed to know quite so much detail on how to tell immature puffins from other birds he'd never heard of, or if he cared in the slightest about puffins' breeding and nesting habits. When Winnie and another birder began competing to see who could more accurately imitate the low, growling an! that the usually silent puffins make when their nests are disturbed, I groaned in exasperation.
"Don't worry, dear," Binkie said, patting me on the shoulder. "It always gets a little rough when we're this close to the harbor."
"Close to the harbor?" I said. "You mean we'll be landing soon?"
"Thank God," Michael muttered. I wasn't sure whether the ocean or the bird lore made his exclamation so fervent.
And sure enough, within minutes we saw the ferry dock. Quite a crowd of people stood on it with great mounds of luggage. More birders, I supposed, since at least half of them peered through the rain with binoculars. Like the birders on the boat, they scrutinized the gulls that wheeled overhead--hoping, I suppose, to spot a rare species of seagull. The two sets of birders also scanned one another. As we approached the dock, they began pointing, waving, and calling greetings.
"Good Lord, Binkie, look who's on the dock," Winnie said. "Just beside the gift shop."
"Oh no, not Victor!" Binkie exclaimed. "How awful! I did so hope we'd seen the last of him."
"No such luck," Winnie growled. "Turns up like a bad penny every few years. Wonder what the old ba--scoundrel's up to this time."
"Never borrow trouble," Binkie said. "We don't know for sure that he's up to anything."
"Like hell we don't."
I peered at the dock, wondering who Victor was and how he could possibly have aroused this much animosity in the normally mild-mannered Burnhams. But without binoculars, I couldn't see many details; if the docks held a sinister villain twirling his mustache or sporting cloven hooves, I couldn't spot him.
"Oh, look, Dr. and Mrs. Peabody," Binkie said--no doubt to distract Winnie from his irritation with the nefarious Victor. "What rotten luck; they're leaving just when we're getting here."
"I wouldn't count on it," Winnie replied, inspecting the Peabodys through his binoculars. "I overheard the captain speaking rather sharply to someone over the radio. Said he'd never have set out if they'd accurately predicted the size of the swells."
I was glad Winnie hadn't mentioned this until after we could see the dock.
"You think he'll ride out the storm here, then?" Binkie asked.
"If he has any sense," Winnie replied.
"Luck was certainly with you two," Binkie said, turning to Michael and me. "You very nearly missed the boat!"
The boat picked that moment to make a sudden free-fall drop into the trough of a wave.
"Lucky us," Michael muttered.
Chapter 2
The Puffin Has Landed
"So this is Monhegan," Michael said as he stood in the middle of the dock, inspecting the landscape.
I was relieved to see that he looked better already. Entirely due to being back on dry land, I was sure. Certainly nothing about our surroundings would cheer anyone up. Did the Monhegan dock always look this seedy and rundown, I wondered? Or were the weather and my queasy stomach still coloring my view of things?
After the boat docked, we had the usual mad scramble to sort out the enormous piles of luggage. Michael and I were luckier than most; the birders tended to favor battered rucksacks and ancient suitcases covered with peeling travel stickers from unpronounceable foreign birding meccas. Our more sedate urban luggage was comparatively easy to spot.
"What next?" Michael asked when we had all our gear.
"Next, we negotiate for someone to take our luggage to the cottage."