Of course, we had to clear quite a bit of debris off the deck before we could escape the house. Leaves, twigs, branches, limbs, and even whole trees were strewn about everywhere, and the number of smashed lobster pots littering the landscape made me worry about how the fishermen would manage next season.
"What a morning," I grumbled as we preceded Aunt Phoebe down the path, moving the worst of the debris out of the way as we went.
"Oh, come on; think what an interesting adventure we're having," Michael said.
"Are you usually this cheerful in the morning?" I asked.
"Why? Is cheerful in the morning a good or a bad thing, in your opinion?"
"Cheerful's fine, as long as it's quietly cheerful until I'm completely awake."
"I'm not awake at all myself," Michael said. "Never am before ten. I'm only this cheerful because I'm sleepwalking."
"That's much better. Sleepwalking I can understand."
"Come on, you two!" Aunt Phoebe called out "Look sharp up there! Can't keep the law waiting!"
"In a hurry to hang herself, isn't she?" Michael said.
"Do you mean that literally?" I asked. "I mean, does Maine actually have capital punishment?"
"Guess we'll find out," Michael said.
The worst of the storm appeared past, but Hurricane Gladys couldn't have gotten all that far away. It was still raining and blowing heavily, and we had trouble keeping upright. Aunt Phoebe let us help her over the rough spots until we got to the door of the general store. She insisted on walking up the steps and into the store on her own, with the help of the flagpole. Michael opened the door and Aunt Phoebe limped dramatically into the store.
Jeb Barnes already stood behind his counter, despite the early hour, and the usual collection of locals had already gathered around the stove, listening to a battery radio. Or perhaps they'd never gone home last night. Mayor Mamie sat among them, sipping a cup of coffee.
"I've come to turn myself in," Aunt Phoebe announced in ringing tones. "I killed Victor Resnick."
Chapter 17
The Return of the Prodigal Puffin
When the commotion died down, Aunt Phoebe described her confrontation with Victor Resnick with a great deal of gusto. Perhaps she had been too tired to go into much detail the night before, or perhaps she found the gang at the general store a more congenial audience. At any rate, she produced a great many more details than she had the first time around. The bit at the end, where she left Resnick lying senseless in the middle of his yard with the hurricane howling around him, was particularly effective. By the time she got to that part of her story, everyone in the general store was speechless with amazement I was surprised no one applauded. Back home, my family would have.
"Well, I guess that about wraps it up," Jeb Barnes said, when he finally found his voice.
"So you might as well arrest me now," Aunt Phoebe said.
The constable frowned. I suspected he was wondering what to do. I doubted the island had a jail.
"Why don't you have her go back to the cottage and consider herself under house arrest?" I said. "It's not as if she can go anywhere before the ferry starts running."
"Just what I was thinking," Jeb Barnes said. "Consider yourself under house arrest, Miss Hollingworth. Don't leave the island."
"You'll know where to find me, Constable," Aunt Phoebe said. She turned and limped across the room, head held high. Her grand exit was a little spoiled by the blast of wind and rain that burst into the room when she opened the door, nearly knocking her over, but she recovered rapidly and slammed the door behind her.
"What a grand old lady," Jeb Barnes said.
Murmurs of agreement came from the crew around the stove.
"Yes, she is," I said. "She's not your murderer, of course; but she did make a grand confession. I almost believed it myself. But ever since she told us last night, something about her story's been bothering me, and I finally figured out what's wrong with it."
"So what's wrong with it?" Jeb said, giving me a wary look.
"You heard what she said: They were struggling over the gun, and she rapped him on the noggin."
Jeb looked blank.
"Oh, I see," Michael said. "Allow us to demonstrate."
He plucked two umbrellas from a stack dripping by the front door and handed one to me with a flourish.
"My umbrella represents Resnick's gun, and Meg's is her aunt's stick," he said.
Jeb nodded.
Then we pretended to grapple over the gun umbrella. Michael allowed me to wrest it away from him and then, when he tried to grab it back, I rapped him lightly on the head with the top of the walking-stick umbrella.