Murder With Puffins(51)

"Hotel project?"

"I came all the way up here from Atlanta in good faith to negotiate with Mr. Resnick about the purchase of some land that my company had planned to develop as a luxury resort," Takahashi said.

"A luxury resort? Here on Monhegan?" Michael asked, glancing at the window, which Gladys was pelting with sheets of cold, icy rain.

"I'm told it's very pleasant in the summer," Takahashi said, following Michael's gaze.

"Not much room here on the island for another hotel," I said.

Takahashi shrugged.

"I didn't put the deal together," he said, frowning. "I'm just here to try to keep it from falling apart."

I got the feeling he would have a few interesting things to say to someone back in Atlanta.

"No offense," I said, "but the whole thing sounds a little far-fetched to me. I mean, does this look like the kind of place that could support a big hotel?"

"We weren't planning a big hotel," Takahashi said. "A very small one, in fact; very luxurious, very secluded. The sort of place where high-profile people could come with absolute assurance of their privacy."

"You mean over-the-hill movie queens recuperating from plastic surgery, reclusive, paranoid billionaires, people like that?" Michael asked.

"Exactly," Takahashi said. "People who appreciate the kind of tight security you can maintain in a place this isolated."

We must have still looked dubious. He walked over to the small rustic table under the room's one window and unrolled a large sheet of paper.

"Look, here are some of the project plans."

We gathered around and looked down at a three-foot-by-five-foot map of Monhegan. Only this wasn't the Monhegan we knew. A giant, sprawling building occupied the top of the hill where the lighthouse now stood. Labels indicated where the restaurant and the indoor pool would be located. A nine-hole golf course had been carved out of the undeveloped ocean side of the island. The meadow where the Central Monhegan Power Company's modest generator now chugged housed a sprawling complex of equipment and support buildings. I wondered if the owner of the Island Inn knew that one of his guests was plotting to raze his hotel and replace it with a heliport? Or if Aunt Phoebe had any intention of having her cottage torn down to make room for a set of indoor tennis courts?

"A lot of people would be pretty ticked with Resnick if they knew about this," Michael said, looking at me with one eyebrow raised significantly.

He was right. And one of them might have gotten mad enough to murder him. I couldn't decide whether to rejoice that we'd already discovered another plausible motive for Resnick's murder or feel depressed at the incredible number of possible suspects Takahashi had just revealed. I ran my hand through my hair in frustration, managing to shower Takahashi's map with drops of water in the process.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I forgot I was still wet."

"I don't think I'll ever be dry again," Takahashi muttered. "Don't worry, you can wave the damned thing out the window, for all I care; it's useless now."

Michael nodded, but my radar went on the alert. Useless? How could Takahashi know his maps were useless unless he already knew about Victor Resnick's death?

"What do you mean, 'useless'?" I asked.

"The bastard backed out of the deal," Takahashi said, rolling up the map. "Going with the competition. So the whole thing's completely useless. Would you like a souvenir of what Coastal Resorts could have done to bring this place into the twenty-first century?"

"I wouldn't give up yet," I said. "If he hasn't actually signed the deal, who knows, maybe you can win over Resnick's heirs, whoever they are. Of course, the whole thing could get caught up in probate for years."

"Heirs?" Takahashi said. "What do you mean, 'heirs'? The bastard was perfectly healthy yesterday."

"Yes, but someone bashed his skull in late yesterday," I said.

"Oh, damn," Takahashi said. He sat down heavily on the bed and buried his face in his hands. "Damnation. That's all I need."

"You sound awfully upset for someone who claims he hardly knew Victor Resnick," I said.

"Why shouldn't I be upset?" Takahashi said, looking up. "My boss will probably make me stay here to negotiate with the heirs. Do you know who they are?"

I winced, thinking about the damned biography. It didn't sound as if Resnick had much family left, apart from the long-lost illegitimate child. What if his death led to a massive, well-publicized search for the missing offspring? I fervently hoped he'd made a will leaving his estate to some second cousin. Or maybe his favorite charity. The Society for the Relief of Indigent Curmudgeons, perhaps.