"I don't imagine we'll find out until they probate his will," I said. "Guess you'll have to stick around for a while to find out."
"Not when the storm lets up," Takahashi said, glancing at the window. "As soon as that damned ferry starts running, I'm out of here. They can send someone else to clean up the deal."
"I know how you feel," Michael said.
We left the disgruntled Takahashi sitting in his room, staring out the window and muttering curses in the drawl that grew deeper when he got more upset. And struggling to open a bottle of pricey Chardonnay with one of those makeshift bottle openers they sell for people to take on picnics.
"Now what?" Michael asked.
"Now, if you're up for it, we're going to burgle Resnick's house," I said.
By the time we left the inn, the birders had started to emerge from shelter, although the absence of any birds to watch reduced them to wandering around marveling at the storm damage. Michael and I pretended to do the same as we strolled nonchalantly out of the village and up the path to Resnick's house.
"Would you look at that?" I said, pausing on a hilltop to look down at the glass monstrosity. "It's a good thing Resnick isn't here."
"You mean, apart from the fact that he'd have a clear shot at you standing there?" Michael said, joining me on the crest.
"No, I mean imagine how he'd feel if he saw what's happened to his house."
A large branch had crashed through one of the ten-foot square glass walls flanking the front door. I counted at least two more cracked panes, and we hadn't even seen the more exposed ocean side yet.
"People who live in glass houses…" Michael began.
"Should have some way of protecting them in nor'easters," I replied. "I wonder if he was killed before he had a chance to board it up, or if he was really fool enough to think all that glass would survive a hurricane."
"We'll never know. But he strikes me as the kind of guy who'd call his insurance company five minutes after it happened, demanding that they send someone out immediately to fix it"
"Only there wouldn't have been any phone service."
"True," Michael said. "That would really have set him off."
"Come on," I said very loudly as I started down the path. "We need to take care of this."
"Take care of what?" Michael called after me.
"Resnick's house."
"I thought that's what we were here for," Michael said. "To burgle--"
"Shh!" I hissed. "Not so loud; there could be birders lurking in the bushes."
"Oh, I get it," he hissed back, and then said more loudly, "The storm's passing; it's not likely to break any more windows."
"Yes, but there's enough wind and rain to do considerable damage to everything inside," I said. "Someone should make sure anything valuable is safely stowed away."
"Someone also wants to snoop around and see if there's any useful evidence," Michael added more softly as he caught up with me.
"Well, that's the whole idea of burgling his house, isn't it? You didn't think I'd suddenly decided to turn daring international art thief, did you?" I asked as I picked my way carefully through the leaves and glass shards to the gaping hole by the door where the glass panel used to be. "It's not as if anyone else is doing anything useful."
"Everyone else is wisely waiting until the mainland authorities arrive," Michael said, following me.
"By which time, anything could happen." I said, stepping into the house. "The wind and rain could reduce any important documents to papier-mache. Or break any valuable antiques. And he's sure to have paintings--"
Yes, he had paintings. I stopped just inside the hallway and stared open-mouthed at the one I saw there. Michael bumped into me.
"Sorry," he said, grabbing me to keep from knocking me over. "If you're going to snoop, better not get cold feet just inside the door, where your accomplices might trample you on their way in."
"Oh my God," I said. "Michael, look!"
Michael followed my finger with his eyes. He looked puzzled for a moment, and then I had the satisfaction of seeing his jaw drop in amazement "Is that who I think it is?" he asked.
"It can't possibly be," I said.
Resnick was mostly famous for his landscapes, but, if the picture before us was anything to go by, not from any lack of talent at painting interiors or the human figure. You could almost have warmed yourself at the roaring fire in the painted fireplace, and the way the half-filled champagne flute reflected the firelight was extraordinary. You could all but feel every hair of the white bearskin rug on your own skin, and I suspect had I been a man, I'd have felt an erotic response instead of envy at the flawless skin and perfect figure of the nude blond woman sprawled on the rug. Under other circumstances, I'd have admired the painting enormously. As it was…