"The view doesn't look that bad to me," Michael said, coming up behind me and putting his arms around my waist.
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I said, leaning back against him. "But now try imagining you're Victor Resnick."
"No thanks," he said, sighing. "I know it's stupid, but poking around in here actually makes me feel sorry for him."
"Me, too," I said.
Actually, until Michael said that, I'd been thinking what a pity the one place we'd managed to find five minutes alone together all weekend was the house of a murder victim. If Victor Resnick had been merely missing, I'd have suggested to Michael that we make ourselves at home and, if anyone ever caught us later, pretend that we'd taken refuge here during a bad part of the storm. But since an army of forensic experts would soon begin swarming all over the house, I knew we shouldn't do anything we couldn't explain away as part of our quest to minimize damage and secure the contents of the house.
Although I couldn't help noticing the extralarge sunken tub. More like a small wading pool, really, all lined with gold-flecked turquoise-colored tiles. There was even a small adjoining fireplace, though that showed little sign of use.
Like something out of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. Which Resnick was, of course. No sensible person would use a tub like that for ordinary daily bathing, especially on an island with a chronic water shortage. But fill it up, add lots of bath oil, set several dozen candles around the periphery, light the fire, and send Michael to the wine cellar to pick out a bottle or two of Resnick's undoubtedly expensive wine… I shook myself. This was not the time for erotic fantasies.
"Depressing," I said, reluctantly pulling away from Michael.
"Gee, thanks," he said.
"I mean this place," I said. I stepped over to the wide vanity counter and, using the corner of my shirt to avoid smearing--or leaving--fingerprints, popped open the medicine cabinet.
"Why the medicine cabinet?" Michael said. "He wasn't poisoned."
"You can learn a lot about someone from his medicine cabinet," I said as I poked through the bottles, jars, and tubes in the cabinet.
"Remind me to clean my medicine cabinet before you get another chance to rummage through it," Michael said, peering over my shoulder. "Anything suspicious?"
"No," I replied. "Apart from having an ulcer or some other serious stomach problems for a couple of decades, he was pretty healthy for someone his age."
"A couple of decades? How can you tell?"
"Fifteen-year-old leftover Tagamet pills; Zantac prescriptions from four and seven years ago--obviously he was one of those suicidal idiots who never threw out old medicine."
"On second thought, remind me to put a padlock on my medicine cabinet," Michael said. "Is this significant?"
"Probably not," I said. "The rest of the drugs are normal over-the-counter stuff. He wasn't on medication for anything like epilepsy or heart problems, anything that would account for his falling down into the tidal pool from natural causes."
"Well, we knew that from the gash on the back of his head."
"True," I said. "Well, one good thing: If he was this much of a pack rat about medicine, maybe there's a desk somewhere crammed with interesting papers."
"I think it's out in the living room," Michael said. "I noticed it while we were hauling the wet paintings down."
"Well, why didn't you say something?" I said, going back out into the bedroom. "Let's go and--"
"What now?" Michael asked, seeing that I'd stopped in the middle of the room.
I indicated the bearskin rug in front of the fireplace.
"Yes, the man liked bearskin rugs," Michael said. "They have their charms."
"He must have liked this one anyway," I said. "It must be older than God. Look how ratty it is."
"He probably had it for years."
"But he didn't have it lying here very long."
"The house hasn't existed very long," Michael said.
"Yes, but look at those paler areas of the carpet," I said. "Here, you can see it better if we move the bearskin."
I peeled back the bearskin rug and pointed to a rectangular area of white carpet still more or less the original snow white.
"I see," Michael said. "From the shape of the clean spot, he had another rug, a rectangular one, lying here up until very recently. And then he replaced it with the bearskin rug."
"After the storm began, most probably," I said. "See, a couple of wet leaves stuck to the underside of the bearskin."
"Which brings up the question of whether he did it or someone else?"