Murder With Puffins(6)
At the crest of the hill, we turned right on the island's main thoroughfare--another dirt and gravel road, but this one slightly better maintained. It wound through a seemingly haphazard scattering of buildings, most made of weather-beaten gray boards. I tried to see the place through a stranger's eyes, and cringed. You forget little details over time, like how many yards contained untidy stacks of lobster traps in need of mending. Or how the utilitarian PVC pipes that brought water down from the central reservoir lined every road. I could see Michael darting glances around, and I suspected he was wondering why the devil we'd come all mis way to such an unprepossessing place. The picturesque charm of the island definitely came across better on a sunny summer day than in the wake of a fall hurricane.
The drizzle had escalated to a light shower by the time we turned down the lane to Aunt Phoebe's cottage. About time; a little later and we'd have had to stumble along in the dark. Monhegan has no streetlights. And Aunt Phoebe thought repairing the ruts in her lane a citified affectation, which made finding your way in the dark a nightmare.
Only it wasn't dark. I could see light ahead of us--coming from the house. And was that music playing? I felt a twinge of panic. Surely Aunt Phoebe hadn't rented it, had she? She was always so adamant about having it ready at any time the family wanted to use it.
"Someone's already here," Michael said.
"No one's supposed to be," I said. "Maybe it's just the cleaners. I know Aunt Phoebe has someone local come in every two weeks or so to keep the place from getting too dirty."
A burst of laughter rang out from inside the cottage.
"Wish I enjoyed cleaning that much," Michael said. He shifted his carry-on bag from one shoulder to the other.
I noticed that the rest of our luggage hadn't arrived yet. Michael's attempts to bribe the driver into giving us a ride had probably irritated him to the point that he'd make sure ours was the last off the track. He might even pretend to forget about it until the morning, with our luck. I sighed.
"Well, there's no sense standing out here wondering," I said. I marched up the steps, ready to deal with whatever the cottage contained--burglars? Squatters? Cleaners who had gotten into the bar and decided to hold an impromptu hurricane party?
I squared my shoulders and knocked firmly on the door.
Chapter 3
All My Puffins
No one answered. I waited briefly, then knocked again.
Another burst of laughter greeted my knock.
"What's going on in there?" I called.
Still no answer.
"Well, here goes," I said.
I flung open the door.--The cottage was empty. But someone, obviously, had been there, and not very long ago.
"I guess someone was expecting us," Michael said.
Evidently--but who?
We looked around. A fire crackled briskly in the fireplace. Enough candles burned in various parts of the room to cast a warm, romantic glow. Both sofas were piled high with down pillows and fuzzy afghans. Two teacups stood on the coffee table, and a hint of steam and a faint odor of jasmine indicated that the quilted cozy concealed a fresh pot of tea. A battery radio sat on the mantel; as we stood there gaping, a final burst of laughter signaled the end of a commercial and an announcer with a beautiful spun-silk baritone voice assured us that W something or other would now continue with its Friday-night light classical program. The strains of "The Blue Danube Waltz" filled the room.
"Hello?" I called.
I stepped inside. I could smell something cooking. Right now, my stomach objected strenuously to this, but, even so, I could tell that when I'd fully recovered from the ferry ride, whatever was going on in the kitchen would turn out to be intensely interesting. A bottle of champagne stood on the table, beads of sweat running down its sides, with a corkscrew and two glass flutes nearby.
"You know, this is a lot less primitive than you described it," Michael said, dropping his bags by the door. "In fact, now that we're off the boat, I think I'm starting to like this place."
He looked around appreciatively. The place did look its best by candlelight. The living room was two stories high, with stairs curling around one wall, leading to a balconylike upper hall, off which the three bedrooms opened. Downstairs, under the bedrooms, were a large bathroom and a larger kitchen. I remembered the place as tiny and cramped--which it usually was in the summer, with every bedroom filled, a carpet of sleeping bags in the living room, and a typical hour-long wait to use the bathroom. But for two people looking for peace and quiet and a place to get away from it all, the cottage suddenly looked like a palace.
"Let's worry about the luggage later," Michael said, sitting down on one of the sofas and patting the cushion beside him. I joined him, and for a few minutes we sat there in silence, enjoying the warmth, the music, the whole ambiance.