But while we stared at the door, watching for Rob's reappearance, a commotion elsewhere in the square distracted us. Mrs. Peabody, the stout birder, had intercepted Jeb and Mamie and was haranguing them. She was thrusting something at them, and they were backing hastily away from her. After several attempts to give them whatever she was holding, Mrs. Peabody shook her finger at them.
"What's got them all fired up?" came a voice from behind us. I glanced up, to find Ken Takahashi looking over our shoulders. I deduced from the little bits of cork all over his clothes that he hadn't had much fun opening his Chardonnay.
"The murder, of course," Michael said. Takahashi shuddered.
"Do you have any idea if the ferry's running today?" he asked, zipping up his parka.
"No, but I bet they know over at the general store," I said. "Let's go and ask."
"Are we really that interested in the ferry's whereabouts?" Michael asked as the three of us strolled across the street.
"I'm more interested in Rob's whereabouts," I said. "He's been in there long enough to buy a case of cream. If he's gone off and left us with Spike, Jeb may have another homicide on his hands."
"She's only kidding," Michael said quickly. Takahashi looked as if he didn't quite believe him.
The locals all looked up when we entered, and several of them actually nodded. I stayed near the door, where they'd be less likely to object to my bringing in Spike. Evidently, Takahashi hadn't quite given up the idea of charming the locals out of their real estate. He pasted a bright smile on his face.
"My God, it's like the North Pole out there," he said, shoving back the hood of his parka and shaking himself.
A couple of the locals huddling around the fire frowned. I suspected that any second we'd start hearing mutters about "weak-livered city folk."
"What brings you here, Mr. Takahashi?" Jeb Barnes asked.
"Do you know if the ferry's running today?"
"Doubt it," Jeb said. "Why?"
"I'd like to know how much longer I have to stay in this hellhole," Takahashi said, bis charm slipping for a moment.
The native Monheganites bristled visibly at this. Even Takahashi noticed, and he returned to full-blown salesman mode.
"I mean, it's all very well for you hardy New England types, but I'm from Atlanta," he said. The drawl was heavier than before; he made it sound as if the name Atlanta had at least twelve syllables. "I can deal just fine with ninety-eight in the shade and near one hundred percent humidity. But this kind of weather--call me a wimp, but I just don't understand how y'all can bear it. I'd have double pneumonia half the time if I lived here. In fact," he said, sniffling audibly, "I think I am coming down with something now. I don't suppose I could buy a cup of hot tea?"
"I can put the teakettle on," Jeb said. "We don't have fancy herbal teas, though, like they do down the street. Just plain old supermarket tea."
"As long as it's hot," Takahashi said.
"I wouldn't mind some myself," Michael said. "What about you, Meg?"
"Actually, we're just looking for my brother, Rob," I said. "You haven't--"
Just then, the door flew open and a swarm of birders burst into the store.
"That's him! That's him!" they shouted, pointing to Ken Takahashi.
Chapter 22
Tell Me How Long the Puffin's Been Gone
I was afraid the birders planned to lynch Takahashi, for some unknown reason. And when I looked around for Jeb Barnes, I found that he'd slipped away into the store's back room. Ostensibly to put the teakettle on, I supposed, though surely he could hear the commotion out here in the store. Takahashi quailed behind Michael. I was relieved to see a few familiar faces entering at the tail end of the birder mob, including Winnie and Binkie.
"Now then, let's calm down," Binkie called out in a surprisingly penetrating voice. "Let's have a little order here!"
The shouting died down, and the birders stood back as Binkie pushed her way to the front of the crowd.
"One of you tell me what's going on here," Binkie ordered. "Just one!" she added as several birders began to speak.
Mrs. Peabody stepped forward and pointed a quivering hand at Ken Takahashi.
"He's the one!" she said.
"What one?" I asked. "Do you mean you think he's the murderer?"
"Well, that's for the police to find out, isn't it?" Mrs. Peabody said. "All I know is, he's the one pretending to be a birder."
"Pretending to be a birder?" I said. I glanced at Takahashi, somewhat disappointed. I'd hoped the phony birder would turn out to be our missing biographer. Ken Takahashi seemed too down-to-earth to have written that much purple prose. Still, a way of testing the possibility occurred to me.