"Not much shopping on Monhegan," Michael said. "Unless you're into puffin-related tchotchkes."
"True. I wonder why on earth she agreed to come here."
"Your dad wanted to come," Michael said. "Isn't that reason enough?"
I glanced up. Michael was looking casually out to our right, apparently enjoying the view of the churning surf and dripping rain. But I had this sneaky feeling that was some kind of test question, as in "Wouldn't you do something like that for me?"
I hate that kind of test question. I always assume I've flunked them--even when it turns out later that I didn't, or that it wasn't a test question after all.
"Reason enough?" I said. "I guess it would be for most normal people. For Dad, certainly, or Rob, or just about anyone I can think of. But Mother?" I shrugged.
"You don't give your mother enough credit; I think she's very devoted to your dad."
She was certainly very intent on letting him get his rest.
Before we even got in the door, she sent Mrs. Fenniman running out to shush us.
"Your dad's asleep," Mrs. Fenniman hissed. "And your aunt Phoebe's resting up for her ordeal."
"Ordeal?" I asked.
"When the mainland police come to haul her away," Mrs. Fenniman said.
I decided not to spoil Aunt Phoebe's grand drama just yet. Her idea of resting involved sitting in the kitchen with her injured knee propped up under an ice pack, helping empty the larder. Perhaps she thought they wouldn't feed her in jail. I inquired after the knee, dodged her questions about what we'd been up to, and settled down in the living room with two heaping plates of food--one for myself and one for Michael, who had gone upstairs to change.
As I sat there with my eyes closed, munching a ham sandwich, I felt a sudden, surprisingly intense surge of relief and pleasure. I hadn't felt this happy about things since arriving on the island--since shortly after setting foot on the ferry, for that matter. Illogical, I thought. The storm still rattled the windows. We might still see Dad or Mother or Aunt Phoebe arrested on suspicion of murder. And even if we escaped the forces of nature and the long arm of the law, we still had the ferry ride back to the mainland to dread.
"You look very cheerful," Michael said, plunking down beside me.
"Things are looking up," I said.
"You've solved the mystery?" he asked eagerly.
"No, but for the moment, we're all safe and sound under the same roof, the whole family. And we're warm and dry and fed."
"Some of us are fed," he said, frowning.
"Here, I brought you a plate, too."
"Thanks," he said. "So warm, dry, and fed is enough to make you happy?"
"For now," I said. "Later, we'll work on warm, dry, fed, and free of all suspicion in the death of Victor Resnick. Speaking of which…"
Chapter 25
Puffin or Tiger?
I rummaged through my suitcase until I found the files I'd dragged down from the attic.
"You're not going to slog away at that while we're eating?" Michael asked.
"There're only a few of them," I said. "I just want to get to them before something else interrupts us."
Michael rolled his eyes and returned to his sandwich.
Most of the files were pretty boring. My grandfather Hollingworth's correspondence with a contractor about renovations to the cottage. Bills from someone named Barnes--Jeb's father or grandfather, presumably--for groceries and supplies.
I came close to giving up on the files and sticking them back in the attic, when I ran across a file marked "Resnick."
I was relieved at first to see that it contained only a series of increasingly angry letters from Grandfather to Resnick. Apparently, Grandfather had bought a painting, which Resnick had procrastinated about delivering. How odd; as far as I knew, my grandfather had a reputation as a canny businessman, but he wasn't exactly a patron of the arts. Perhaps he'd been canny enough to recognize Victor Resnick as a young artist on the rise and had bought a painting as an investment. Then again, having seen the painting in Resnick's house I could think of another reason for the transaction. Especially when I found the last documents in the files: a canceled check for ten thousand dollars, made out to Victor Resnick, and two copies of a bill of sale.
"Michael," I said. "Where's that book of Resnick's paintings?"
"Good question," he said, looking around the living room.
"Help me find it, will you?"
After a prolonged search, we finally found the book behind a stack of flowerpots, sitting on a coiled garden hose. I flipped through the first chapter, searching for dates.
"What's up?" Michael said, leaning over my shoulder. I lost track, just for a moment, of why I was looking through the book. Oh, right, Resnick's paintings.