"Did you go to see him?"
"Of course not," Mother said. "I had no interest in seeing him, and even if I had, why would I want to walk that far in this weather? And I thought he was lying about the painting."
"Maybe Grandfather lied about burning it."
"Oh, no," Mother said. "He made me watch while he burned it."
Somehow I could picture the scene: Grandfather sputtering like a firecracker while Mother coolly pretended indifference to the fate of the painting.
"Well, Resnick has this one hanging in his hallway," I said. "I don't think he'd had it there long, though, or everyone on the island would have heard about it."
"Is it still there?" Mother asked. She didn't look alarmed, just interested.
"No, we put it and some of the other paintings away where the rain couldn't damage mem."
"That's nice," she said. "Well, go along and collect it. I'm sure it would cause all kinds of confusion if the police found it."
"It's not out there," Dad said, popping in from the kitchen.
"Oh, I'm sorry," I said. "I just found it here under the couch."
For the next half hour, I had to keep my composure while Dad thumbed through the book with one hand and ate with the other. And he commented all the while, with his mouth full, on what a genius Resnick was and what a shame such a great artist had been such a difficult person, and what a pity it was he had come to such an untimely end. Mother continued to fuss over her embroidery and practice her patented Mona Lisa smile, occasionally reminding Dad not to drop food on my new book.
Well, it wasn't as if Dad had ruined my chance to find out more about the painting. Mother had obviously said all she planned to say about it. Whether she had posed for it or whether Resnick had done it from memory or imagination, I'd probably never find out. In fact, I wasn't even sure I wanted to know.
I decided not to worry about the painting until tomorrow. In fact, I wasn't going to worry about anything until tomorrow. As soon as possible, I was going to go to bed. I might even take a nap right now, I thought, leaning back into Michael's arm and closing my eyes with a contented sigh. I felt Michael shift his weight and then felt his breath in my ear. Yes, I thought, a very nice time to whisper a few sweet nothings in my ear.
"Things would be a lot easier if we didn't have all these damned birders underfoot," he murmured.
"Yeah," I agreed. Not to mention my family. I opened one eyelid to check on what our unintentional chaperones were up to. Dad was studying a photo with a magnifying glass. Mother was contemplating her embroidery with a dreamy expression on her face.
"I mean, they're very useful for establishing the time line, but there are just too many of them, and any one of them could be the murderer. In fact… What's so funny?"
Mother and Dad both glanced up, wondering what the joke was, and Michael and I fled to the kitchen, where we could talk with more privacy.
"I thought you were talking about our situation, not the latest homicide," I said, giggling.
"Yeah, well, that, too," he said, sheepishly. "But you've got to admit, it's intriguing."
"It's completely baffling," I said. My sleepy mood had vanished. "Too many suspects, all with motive, means, and opportunity."
"I like Will Dickerman for it," Michael said. "Perfect casting for the murderer."
"Well, if you like Will, don't forget about Fred," I said. "To know him is to loathe him, and he'd have had much the same reasons Will had for doing Resnick in. And for all that southern-fried charm he puts on, I wouldn't put it past Ken Takahashi to do the old boy in. For ruining the deal, or just for dragging him out here in a hurricane."
"I don't know," Michael said. "I rather like Takahashi. I'd hate to see him turn out to be the one."
"Well, I'd hate for the police to suspect Dad or Aunt Phoebe."
"Perhaps it will turn out to be someone we don't know,"
Michael said. "One of the birders, or a local we haven't really met."
Just then, we heard the front door slam. We peeked out of the kitchen door to see what was up.
"This place is absolutely impossible," Rob said, striding in.
"What's wrong, dear?" Mother asked.
"They won't let me use the power in the Anchor Inn, even though they've got that generator going, doing nothing but running the freezer," Rob complained. "And then I tried to talk to the guy who does the generator, and all he wants is free legal advice."
"Let me guess," I said. "Was he asking what happens if someone who's jumped bail gets turned in? Or what happens to a foreclosure if the note holder dies while it's in progress?"