Murder With Puffins(87)

"You're right," Michael said. "It's the only logical solution. Brilliant."

"Thanks," I said. "Come on, we've got work to do."

"Are we going up to the power plant to confront Jim?"

"Are you crazy? You're definitely watching way too much TV," I said. "That's the sort of stupid thing that gets people killed, or at least gets them into the kind of trouble that they can't get out of until just before the last commercial. We'll tell the police tomorrow and then let them confront Jim."

"Then what are we doing?"

"Burgling Resnick's studio," I said, opening my knapsack and pulling out the ropes I'd brought.

"But why?" Michael asked. "If we're sure Jim is the murderer--"

"We still haven't found James Jackson," I said. "I want at least a chance to talk him out of mentioning Mother in his wretched biography. And the studio's the only place we haven't looked where Resnick might have left some clue to Jackson's identity, and tonight's probably the last chance we'll have to search before the police arrive tomorrow. With the press hot on their heels, no doubt."

"Let's get it over with, then," Michael said.





Chapter 31





Abandon Puffins, All Ye Who Enter Here




I'd spotted a useful tree next to Resnick's studio. One branch spread over the yard, where we could throw a rope over it and shinny up, while another was perfectly positioned for using the same rope to climb through the broken pane of glass in the studio roof.

Actually doing all this proved a lot harder than we expected.

"I hadn't realized how long it's been since I've climbed a tree," I said as I examined the knees, elbows, and palms I'd skinned during our travels.

"Obviously, there are significant gaps in my fitness program," Michael said from where he sat on the floor, puffing. "Please tell me we're going to figure out a way to leave at ground level."

"We can probably unlock the door," I said, limping over to it. "Damn, I think it needs a key on both sides."

"Try that," Michael said, pointing to a key on a hook a few feet from the door.

"Perfect," I said. "Voila! Our exit."

"Unlock it, and leave the key in the lock," Michael said. "In case we need to make a quick getaway."

"Good idea," I said. "And let's take the rope down, too, so no one passing by will spot us."

"The place has glass walls," Michael said. "Anyone passing by will spot us even without the rope. Even if we only use our flashlights."

"Well, if we take down the rope, at least we can pretend we found the door open and we didn't actually break into the place."

"That's what I like about you," Michael remarked. "Your finely honed sense of deviousness."

We teased the rope out of the tree, and I buried it in the very bottom of my knapsack, where you could hardly see it beneath the Gatorade, first-aid kit, flare gun, water, and candy bars. Michael was groping around the walls of the studio.

"What are you looking for?" I asked.

"The light switch," he said. "If we're going to pretend we found the door open, we may as well search in comfort, instead of creeping around with our flashlights like burglars. Ah, here it is."

The lights came on, and we both turned to survey the studio.

And saw Mother. Two Mothers, in fact; both nude and staring straight out of their canvases at us. One stood, her weight resting on one hip, her head cocked to one side, and a petulant look on her face, as if she were about to open her mouth and complain about how long she'd been standing there, and ask how much longer was this going to take. The other sat on the side of a bed, her arms raised, her hands either putting up or, more likely, taking down her hair, and judging by the look on her face, any words she was about to say would be edited out for broadcast on network television.

"Oh my God," I moaned. "More of them!"

We continued to search the studio, under Mother's watchful eyes, and turned up several more nude Mothers, stacked against various walls. Mother lying on a red velvet couch with a black velvet ribbon around her throat, rather reminiscent of Manet's Olympia. Mother, seen from above, sprawled in a giant claw-footed bathtub. Mother holding an old-fashioned large porcelain doll that somehow just barely managed to avoid covering any erogenous zones.

After a while, I began turning the paintings to the wail.

The cumulative effect of so many naked Mothers unnerved me.

"Somehow I don't think we're going to have much luck hushing this up," I said, sitting down in the middle of the studio and burying my head in my hands. "Between the damned biographer and these ghastly paintings--Oh!"