"Don't worry about saving the damned art," Michael said.
"We're not saving it; we're sacrificing it to save ourselves," I said. "Here, help me wedge it up against this glass wall."
"What good will that do?" he asked.
"It may keep me from being impaled on shards when I try to break the glass," I said.
"Brilliant," he said. "But let me do it; I'm heavier."
He backed up and ran again, this time at the painting. I noticed he led with his other shoulder. I heard a cracking noise.
"Let me take a turn," I said.
Instead of running, I gave the painting a few swift karate kicks. I could hear glass shattering; after half a dozen kicks, we pulled the painting away and found a space large enough to climb through.
"After you," Michael said.
"Keep your eye open," I said. "Remember, Jim's out here somewhere with the gun."
We both managed to climb out, then crouched down and ran for some nearby bushes. Starting nervously at every stray noise, we sat back-to-back and I pulled the duct tape off Michael's hands. He was just untaping mine when something exploded. The flames, which had grown steadily, suddenly shot ten feet into the sky at the back of the studio. We both leapt to our feet and backed up some more.
"Reached the kerosene stove, I guess," Michael said.
"That or the generator," I agreed.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," I said. "I'm a mass of cuts, bruises, scrapes, and burns, and I think I singed off a few inches of hair on one side, but I'm alive."
"We're both alive, thanks to you," Michael said.
I had hoped for a more enthusiastic demonstration of gratitude, but Michael stood there for a moment, looking at the fire, frowning. Then he reached in his back pocket and took out his wallet.
What on earth?
"With any luck, the fire will destroy all of those very interesting paintings," he said. "But we still have a few loose ends to tie up."
He took a piece of paper out of the wallet. I recognized it: the map, the one with Dad's printing on it that I'd found at the murder scene.
"We don't need this anymore," he said, and he wadded it up and threw it at the fire.
"Michael!" I said, launching myself at him.
"Watch the shoulder," he said.
Making allowances for his injuries, I found the demonstration of gratitude that followed quite satisfactory. At least the beginning of it; after a few minutes, the Monhegan volunteer fire department arrived and we postponed any further celebrations until their departure.
Chapter 32
Much Ado About Puffins
"I think the coast is clear," Michael said as he shook me awake.
"Or as clear as it's going to get," I said, peering out the door of Resnick's garden shed, where we'd taken refuge until the crowds died down. Jeb Barnes had drafted most of the spectators into the search parties that were, even now, combing the island for the missing Jim. Only two people stood guard by the studio, and both of them were swathed in wraps, huddled against a tree, and, most important, facing in the other direction. We slunk across the lawn and paused in the shadows outside the entry to make sure no one had seen us. The guards hadn't moved.
"Some guards," Michael muttered. "Probably asleep. And why did they have to leave guards at all; do they really think Jim's likely to come back here?"
"No, but given the way everyone feels about Resnick's house, I think they want to make sure it doesn't go up in smoke, too."
"And this would be a bad thing?"
"No, as long as we get one more chance to snoop around before it happens. After all, Jim proving himself the murderer only solves one of our problems. There's still the biographer to deal with. Before he or she tries to capitalize on the notoriety of Resnick's death. Maybe if we can get into Resnick's computer, we can find a clue to the biographer's identity."
"Actually, I think I know his identity," Michael said, giving me a hand through the broken glass into Resnick's front hallway.
"You do!" I exclaimed. "Who?"
"I'll tell you in a second. Stay here while I check out something."
"But--"
"Humor me, just this once," he said.
So I stood in the hallway while Michael padded softly into the living room.
"Aha!" he called back. "I thought so."
"Thought so what?"
"Resnick's biographer is no longer in any condition to reveal anything," Michael called back.
"You don't mean--"
"Yes," Michael said. "Come and see who is--or rather, was--writing the biography."
I took a deep breath and walked into the living room, expecting to see a bloody corpse lying on the floor. Instead, I saw Michael. He held up an eight-by-ten print of a photo--the photo of Resnick that had appeared on the back of the book of paintings.