The bathroom was warm and wonderfully scented. Steam rose from the tub, and the fire blazed away merrily. From the size of the paper mound, I knew we'd need quite a few hours to burn them all. And who knows how many glasses of champagne.
"To our host," I said again, raising my glass. And then I fed a few more pages of the biography into the fire and kicked off my sneakers.
Chapter 33
Hair of the Puffin
"You'd think after all we went through to steal the damned painting, we'd get a little gratitude," I muttered.
Gaahhh! replied the seagull to whom I was speaking. I lighed and fed another handful of trash into the rusty barrel hat served Aunt Phoebe as an incinerator. Given Monhejan's astronomical trash-removal fees, most residents only paid for hauling away things they couldn't possibly burn or feed to the gulls. As a kid, I'd always adored the giant trash fire that marked our last day on the island.
Of course, as a child I'd never had to burn the trash with a raging champagne hangover. Or all by myself. The police lad dropped in to question us far earlier than I'd planned on getting up. Then Dad hauled off both Michael and Rob to help him with a project, leaving me stuck with all the chores and errands that Mother, Aunt Phoebe, and Mrs. Fenniman together could think up. At least as long as I stayed down here at the water's edge burning trash, they couldn't dump any more work on me. And it was relatively quiet. And I was getting very, very good at feeding trash nto the fire without moving my throbbing head or, for that matter, opening my eyes.
Pyromania was a lot more fun last night, I thought, examining my fingers, whose tips still looked faintly prune-like, although the garbage and kerosene had long since overpowered the faint lingering scent of the bath salts.
I closed my eyes. Yes, the aspirin had begun to work. I'd given up trying to recall last night's rapture; all I asked was a slight lessening in the severity of my headache.
"Good Lord, there's more trash now than when I left," came Michael's voice, startling me out of my concentration.
"Last day's like that," I said, stirring up the fire in the barrel and managing a feeble smile. "Heard anything more from the police?" He shook his head, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Luckily for us, the police had found searching for Jim much more interesting than poking though Resnick's house; they'd taken at face value our story of rescuing papers and paintings by hauling them into the wine cellar. And I suspected he'd had a word with the younger of the two detectives to explain the still-damp sunken tub.
"Your Dad's been running us ragged, going all over the island taking pictures with the digital cameras and downloading them into your brother's laptop," Michael said, massaging his shoulder. He'd been at the aspirin bottle, too.
"Pictures of what?"
"Resnick's house, the Anchor Inn, the place where we found the body--everything. Documenting your latest detective triumph, as he calls it."
"Good Lord," I muttered. "He does remember that those aren't his cameras, doesn't he?"
"Yes, eventually we filled up Rob's hard drive and had to give the cameras back to their owners," he said. "And by the way, it's still looking good for the ferry tomorrow, or possibly even this afternoon," he added. "In fact, your Dad went up to the cottage to get everyone started packing. We should probably head up there, too."
"Give it a few minutes," I said. "I want to stay out of Mother's way right now."
"Why?"
"She's presenting Dad with a late wedding present, and I'm wondering how he's going to like it."
"A late wedding present?" Michael echoed. "What?"
"The painting."
"The painting--my God, you've got to be joking!"
"No. Hang on, here they come."
They strolled out onto the deck, Mother limping gracefully, with the support of Dad's arm. Dad was beaming from ear to ear.
"Oh, good," I said. "I think he likes it."
"She must not have presented it yet."
"Yes, she has; see, I can see the back of the easel through the window; the cloth's thrown back."
"Your father's a strange bird," Michael said, shaking his head. "This is not how I would react under these circumstances, a fact I hope you'll keep in mind if any lecherous painters express an interest in immortalizing your charms quite that completely, with or without your cooperation."
"I'll definitely keep that in mind," I said. "Shove another wad of trash in the barrel, will you?"
"In fact," Michael said, warming to his subject, "I'm not even sure--What the devil's this?"
He held up a piece of paper and stared at the half-dozen giant purple letter R's writhing and curling across its surface.