"Yes, I see," Rhapsody said. "I'm sure that's very nice for your mother. So many men aren't sentimental at all. Well, I must be going. Oh, I almost forgot Mamie sent me up here to tell you that the ferry's definitely going this afternoon, and she has your tickets, but you'd better come down soon and claim them before someone else does."
"Right, thank you," I said. Rhapsody headed back to town, looking back now and then as if she wasn't quite sure what to make of us.
"Will you consider me an oaf if I confess that I ate the chocolate dinosaur you sent me last week?" Michael asked.
"I'd consider you an idiot if you hadn't," I said. "You didn't really buy that nonsense about the ten-year-old chocolate, did you?"
"Just checking," Michael said. "And if I ever bring you a bottle of vintage wine, I'll bring a corkscrew, as well."
"Now you've got the idea," I said. "Let's go down and claim our tickets before the birders filch them."
Chapter 34
A Farewell to Puffins
We hustled everyone down to the docks, only to find that the ferry wasn't taking off quite as soon as originally planned. Another Coast Guard cutter had arrived, carrying more police to join the search for Jim. A dozen or so police and Coast Guarders swarmed all over the docks, inspecting every piece of luggage larger than a hatbox and affixing stickers over the latches and fastenings of the containers when they finished. Loading the ferry would definitely take longer than usual.
Michael, Dad, and I arranged the family's luggage in a giant mound along one side of the dock and ordered Rob to guard it.
"I wish we could persuade him to relax a little," I said, glancing over to where Rob sat.
"Rob or Spike?" Michael asked, following my gaze.
Rob had perched on top of a trunk, with the strap of his laptop over one shoulder and Spike's leash wrapped around the other wrist. He clutched the wooden crate containing Mother's portrait and Rhapsody's puffin painting--clutching it so tightly with both hands that his knuckles had turned white. Spike strained at the leash, barking at a seagull that seemed to enjoy sitting just out of his reach, on top of another larger crate that someone was shipping some paintings in. And someone with more courage than sense had managed to paste one of the police inspection stickers to the back of Spike's head.
"Spike's a lost cause," I said. "But you'd think Rob could control his nerves better."
"Yes," Michael said. "Someone should explain to him that the key to pulling off a daring daylight art heist is to look nonchalant and unconcerned."
"I did," I said. "Several times. We'll just hope they chalk up that anxious, furtive look to worry about his computer."
"I wouldn't count on it," Michael said. "Luckily, with Spike around, even the police won't want to get close enough to question him."
"I just wish Rob would move away from that other crate," I fretted. "It's so obviously a painting-shaped crate; what if someone notices the similarity in shape and makes the connection?"
"Don't worry; we do have bills of sale that will serve for both paintings, remember?" Michael said.
"I'm not worried that they'll think we're stealing it; what if they insist on unwrapping it out here on the dock?"
"We'll insist they take it inside, out of the rain," Michael said, jerking a thumb at the ramshackle baggage shed near the end of the dock. "Oh, hang on a minute; here's Ken Takahashi. I need to ask him something."
He strolled over to the other side of the dock and greeted Takahashi. I wondered what they kept finding to chat about Suddenly, they both glanced over at me. Takahashi pulled something out of his inside jacket pocked, scribbled on it, and handed it to Michael. Then they laughed and shook. No one talked to me, of course. I'd blown the whistle on Jim, and apparently some of the birders had dubbed him a hero. An environmental warrior, doing battle against a bloodthirsty bird-killer. I more than half-suspected they might help him hide. I hoped the police realized this; they'd have to keep a sharp eye out when the ferry began loading, in case someone tried to sneak Jim aboard in their party.
The birders were also taking up a collection, although the reason for donating varied from birder to birder. Some thought they were contributing to Jim's defense fund, others to a fund to rescue the Central Monhegan Power Company, and a few to the expense of tearing down Resnick's house and restoring Puffin Point to its natural, unspoiled condition.
I found myself resenting the great outpouring of sympathy for Jim and the Dickermans. After all, no matter how nasty Victor Resnick had been, that didn't give anyone the right to kill him. Not to mention trying to kill Michael and me, which they were all conveniently overlooking. And had it dawned on anyone that if I hadn't already fingered Jim as the murderer, they'd probably all still be stuck on the island being questioned and investigated? Or maybe they didn't resent me for fingering Jim, just for losing him. Yes, that was it; they thought it was my fault we were looking over our shoulders nervously every five minutes while the police ransacked our luggage.