"Sounded that way to me," Michael said.
"A pity we couldn't just convince Mother to leave the painting here until the trial," I said. "When there won't be quite so many police swarming around."
I glanced back at Rob, who still crouched by the painting, looking so guilty that I wasn't surprised several Coast Guarders had already come up to check his ID. Spike was still barking obsessively at the seagull.
No, actually the seagull had flown. Several other seagulls perched nearby, but Spike ignored them. He was barking obsessively at the crate.
The crate. I strolled over, trying to look casual, and inspected it About six feet tall, four wide, and maybe a foot deep. I glanced from it to several of the Coast Guard officers and then back again. Tight quarters for a grown man, but if he was desperate enough… I glanced at the label. One of the New York galleries whose name I'd seen in Resnick's files. No return address. No official stickers or labels to indicate what shipping company would claim it on the mainland, though it did have one of the ubiquitous inspection stickers plastered rather haphazardly on one side.
I flagged down the officer in charge of the Coast Guard squad.
"Did your people really open this to inspect it?" I asked.
"Didn't need to," she said, frowning at me in irritation. "It was in the baggage shed over mere. Been locked up there all night. Can't you keep that thing quiet?" she added, gesturing at Spike.
"I'd check that one again," I said. "Guy you're looking for has a brother who does a lot of the local baggage hauling. I wouldn't be surprised if he had a key to that shed."
Her head snapped around. I could see her measuring the crate with her eyes. And then she barked orders at several of the enlisted men around her. They lowered the crate gently on its flat side and then, with a couple of police standing by, weapons drawn, two of the Coast Guarders began prying at the top with their chisels.
With a snap, the lid popped open and the Coast Guarders shoved it aside. Jim Dickerman lay sprawled in an X shape, like a giant squashed bug, blinking in the sudden light.
"Jim Dickerman?" asked one of the police.
"That's him," Jeb said.
"Miserable mutt," Jim growled. I almost opened my mouth to point out that I, not Spike, had finally convinced the Coast Guard to open the crate, then thought better of it. I'd made it my new policy never to annoy suspected murderers--at least not ones with whom I still shared a planet.
Jim had obviously hidden in the box for hours; he was so stiff that several of the police had to help him up.
"You have the right to remain silent," the policeman began as mingled cheers and catcalls from the crowd drowned out the rest of the Miranda warning. Several over-exuberant birders came to blows and fell into the water in the excitement, which gave the Coast Guard something to do while the police handcuffed Jim.
"A flighty bunch, these birders," Michael remarked. "A few minutes ago, they were all calling Jim an environmental martyr, and now some of them are happy to see him arrested."
"Well, they're not stupid," I said. "They may sympathize with what they think he's done, but they're not eager to have an armed fugitive running around the island."
"Look what I've got!" Dad said, trotting up, beaming.
"Puffins," I said, closing my eyes. He carried an assortment of plush stuffed puffins in all sizes.
"A souvenir of your latest adventure!" he said.
"Where do you want me to put the rest of them?" Mamie Benton said. I could see two local men behind her, both carrying boxes of stuffed puffins.
"What a splendid idea!" Mrs. Peabody trumpeted. "Do you have any left?"
"A few," Mamie said. "And of course I can always take your orders and have them shipped directly to your homes."
The birders, led by Mrs. Peabody, began swarming into the gift shop and trickling out with large parcels for the Coast Guard to inspect.
Adding half the contents of Mamie Benton's store to the already-substantial load destined for the ferry made it doubly difficult for the captain and his crew to embark. We took off a full hour later man planned, close behind the Coast Guard cutter carrying Jim, and even then, one woman came running up the gangplank at the last minute, clutching an armload of puffin coasters and tea towels.
I spent the intervening hour, and most of the crossing, being congratulated by the birders, having my picture taken with them, and autographing their stuffed puffins. I think I had liked it better when they avoided me. Spike took a violent dislike to the entire puffin tribe, and he barked whenever he saw one. I could see his point of view. The birders finally gave me some peace and quiet when I managed to drop a rather large stuffed puffin down where Spike could get hold of it He immediately pounced on it, buried his teeth in its neck, and spent the rest of the trip noisily trying to dismember it. The birders all found this either so shocking or so entertaining that they finally left me alone.