Murder With Puffins(98)

"Good Lord," I said as we approached the Port Clyde docks, where the Coast Guard cutter had just landed. "It's a media circus over there."

We could see three or four television sound trucks and a police tine holding back several dozen people laden with cameras and notebooks.

"Well, the man wasn't completely unknown," Michael said.

"Unheralded Genius of the Down East Coast," I muttered, shaking my head.

Luckily for the rest of us, the press latched onto the police, their prisoner, and Binkie Burnham. The older cop said about two sentences, and then Binkie took the floor, making a folksy but no-nonsense statement. The reporters scribbled and filmed madly. Most of the birders stood around watching, some of them hoping, no doubt, to use their proximity to a notorious murder to capture their allotted fifteen minutes of fame.

Michael and I collected our baggage and crept round the edge of the crowd, hoping to make it to his convertible before anyone spotted us.

"Oh, there you are," Dad said, appearing at our side with a double armload of stuffed puffins. "Can you find some space for a few of these?"

We piled our luggage in the trunk, then filled the remaining space, as well as the space behind the seats, with puffins.

"I might have a few smaller ones that could fit in the crevices," Dad said, and headed back for the docks.

"There you are," Rob said, appearing on the driver's side of the car just as Michael opened the door. "Why don't you take him back with you?"

"Well," Michael began.

Spike, spotting the pile of puffins behind the seat, began barking and straining at the leash.

"With all these stuffed puffins?" I said. "You've got to be kidding. Besides, we're not going directly back to York-town. Michael has to get back for his classes, and I have to evict that damned sculptor."

Rob tried on his patented pitiful look. Impressionable coeds eat it up, but Michael and I were immune.

"See you," Michael said, getting into the driver's seat.

"Later," I added, taking the passenger's side.

Rob slouched off, dragging Spike behind him.

"Good thinking," Michael said. "By the way, what do you say to a small detour on the way home?"

"What kind of a detour?"

"Well, did you know that Coastal Resorts owns a small but very exclusive hotel outside Rockport? About an hour south of here."

"Oh, is that what you and Kenneth Takahashi were talking about?"

"Yes, and Ken feels very grateful to us," Michael added as he started the engine. "So he gave me a voucher for three nights' stay. I think we should drop by on the way home and check the place out. See if we want to come back and stay there sometime."

"Not tonight, of course," I said. "Because you have to get back to teach your classes."

"Oh, no; we'll just cruise by and check it out, and then head straight on home. Assuming we don't have car trouble again, of course. I really don't like the sound of that knocking in the engine."

"What knocking?" I said, cocking an ear. I heard only the usual smooth purr of a well-maintained engine.

"You're not getting into the spirit of the thing," Michael complained as he guided the car through the rut-infested gravel parking lot, heading toward the exit. "I'm sure if you try, you can hear it."

"Now that you mention it, I do hear a funny noise," I said with a chuckle. "Although I would have called it more of a ping than a knock."

"You're right," Michael said. "It's pinging and knocking. Do you think it's safe to drive?"

"Well, let's try it on the road for a while," I said.

"Maybe an hour," Michael said. "I think if it's going to break down, it won't do it before we get to Rockport at least. Why don't we--Oh my God!" he said suddenly, jamming on the brakes.

"What?"

"Look at that!"

He pointed out toward the harbor, beyond the crowded, noisy dock. I followed his finger and saw… a puffin. Even a bird-watching amateur like me could recognize it. It flew so clumsily, I was sure it would fall at any second. In fact, I thought it had when the stocky black-and-white figure plummeted toward the choppy water just beyond the end of the dock. But instead of falling in, it skimmed along the top of the waves and then rose again with a wriggling fish in its beak.

"Shall we go tell the bird-watchers?" Michael asked. We both glanced at the docks. The cluster of reporters had broken up and spread out in search of new camera fodder. Birders happily offered themselves up to the cause. Mother and Aunt Phoebe, sitting on a pile of luggage with their injured legs elevated, had already collected a quorum. Aunt Phoebe gestured wildly with her makeshift walking stick while Mother smiled and looked elegantly enigmatic.