Murder With Puffins by Donna Andrews Page A

the tide line and under cover, I hadn't had much chance to inspect him. Now, in the harsh illumination of the flashlight, I had much too good a view. The angry gash on the back of his head didn't show, of course, since he lay faceup, but he had a nasty-looking bruise on his forehead, just at the hairline. And he definitely looked very dead. And very unhappy. Was the look on his face anger? Pain? Fear? Surprise? Probably a combination of all of them.
    "Let's get out of here," Michael said, echoing my thought. "I mean, we need to get back to the village and report this."
    As we stepped out of the shed, I tripped over something and went sprawling.
    "Are you all right?" Michael asked.
    "I'm fine," I said. "Just tripped over something Resnick must have left lying around."
    "Even dead, that man's dangerous," he said.
    Before I got up, I felt around to find whatever had tripped me--I didn't want to repeat the experience again immediately. My hands finally touched something--a thick, slightly damp nine-by-twelve envelope, curled up into a half cylinder. Was that what I'd tripped over? Odd that it was only slightly damp if it had been lying around in the rain for any amount of time. Perhaps the overhanging roof of the shed had sheltered it until I'd tripped over it. Or perhaps Resnick had carried it rolled up and stuffed into one of his pockets and it had fallen out when we moved him.
    I stowed it in my knapsack for later examination; then Michael and I hiked back to the village, looking over our shoulders about every third step.
    Jeb Barnes wasn't happy to see us again.

Chapter 12

A Puffin Is Announced

    "We haven't seen your father," Jeb said, hunching toward the woodstove and holding his coffee closer to his face.
    "Neither have we," I said. "That's not why we're here."
    "Phoebe's not here, either," one of the locals said.
    "We've come to report a murder," Michael said in his most resonant stage voice.
    The group around the stove froze, and one dropped a coffee mug, which shattered on the gray wooden floor.
    "Who did that crazy fool shoot?" Jeb Barnes asked when he finally found his voice.
    "Resnick? He didn't shoot anyone," I said. "Someone smashed his skull in first."
    I didn't imagine the faint sighs of relief from several of the locals.
    "Who did it?" Jeb demanded.
    "How should we know?" Michael said. "We just found him facedown in the water."
    "In the water?" Jeb echoed.
    "In a tidal pool a little down the shore from his house," I said. "We had to move him; the tide was about to wash him away, so we carried him up and put him out of the rain."
    "My God," Jeb said. "What are we supposed to do now?"
    Why does everyone look at me when people ask questions like that?
    "I suppose you can't call the police over from the mainland until the storm's over?"
    "The phones are down," Jeb said. "I could try radioing the Coast Guard, but even if I got through, I doubt they could come till after the storm. It's headed our way now."
    "No, it's not; it's going to miss us by at least fifty miles," another local put in.
    "Fifty miles is nothing to a hurricane," Jeb said. "Why, in ‘24--"
    "So aren't you going to do something about the body?" I interrupted. "To preserve it until the police get here?"
    They all stared at me.
    "Is there anyplace on the island with a working generator and a big refrigerator you can empty out?"
    They looked horrified.
    "One of the restaurants, maybe?" I suggested. "Most of them have closed for the season. And most of them have emergency generators, don't they? Because of the food?"
    "Yes, but--" a local began, and then stopped. They looked at one another. I could read their thoughts. Having its refrigerator serve as a temporary morgue wouldn't enhance a restaurant's ambiance if it got out--and it would certainly get out in a community as small as Monhegan.
    "I hear the Anchor Inn's probably going out of business unless the Mayfields get an extension on their loan," one said finally.
    "Mayfields went back to the