"Hmm," Dad said. That knocked some of the fright out of me, and replaced it with irritation. I hate it when doctors do that. "Hmm" can mean just about anything. "How soon can I get this disgustingly healthy person out of my office and go on to someone with an interesting ailment?" or "Yikes! How can I possibly break it to her that she's got maybe six weeks to live?" or "Chinese or tacos for lunch?" Give me a doctor who babbles out exactly what he's thinking.
Dr. Peabody looked faint. He examined the body visually, but from rather a distance, with his hands clasped tightly behind his back. Dad was doing his Sherlock Holmes act, inspecting every inch of Victor Resnick with great attention. Jeb scrutinized the Anchor Inn's kitchen fixtures as if he planned on buying the joint. Michael was snapping pictures frantically. Only Binkie and I paid attention to Dad's examination. I wondered what he found so interesting about Victor Resnick's fingernails.
"Let's turn him over," Dad said after a while.
Binkie and I supervised again while the men did the turning.
Dad repeated his detailed inspection on this side of Resnick, with particular attention, naturally, to the head wound, which didn't look all that bad now. I thought I had seen quite a lot of blood on Resnick's head when we first found him floating facedown in the pool, but there wasn't much when you looked at it close-up. Had a lot of it washed off while we were hauling him up here to the Anchor Inn? Or had I overreacted when I first saw him--when I thought, for a heartbeat, that it might be Dad. Close-up, the wound looked so small that I wondered how it could have been fatal.
"Very interesting," Dad said at last. "Let's turn him over again."
"So, did he die of drowning or from getting hit on the head?" Jeb asked when the body was right side up again.
"Neither," Dad said.
"Neither? Then how the blazes did he die?"
"Electrocution."
Chapter 29
I Am the Only Running Puffin
"Electrocution?" we all chorused.
"How can you tell?" I asked.
"See this small burned spot?" Dad said, indicating the corner of Resnick's mouth. "And this discoloration?" He pointed to the fingernails.
"Don't tell me those tiny burns killed him."
"No, undoubtedly the ventricular fibrillation killed him."
"The what?" Jeb asked.
"Ventricular fibrillation?" I echoed, stumbling over the half-familiar term. "Isn't that what they do in emergency rooms to revive people?"
"That's defibrillation," Dad said. "If a person's heart has stopped or is irregular, you can use a controlled electrical current to get it started, or steadied. But if you take someone with a normally functioning heart and subject them to an electrical shock, it can slow or stop the heart, or mess up the rhythm. Can be fatal."
"So that's why in emergency rooms they always yell, 'Clear!' and make sure no one's touching the patient before they try to defibrillate," I said.
"Oh, right," Jeb said, nodding. "I've seen that on TV."
"Essentially, yes," Dad went on. "Most people who die in low-voltage electrical accidents don't die from burns; it's the v-fib that kills them."
"Dr. Peabody, what do you think?" Jeb asked.
"Oh, Langslow's diagnosis sounds fine to me," Dr. Peabody said. "Electrocution, definitely."
"You can really tell that, without an autopsy?" I asked.
"Well, not for certain," Dad said. "We won't really know for sure until the local ME does a formal autopsy. But I'd put my money on electrocution."
Dr. Peabody nodded vigorously and glanced at his watch.
"What about the wound to the head?" Jeb asked.
"Superficial," Dad said. "If he walked into my office with that, I'd have given him a few stitches and had his family watch for signs of concussion."
"Can you tell what did it?"
"A rock, most probably," Dad said.
"Not a stick?" I said, thinking of Aunt Phoebe's walking stick and the no trespassing sign reposing back in the cooler. "Or a board?"
"Oh, no," Dad said. "Much too jagged for either of those."
"Could the blow have knocked him out?" Jeb asked.
"It's not impossible," Dad said. "But unlikely, I'd say. And even if it did knock him out, it wouldn't have caused his death. Unless he fell on a live wire when he lost consciousness."
"And he didn't fall on a live wire; he fell into the tidal pool," Jeb said.
"Unless someone put him there," Michael suggested. "To make it look as if he'd drowned."
"Or unless there was an electrical charge in the tidal pool," I said. "Remember how the birders accused Resnick of shocking the puffins to scare them away from his land? According to Jim Dickerman, he did run a charge through some of the metal parts of his roof to keep the birds from sitting on it and messing it up. But I only saw seagulls on his roof. Puffins are waterbirds--so maybe he ran a wire along the shoreline."
"And the gash could have happened if he was thrown back by the shock," Dad said. "In fact, considering the angle, I'd say it was probable."
"Good heavens," Jeb said. "Maybe it wasn't murder after all. Maybe the whole thing was a horrible accident. Probably reached in to retrieve his precious no trespassing sign, not realizing that the power was on."
He suddenly looked very cheerful. Obviously an accident, however horrible, would cause the town a lot less trouble than a murder.
"I don't suppose you could rule it a death by misadventure," he said.
"The coroner may, when he or she gets here," Dad said. "I have no jurisdiction. Still, I shouldn't be surprised."
He looked so downcast that I was almost tempted to pat him on the back and say, "Never mind, Dad; I'm sure we'll find you another murder soon."
"It's possible," I said instead. "But until they're positive, I'm sure the police will take every precaution. Treat it as a possible homicide until they're sure it's not."
"She's quite right," Dad said, brightening again at the thought that the investigation would continue, even if it was only pro forma.
"And while you're at it, why not take a look at the dead puffin?" I asked.
"The puffin?" Dad echoed. "Why?"
"Evidence," I said. "I'm sure the police will want to know how and when it died. Just to confirm Rhapsody's story."
Jeb pulled out the puffin and Dad bent over to examine it.
After blinking once in surprise, he shrugged and began giving the puffin the same careful scrutiny he'd previously given Resnick.
"Good thing Meg already figured out that Rhapsody had it in her freezer, or I'd worry about him," he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at Resnick.
"I think he's past worrying about," I said.
"I mean, from the point of view of an accurate autopsy," Dad said. "Could complicate things if you'd been running the meat locker cold enough to freeze the body. But, of course, you already figured out that the puffin was frozen elsewhere."
"Because of plumage," Michael put in.
"The plumage?" Dad said, looking blank.
I explained about the breeding plumage.
"Oh, very good!" Dad exclaimed. "Actually, I wasn't thinking of the plumage at all; it was the texture."
"Your medical expertise confirms Meg's deduction, then?" Michael asked.
"Actually, it's my culinary expertise," Dad said. "From my bachelor days. You can tell by the limpness that it's been thawed," he said, waggling one of the puffin's legs in a disgusting fashion. "And from the smell that it wasn't thawed recently enough to be safe," he added, bending over to smell the puffin and wrinkling his nose.
"It's not an entree, Dad; it's evidence," I said with exasperation.
"Although I do hope we're not having poultry tonight," Michael murmured.
"Can you tell how the puffin died?" I asked. "Was it electrocuted, for example?"
"Can't really tell without an autopsy, which I don't suppose you want me to do," Dad said, looking around with an eager expression. Jeb shook his head, and Dad sighed.
"Could be electrocution," Dad said. "Could be a lot of things."
"Well, it's probably irrelevant to Resnick's accident anyway," Jeb said.
"Look, about this accident idea," I said. "How do we know it was an accident? I mean, even if you assume he had the bad luck to touch something electrified during one of the rare moments yesterday when we had power, what was the something? And if you think he had some kind of electrical bird trap hooked up among the shoreline, where is it?"
"Probably washed away with the storm," Jeb said.
"Possibly, but why didn't Michael and I see it when we found the body?"
"You saw the wound, and you were looking for something that could have hit him," Dad said. "You probably didn't see the bird trap."
"I'd have noticed," I said. I glanced at Michael for support.
"She did look around," he said. "She said that the tide was about to cover up the crime scene, and she looked around very carefully so she could describe it later."
"A really strong electrical shock could have thrown him back some distance," Dad said. "Maybe whatever shocked him wasn't all that nearby. If he touched something, got a shock, and fell back into the pool, landing on a rock that caused the gash, and then floated to the other side of the pool…"
"Hell, maybe it was a lightening bolt from the storm," Jeb put in.
"It was a hurricane, not a thunderstorm," I said.
Jeb shrugged.
"Well, whatever it was, it's gone now," Dad said, patting my shoulder.
"Maybe the waves got it and washed it away just before we got there," Michael said. "They were awfully close to washing Resnick away by the time we found him."
"We'll let the mainland authorities worry about it," Jeb said.
Everybody took that as a signal that the examination was over. I followed them out of the cooler, still irritated.
"You don't look very pleased," Michael murmured to me.
"Oh, I'm thrilled," I said softly. "Dad's just removed any need for us to run around the island investigating the murder."
"What's wrong with that?"
"We still haven't found James Jackson, the biographer, remember? Even if they rule the death accidental, he'll probably try to capitalize on it. If it really was accidental."
I tried not to take my irritation out on him, but I suspect it still showed. Was it just hurt pride, because I'd failed to notice Resnick's electrical contraption lying around? Or was there something to my feeling that this was suddenly turning out much too easy?
Jeb secured the meat locker again and we left the Anchor Inn. Dad and Dr. Peabody strode ahead, eagerly sharing the news with everyone they met.
"I'm sorry," Michael said as we followed along more slowly.
I shrugged.
"Well, maybe after this, Dad will stop bragging about my detective abilities," I said.
"Not necessarily," he said, with a chuckle. "You did figure out about the puffin."
To my relief, Michael had the good sense not to keep trying to cheer me up, and we hiked back to Aunt Phoebe's cottage in companionable silence.
Word of Dad's and Dr. Peabody's findings spread throughout the island, and within half an hour people began turning up at the cottage for a spontaneous celebration. People swarmed up and down the stairs, carrying all the lawn furniture and yard ornaments up to the bedrooms, which would make bedtime a whole lot of fun. Jeb Barnes was one of the first to arrive, and he brought along a case of cheap champagne.
"I got through to the Coast Guard!" he announced over the popping corks.
A ragged cheer went up from the twenty or so people gathered around the crate, and Rob asked, "When's the ferry going to start running?"
"Maybe tomorrow, maybe Tuesday," Jeb said. "They're going to wait and see. But the Coast Guard will bring the police over from the mainland tomorrow so we can tie up all the loose ends about Resnick's death."
Another cheer, this time accompanied by clinking glasses.
Death. No one was calling it a murder any longer. Even Dad seemed to have gotten over his disappointment that our homicide had turned into death by misadventure. Jim had the generator running again, and Dad put a collection of big band music on the portable player. I was the only one not in high spirits. After all, even if the police declared the death an accident and eliminated the danger of assorted members of my family being arrested for murder, Resnick was still news. James Jackson, the biographer, was still here on the island, sitting on the latest draft of his manuscript. And I suspected that whether he'd uncovered the truth about Mother's past or jumped to a totally wrong conclusion wouldn't matter to a pack of reporters hungry for sensational headlines. We had to find Jackson and deal with him, somehow, before he made his story public.
Dad was telling a group of birders some kind of story. From his gestures, I deduced he was describing Resnick's wounds.
"Absolutely understandable," I heard him say during one of those chance lulls in the general noise level. I saw several of the birders glance my way. "Electrocution is remarkably hard to--"
Drat. I'd hoped no one had noticed my ineffectual attempts to play detective, but from the looks on the birders' faces, I suspected they had all noticed. Irrational of me to resent that. Equally irrational to resent Dad's not being around earlier to give his verdict on the cause of death.
I glanced around the party, trying to convince myself that everyone present wasn't pointing at me and snickering at my failure. I saw that Rhapsody had arrived and, as I expected, had immediately become enthralled with Mother. She followed Mother around, literally sitting at her feet, absorbing her every word and gesture as if the fate of the world depended on it. She had already picked up some of Mother's mannerisms. Mother, of course, was eating it up and acting even more charming and elegant than usual.
Damn. On top of everything else, I didn't need to feel like one of Cinderella's ugly stepsisters.
"Don't be so gloomy," Michael said, handing me a glass of the champagne. "Aren't you glad it turned out to be an accident?"
"It isn't an accident until the police say it is," I said. "Sorry, I don't mean to take it out on you."
"I understand," he said. "It's not as if you can take it out on your dad; he didn't mean to get lost just at the one moment when we really could have used his expertise. Look, don't worry so much about Jackson; I'm sure we'll figure out some way to--"
"Great news," said Kenneth Takahashi, appearing beside us. "I mean, I'm sorry the old goat's dead, but thank God it was an accident."
I noticed that Takahashi had learned one thing from the birders at least. He had grasped the concept of protective coloration, and now he wore clothes as faded and mud-stained as the best of them.
"Well, don't let your guard down yet," I said. "Some of the birders would still give you quite a hard time if they knew why you came here."
"Oh, that's all right," he said, waving his glass genially. "If they ask me what I do, I'll tell them I'm in land use. Sounds vaguely conservationish. They seem to like that. They keep trying to feed me."
I had a sudden mental image of birders trying to coax him out of a tree with handfuls of sunflower seeds and cracked corn.
"Pity there isn't a decent restaurant on the island," he added.
"Is that your latest development project?" I asked, fearing the worst.
He shuddered.
"Good heavens, no!" he exclaimed.
"That's good," I said. "I think the people who come here like roughing it a little."
"Obviously," he said. "Each to his own; me, I plan to do everything I can to make sure I never have to come back here in my entire life. Up till now, my idea of roughing it was staying at a hotel without a four-star restaurant nearby."
Somehow, I had a feeling that Ken Takahashi's rather jaundiced view of Monhegan would soon make the rounds to every real estate development firm on the East Coast. Which should do much, I thought with satisfaction, to discourage any other developers who might have their eyes on the island
.
"That reminds me of something," Michael said. "Could I have a word with you?"
He dragged Takahashi off into the corner and the two of them began an animated discussion about something. I leaned back and tried to concentrate on a yoga breathing technique that was supposed to improve one's mood.
"Meg?"
Of course, you had to do the breathing for a little more than ten seconds before it started to have any effect. I bit back an oath and opened one eye. Rob stood in front of me.
"Dr. Peabody and that other birder want their digital cameras back," he said.
"We have to give the photos to the police," I said.
"But if it's not a murder…"
"We don't know that until the police say so," I said.
"But can't we just--"
"No."
"I could download the photos if you like," Rob offered.
"Then we could just give the data files to the police."
"Good idea," I said. "Want to do it now, since the power's on?"
Rob looked plaintively at his champagne glass.
"Then I'll hold on to them until you're ready," I said. I picked up the knapsack containing cameras in question then stormed into a corner, where it was quieter.
Get over it, I told myself. What harm would it really do to let them have their silly cameras? I took the other birder's camera out of my knapsack and began flipping through the photos. I was brooding over one that showed the fateful tidal pool when Mother came up behind me and looked over my shoulder.
"Oh, what a lovely view of the shore," she said. "You should print that out and have it framed, dear."
I wondered if I should tell her that this picture showed where we'd found the body of her late beau. Better not, I decided. I flipped to the next photo, one of the tidal pool from a slightly different angle.
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