Murder With Puffins by Donna Andrews Page B
Authors: Donna Andrews
Tags: Fiction, General, Humorous stories, Islands, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Detective and Mystery Stories, Maine, Mystery Fiction, Women Detectives, Murder, Langslow; Meg (Fictitious character), Women detectives - Maine, Hurricanes
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hill we could see the tips of several easels peeking over the top of the fabric. Even the nearby woodshed, while not made of glass, looked considerably newer, not to mention more expensive and stylish, than most of the actual houses on the island.
"Who on earth could possibly afford to build a place like this on Monhegan?" I wondered aloud. "Do you have any idea how much it costs to bring supplies and workmen over here?"
"Well, whoever he is, I'm sure he can afford to pay for a lawyer," Michael said. "Let's go back to the village and file charges against him."
"No sense tempting fate, though," I said. "Let's retrace our steps a bit; I think I can find a shortcut through the interior of the island."
As we retreated along the trail, I saw a flash of lavender disappear around a rock ahead of us. Somebody else watching our encounter with the mad hermit, no doubt. I nodded with satisfaction; it looked as if we'd have plenty of witnesses.
My shortcut didn't seem much shorter than going all the way back around the island, but at last we arrived at the village.
"I don't recall seeing a police station," Michael said. "Where are we going to report that lunatic?"
"There isn't a police station," I said. "They call the police over from the mainland when they need them. But a local resident acts as constable until the police arrive. Let's go into the general store and ask who it is."
We squished down the main drag until we reached the general store, then squelched up the front steps.
"I remember him," I said, pointing to a sign in the window that said
JEBEDIAH BARNES, PROPREITOR
. "His family's run this place for two or three generations now."
"That's good," Michael said. "Maybe he'll remember you; otherwise, we may have a hard time making him believe what just happened."
The store was blissfully warm inside; an old-fashioned potbellied stove burned full blast, and a small crowd of local residents sat or stood around the stove, drinking coffee and listening to what sounded like an all-weather radio station. Hurricane Gladys still hovered offshore, according to the announcer.
Michael headed for the coffeepot while I strode over to the counter where the storekeeper stood.
"Where do I find the constable?" I asked him.
"You're looking at him," he said. "Jeb Barnes. What can I do for you?"
"I'd like to report an assault," I said.
Chapter 7
I Fought the Puffin and the Puffin Won
At the word assault , Jeb Barnes's jaw dropped, and the desultory conversation around the stove stopped cold. I could almost hear their ears turning in our direction. Jeb glanced nervously at Michael. He'd jumped to a very wrong conclusion, obviously; but at least I'd gotten his attention.
"Some lunatic fired a gun at us," I went on. "I realize you probably can't do anything until the storm passes and the ferry's running, but I'd like to make a report now so you can contact the mainland police as soon as possible."
"Fired a gun at you?" Jeb repeated. "Where?"
"We were trying to follow the public path around Puffin Point," I said.
The constable closed his eyes and sighed. Michael handed me a steaming cup of coffee and put some money down on the counter.
"Resnick again," said one of the locals by the stove.
"Crazy bastard," said another.
"Going to kill someone one of these days," said a third.
"He's done this before?" I asked. "And you haven't done anything?"
"We've formally warned him he has no right to block the path," Jeb Barnes said defensively. "And we're looking into the possibility of a lawsuit about that pile of junk he calls a house. We can't do anything about the alleged shooting incidents. No one who lives here wants to tick him off any more, and none of the damn fool tourists want to stay around to testify, so we haven't found anyone willing to press charges."
"Well, I will," I said. "I'm self-employed, so I can arrange my schedule to be here for the trial. And I'm sure Aunt Phoebe will let me use the cottage when I come back."
The
"Who on earth could possibly afford to build a place like this on Monhegan?" I wondered aloud. "Do you have any idea how much it costs to bring supplies and workmen over here?"
"Well, whoever he is, I'm sure he can afford to pay for a lawyer," Michael said. "Let's go back to the village and file charges against him."
"No sense tempting fate, though," I said. "Let's retrace our steps a bit; I think I can find a shortcut through the interior of the island."
As we retreated along the trail, I saw a flash of lavender disappear around a rock ahead of us. Somebody else watching our encounter with the mad hermit, no doubt. I nodded with satisfaction; it looked as if we'd have plenty of witnesses.
My shortcut didn't seem much shorter than going all the way back around the island, but at last we arrived at the village.
"I don't recall seeing a police station," Michael said. "Where are we going to report that lunatic?"
"There isn't a police station," I said. "They call the police over from the mainland when they need them. But a local resident acts as constable until the police arrive. Let's go into the general store and ask who it is."
We squished down the main drag until we reached the general store, then squelched up the front steps.
"I remember him," I said, pointing to a sign in the window that said
JEBEDIAH BARNES, PROPREITOR
. "His family's run this place for two or three generations now."
"That's good," Michael said. "Maybe he'll remember you; otherwise, we may have a hard time making him believe what just happened."
The store was blissfully warm inside; an old-fashioned potbellied stove burned full blast, and a small crowd of local residents sat or stood around the stove, drinking coffee and listening to what sounded like an all-weather radio station. Hurricane Gladys still hovered offshore, according to the announcer.
Michael headed for the coffeepot while I strode over to the counter where the storekeeper stood.
"Where do I find the constable?" I asked him.
"You're looking at him," he said. "Jeb Barnes. What can I do for you?"
"I'd like to report an assault," I said.
Chapter 7
I Fought the Puffin and the Puffin Won
At the word assault , Jeb Barnes's jaw dropped, and the desultory conversation around the stove stopped cold. I could almost hear their ears turning in our direction. Jeb glanced nervously at Michael. He'd jumped to a very wrong conclusion, obviously; but at least I'd gotten his attention.
"Some lunatic fired a gun at us," I went on. "I realize you probably can't do anything until the storm passes and the ferry's running, but I'd like to make a report now so you can contact the mainland police as soon as possible."
"Fired a gun at you?" Jeb repeated. "Where?"
"We were trying to follow the public path around Puffin Point," I said.
The constable closed his eyes and sighed. Michael handed me a steaming cup of coffee and put some money down on the counter.
"Resnick again," said one of the locals by the stove.
"Crazy bastard," said another.
"Going to kill someone one of these days," said a third.
"He's done this before?" I asked. "And you haven't done anything?"
"We've formally warned him he has no right to block the path," Jeb Barnes said defensively. "And we're looking into the possibility of a lawsuit about that pile of junk he calls a house. We can't do anything about the alleged shooting incidents. No one who lives here wants to tick him off any more, and none of the damn fool tourists want to stay around to testify, so we haven't found anyone willing to press charges."
"Well, I will," I said. "I'm self-employed, so I can arrange my schedule to be here for the trial. And I'm sure Aunt Phoebe will let me use the cottage when I come back."
The
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