Free Murder With Puffins by Donna Andrews Page A

jumped up and down in their seats, and even the main course looked implausibly cheerful, as if they hadn't quite gotten around to telling him exactly what role he was to play in the upcoming feast.
    "I didn't realize she intended to be accurate," I said, flipping the page again and holding up a scene of the Happy Puffin Family sledding. "I mean, I'm sure she realizes that puffins don't actually wear little red mufflers and woolly caps."
    "I'm not talking about the anthropomorphizing," the birder said. "That's silly, but not actually harmful, considering the age group. But look at their bills! And their plumage!"
    A plump beringed finger, quivering with indignation, planted itself just below the picture of little Petey Puffin. I had to admit, I didn't like the look of him, but I had no idea what she thought was wrong with him. I noticed that, like bird guidebooks, the Puffin Lady never showed her subjects head-on. The Puffin Family invariably stood in profile. She must copy them from bird books, I realized. That would account for the strangely mechanical and puppetlike quality. But no; if she copied them from bird books, then they'd be accurate, wouldn't they? And then the birders wouldn't complain.
    "I'm sorry," I said. "I'm not awfully knowledgeable about puffins. What's wrong with it?"
    "This is not the picture of an immature puffin," the birder said. "An immature puffin looks like this." She plopped one of the ubiquitous blue bird guides open atop Hark the Herald Puffins Sing and pointed out a black-and-white shape. "And he's in breeding plumage. By Christmas, adult puffins have long since shed their colorful bill plates and their faces darken. Like this," she added, indicating yet another black-and-white shape.
    I studied the page before me. Yes, the puffin in winter was a drab bird indeed compared to what he would look like in mating season. I'd almost have taken him for a different species. And all the Puffin Family were in breeding plumage, right down to diaper-clad baby Patty.
    "I see what you mean," I said. I didn't add that I didn't see what was so important about the distinction. Perhaps they planned to haul Rhapsody before the Audubon Society on morals charges for turning an infant puffin into some kind of avian Lolita.
    I was relieved when Michael joined us. Probably not an accident; we'd both become a little wary of the more rabid birders.
    "Found something interesting," he said, holding up the back cover of another book. "Look familiar?"
    He held out an oversized art book--a collection of Victor Resnick's paintings. On the back of the book was a picture of our gun-toting lunatic. Only in the picture, he wore a clean fisherman's sweater, his hair and beard were combed, and he looked quite distinguished. The picture was in three-quarters profile. Resnick's chin was lifted, and he gazed into the distance with a lofty, otherworldly look. He really appeared every bit the distinguished artist, already planning his next brilliant work.
    "Yes, that's the jerk," I said. "Almost wouldn't have recognized him."
    I turned the book over and began leafing through it. I sighed. The man might be a jerk, but he was definitely a talented jerk.
    "Someone should do something about that horrible man," the birder said.
    "Well, Mrs. Peabody, that's very difficult," Mamie said. "He's quite an important person…."
    "That's irrelevant," I said, glad to find a conversational topic other than puffins. "I don't care how important they are, people can't run around shooting off rifles or shotguns or whatever he's using."
    "My God!" exclaimed Mrs. Peabody. "He's not shooting them, is he? I'd heard about the electric shocks; we've gotten up a petition about it. But this is beyond all belief! Shooting the birds!"
    She whirled and ran for the door, knocking down a stack of stuffed puffins on her way.
    "We can't let him get away with this," she shouted. "There's not a moment to lose!"

Chapter 9

Twelve Angry Puffins

    "Wait," I called, starting