Murder With Puffins

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 To Dad, for inspiring Meg’s dad.

 To Mom, for being nothing whatsoever like Meg’s mother. (Well, except for the bit about the coconut.)

 To Stuart and Elke, for holding your wedding on Monhegan.

 To Monhegan and its residents – although a hurricane and a homicide must seem poor thanks for your hospitality.

 To Ruth Cavin and the crew at St. Martin’s, and to Ellen Geiger of Curtis Brown, for helping steer me through the perils of publishing.

 To my friends and family everywhere, including the Misfits, Queen Bees, Teafolk, Wombats, fellow writers, and fellow readers.

Chapter 1

My Puffin Lies over the Ocean

"I see land ahead," Michael said.

"I’m sure they said that often aboard the original Flying Dutchman" I replied, my eyes tightly shut.

"No, really; I’m sure of it this time," he insisted.

I kept my eyes closed and didn’t relax my death grip on the rail while the ferry’s deck bucked and heaved beneath my feet. The rain and spray had soaked me to the bone, but I wasn’t going into the cabin unless the swells grew dangerous. Way too many seasick people inside. Of course, those of us on deck were seasick, too, but at least out here the wind kept the air fresh, if a little damp.

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