The Maine Mutiny (13 page)

“I’m just fine, you old bat. That husband of yours take a Louisville Slugger to you?”

“He probably would if he could see enough to find one.” Elsie laughed. “No, stepped on a hoe getting my lettuce and zucchini in.”

“Gardening did all that?” Matilda asked. “I thought it was a peaceful pursuit. Journalism is easy in comparison. I’m still in one piece.”

“You just have a harder shell,” Elsie said. “Surely someone must want to beat you up by now.”

“Well, they’d have to catch me first. Who’s doctoring you these days?”

“Seth Hazlitt. But the neck brace is courtesy of the hospital. Some guy sideswiped me on my way here the other day.”

Mort had presented the picture the other way around, saying that Elsie may have been distracted by her bandage and caused the accident, but I didn’t say anything.

Gwen lay her binder on the bench, stood, and looked over to Matilda. “Would you like to address the girls now, Ms. Watson?”

“It’s as good a time as any,” she replied.

“Beauty tips from the Wicked Witch of the West, huh?” Elsie asked.

“Very funny. I’m giving them the pageant rules and asking them to sign the qualifying statement.”

“Oh, that should be fun. You always did like giving orders.”

“Some are born to be leaders,” Matilda said, and marched off with Gwen.

Elsie hooted. “Give ’er hell, girls,” she called out. “Don’t let her get away with anything.”

Matilda flashed Elsie a dirty look, and I tried hard not to smile. The women had been friendly enemies all their lives. No one knew when their gleeful bantering had begun, but it was an old habit now, one that was enjoyed as much by them as by whatever audience was witness to the exchange.

Lynda Peckham gestured to the contestants to gather ’round, and Matilda soon had eight pretty girls sitting at her feet.

“Ladies, you all met Ms. Watson the other day,” Gwen began. “She has kindly consented to help organize the pageant, and she has something she wants to talk about with you today.”

Gwen stepped back and Matilda walked forward to distribute her manifesto.

“I’ve done quite a bit of research,” she said, handing out the papers. “Every pageant worth its salt has guidelines for the contestants and rules for participation. These are ours. Please return the signed statement to me before you leave today.”

I watched the faces of the young women as they read through the rules.

“You’re kidding right?” asked one.

“Not at all,” Matilda said, stiffening. “All pageants have rules like this.”

“ ‘I am and have always been a female,’ ” another girl said, reading from the paper. “What’s up with that?”

“ ‘I am of good moral character and I am not now, nor have I ever been, married, pregnant, nor involved in any act of moral turpitude.’ What’s ‘turpitude’ mean?”

“It’s the same as depravity,” Matilda said, looking down into a small sea of blank faces. “I see that the vocabulary lists in our English classes can stand updating.”

A wave of giggles took hold, and Matilda scowled down at her charges.

“Let me put this simply. You are to do nothing before, during, or after the pageant that would in any way embarrass your parents or this community. No criminal activity, no dishonest, immodest, or immoral behavior of any kind, which means no canoodling with your boyfriends.” She put extra emphasis on the last part.

A small gasp escaped from several mouths.

“In other words, you are to be models of chaste, maidenly comportment. Anyone found in breach of these rules will be summarily dismissed from the pageant.”

“Does that mean we’d be kicked out?”

“That is precisely what it means. So don’t embarrass us or yourselves.”

Abigail spoke up. “That’s not fair. We were never told this before.”

“You can drop out now if you don’t think you can live up to our standards,” Matilda said icily.

Gwen, who’d been standing nearby with her arms crossed, dropped her head and massaged her eyelids with her fingers.

There was a long—dare I say pregnant—pause. “I have a pen, if anyone needs it,” Miss Peckham said. “C’mon, girls. You can do without the boys for a little while. You’re strong, independent women. You can weather any storm for good old Cabot Cove.”

Her cheer evoked a few smiles, but Matilda had managed to leach out much of the fun of the pageant for its eight contestants. Slowly they got to their feet and shuffled to the benches on the side, where they took turns with Miss Peckham’s pen and signed the qualifying statement.

“Oh, boy,” Elsie said. “She always was a wet blanket. Gwen may as well cancel the rest of the rehearsal. Those girls don’t look like they can muster up any enthusiasm for good old Cabot Cove this afternoon.”

“I wonder what set her off?” I said.

“She always has to be in charge. Been like that since she was a tyke. I oughta know. She’s been trying to boss me around since primary school.”

“Who has?” came a deep voice from her other side. David Ranieri, one of the owners of Charles Department Store, slid in next to Elsie and put his arm around her shoulders. He grinned at me. “No one bosses my aunt around, do they, Elsie?”

“Well, not if I can help it, Davy. How’s the family?”

“Everyone’s fine. I had a delivery over this way, and thought I’d stop in and see how rehearsals are going. I see Abby’s got some competition. They’re all pretty girls. It’s going to be hard for the judges.”

“They can’t go wrong with any choice,” I said.

“Hi, Mr. Ranieri,” Abigail said, coming over to greet him.

“Hello, Abigail. Working hard?”

“We are. We’ve been rehearsing all morning. Right, Mrs. Fricket?”

“They’re drivers, every one of them,” Elsie said. “The pageant will be spectacular. Eight beautiful and talented girls. Couldn’t want anything better.”

Abigail smiled.

“Do I get a chance to see you dance?” David asked.

“I’m not sure if we’re rehearsing anymore,” she said. “We’re supposed to go for a costume fitting next. I might be a little late to work. Is that okay?”

“Not to worry.”

“David!” Matilda called from across the gym where she was collecting signed statements.

He stood up. “Uh-oh,” he muttered.

Abigail looked from David to Matilda, excused herself, and scooted away to where her friends were gathered.

“You’re just the person I wanted to see,” Matilda said, hurrying over to catch him. “I didn’t get your ad for the next issue.”

“I was planning to advertise in the festival edition instead.”

“You can do both. Retail businesses rely on display ads. How would people know where to go if they didn’t see your ad in the paper?”

“They might be attracted by our windows,” David said, inching toward the door. “Which reminds me, I’ve got to get back. Jim’s all by himself today. Two people called in sick.”

“Wait, I have an advertising insertion order in my bag,” she said, leaning over to pull a black briefcase from under the bench. “Do you have a pen, Elsie? I’ll stop by this afternoon, David, and you can tell me which ad you want to run. Or we can make up a whole new one for you. No charge for the mechanical. You won’t find a better deal than that.”

“Please pardon the rush. ’Bye, ladies. I’ve got to go,” he said, and was out the door before Matilda could twist his arm.

“Well, I think I got all the forms signed by the girls, anyway,” she said, waving a sheaf of papers.

“Is that all you do as pageant coordinator, terrorize the contestants?” Elsie said.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m going with them to the costume fitting right now, and I’ll be there later when the photographer takes their pictures for the paper. I don’t want any of those standard poses either. We should do something different and imaginative. In fact, I’ve been meaning to talk to Gwen about that.”

“Oh, boy, those poor girls,” Elsie muttered as Matilda hustled back to where Gwen was talking with some of the mothers. “I guess they’re done with me for the day. Can I give you a ride somewhere, Jessica?”

“That’s very kind of you, Elsie, but can you drive with that neck brace?” I asked, apprehensive about trusting my life to her driving skills.

“Don’t tell Seth, but I take it off when I get behind the wheel. Couldn’t see a thing otherwise.”

Elsie and I bade good-bye to Gwen and Matilda, and waved to the girls. On our way out the door, we met Evan Carver coming in.

“Hi, Mrs. Fletcher, Mrs. Fricket. Is Abby . . . uh, the girls . . . I mean, the pageant . . . Are they still rehearsing?” he asked.

“They’re just about to leave for a costume fitting,” I said, “but I think you can catch them.”

“Oh, good.”

“What are you doing here?” I asked. “Didn’t you go out with your dad today?”

“Sure. But we only put in a half day. Pop wanted to come back early to help one of the guys with his boat. Ike. You met him yesterday.”

“That’s right.”

“Someone stove in the side of his boat. Oh, darn, I guess I shouldn’t say that.”

“I didn’t hear it from you,” I said.

Evan blushed. “Thanks. I-I’d better get inside before I, um, miss them.”

“Handsome devil, isn’t he?” Elsie said when Evan left. “Levi looked like that when he was young. Mary couldn’t take her eyes off him. He and Abigail Brown are an item, Evan, that is. Gonna be hard for them to follow Matilda’s rules.”

But I barely heard what she was saying. Evan had confirmed Evelyn Phillips’s story. Someone had bashed in Ike’s boat. Who had done that—and why? I knew it wasn’t my business, but that hadn’t stopped me before. I wanted to know what was behind the turmoil in the lobstermen’s community. After all, it might have an impact on our festival. At least, that was what I told myself. It was as good an excuse as any to do a little investigating.

After Elsie dropped me off at the docks, I went into Mara’s to get something to eat, and to see if news of Ike’s repair work had made its way to the lunch counter. Cabot Cove had three reliable sources of gossip: Charlene Sassi’s bakery, Loretta Spiegel’s beauty shop, and Mara’s luncheonette. Since I was unlikely to encounter any fishermen at the bakery or beauty shop, Mara’s was my logical destination in search of scuttlebutt about the lobstermen.

“We’ve got a soup-and-salad special today,” Mara said, bringing me a glass of iced tea, a straw, and a saucer of cut lemon without being asked.

“What’s the soup?” I asked.

“Clam chowder or clam chowder.”

“I guess I’ll have the clam chowder,” I said, “and salad dressing on the side, please.”

“You’re not going to save a lot of calories that way, you know. Dressing on the side—and broken cookies—still have calories.”

I laughed. “I know,” I said, “but it makes me feel more virtuous, especially since I know you believe in the Julia Child school of cooking, lots of butter and cream in that chowder.”

“Have you got spies in my kitchen?”

“If I did, I’d never admit it.”

“Must be my new cook. Don’t you know you can’t trust a fisherman not to exaggerate?”

“Speaking of fishermen, Mara, I was wondering if there’s been any talk in here today?”

“There’s always talk in here, Jessica. What kind of talk do you mean?”

There was no point in being subtle with Mara, so I came out and asked, “What do you hear about the lobstermen?”

“Quite a bit, actually,” she said. “Let me put your order in and I’ll be right back.”

Mara stopped at three more tables to take care of other patrons before she reached the kitchen to put in my order. By the time she found her way back to me carrying a steaming bowl of chowder, my impatient fingers had folded the paper covering from my straw into a tiny square.

“You heard about Ike Bower’s boat, I take it,” Mara said, sliding into the booth next to me.

“Yes. I saw the hole myself. He said it was an accident.”

She guffawed. “Sure it was an accident—if someone accidentally took a swing at his hull.”

I nodded. “Who told you about it?”

“Barnaby Longshoot. You know he can’t keep a secret to save his soul. He was hanging around this morning when Bower was griping to some of the other men, swearing revenge, according to Barnaby.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

She looked around her luncheonette to be sure we weren’t being overheard. “And at breakfast time, I saw that Holland kid and his buddy Maynard out front on the dock, giggling and punching each other in the shoulder, giving high fives, like they’d just done a great thing.”

“Do you think they were the ones who damaged Ike’s boat?”

“I wouldn’t swear on it in a court of law, but when Barnaby went out back to get me an extra tray this morning, he saw Holland. He said the guy took one look at him and darted around the corner and down the alley next to my building.”

“What he was doing back there, do you know?”

“No. But later Barnaby found a sledgehammer in with the garbage, which he swears wasn’t there earlier.”

“What did he do with it?”

“Put it in the back shed. It was a perfectly good tool. Nothin’ wrong with it.”

“When is your garbage picked up?” I asked.

“Around six in the morning. Why?”

“Just curious. Do you mind if I take a look at the hammer?”

“Help yourself. Why do I have the feeling you’re onto something sinister, Jess?”

“I can’t imagine why you’d think that about me,” I said lightly.

“I can’t imagine why I
wouldn’t
think that about you, Jess.” She turned serious. “Do you think I should report that to the sheriff?”

“It couldn’t hurt,” I said. “Bower said it was an accident, and he refused to file a report, so technically there’s no crime for the sheriff to investigate. Still, I think he’d like to know what Barnaby saw and found.”