The Maine Mutiny (14 page)

“Mort usually stops by for a snack in the afternoon. I’ll talk to him about it then. Enjoy your soup before it gets cold.”

The soup and salad were delicious—there was good reason why Mara’s had become such a popular place with both locals and visitors alike—but I finished my meal quickly, eager to see what was behind the luncheonette.

Mara’s back door was off the same hallway as the restrooms and the entrance to the kitchen. I pushed on the door’s metal bar and stepped out onto a concrete block, the only bit of paving in sight. The constant rain had left the rear yard a sea of mud, and even though we’d had a few dry days strung together, it was not enough to keep my shoes from sinking in as I tiptoed in the direction of the Dumpster. I looked down at footprints that had been left in the soil around the big bin and counted at least four different sets. I could easily account for three of them—Mara’s, her cook’s, and Barnaby’s. The fourth looked suspiciously like it had been made by a rubber boot of the sort favored by commercial fishermen. Barnaby had seen Holland in the back here, so there was a good chance those prints were his.

A prefabricated shed sitting on a bed of gravel was on the other side of the Dumpster. The padlock wasn’t closed, and I slipped it out of the latch and pulled open the door. Mara had an assortment of boxes on metal shelves, all labeled with black marker, indicating which were dishes, glassware, extra cooking utensils, and trays. A toolbox rested on the wooden floor. In one corner were three colorful umbrellas, the kind used with picnic tables, and next to them, standing on its metal head, was a sledgehammer. I didn’t touch it just in case it became a piece of evidence at a later date. But I did examine the top, thinking it might still hold a splinter of wood. If there had ever been wood or paint residue on it, it didn’t appear to be there anymore. The hammer had been thrown in a Dumpster and retrieved, and—who knows?—Barnaby might have wiped it off before he left it in the shed.

I closed the door, careful to replace the padlock but leaving it open as I’d found it. I traversed the mud and walked through Mara’s back door. Coming down the hall was Barnaby Longshoot.

“Hello, Barnaby, how are you?” I asked.

“Okay. Okay,” he said. He seemed uncomfortable at seeing me.

“I wonder if we could sit down for a bit, Barnaby. I understand you were at the docks when Ike Bower was talking about the hole someone made in his boat.”

Barnaby raised two fingers to his lips. “Shhh, shhh,” he said. “Can’t talk about that now.”

“If now isn’t good, we could meet whenever it’s more convenient,” I said. “I won’t take up too much of your time. I just have a few questions, and since you were on the scene, you’re the perfect person to answer them.”

“Hey, Barnaby, you’re blocking the door to the men’s room.”

I looked over Barnaby’s shoulder and saw Alex Paynter. Evidently some of the lobstermen had put in an abbreviated day.

Barnaby made a face indicating I shouldn’t say anything, and stepped aside to move out of Alex’s way.

“Oh, hello, Mrs. Fletcher,” Paynter said, poised to enter the restroom. “Didn’t see you there behind Barnaby.”

He went through the door as Mara arrived carrying a large tray laden with dirty dishes. “This hall’s not big enough for all of us,” she said. Barnaby and I pressed our backs against the wall to allow her to pass.

“So, Barnaby,” I said. “It’s a little busy here. Why don’t we—”

“Not here, not now,” he said. “I got work to do.”

“Okay. When’s a good time?”

“Tonight, after Mara’s is closed. I’ll meet you out back.”

“Out back? Do we really need to be so secretive?” I asked.

“Okay, out front then.”

The door to the men’s room opened behind me. Barnaby put his fingers to his lips and scuttled back down the hall to the dining room.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Fletcher,” Paynter said.

“Of course,” I said, moving out of the way.

I shook my head. Was it me, or was there something strange afoot? Barnaby had been visibly spooked when I asked to speak with him. And the sight of Alex Paynter seemed to unnerve him even more. But I’d have to wait to find out what was bothering him.

The way my mind was working at the moment, it was like preparing a plot outline for one of my murder mystery novels, or crime novels as the British prefer to call them. Of course, there hadn’t been a murder, or anything close to it. All that had happened was damage to one lobsterman’s boat, and the dumping of rotting bait on another, unpleasant incidents to be sure, but amounting to nothing more than unfortunate vandalism.

But my instincts had started shouting at me that what had happened to Ike Bower’s and Spencer Durkee’s boats had a deeper significance. Maybe it was the concern over the upcoming lobster festival, and whether there would be enough lobsters to feed what we hoped would be a large crowd of visitors, that added gravity to the situation for me.

No matter what the impetus of my growing concern, I’d now allowed myself to become involved, and once that happens . . . well, ask Seth Hazlitt about what happens to me once I reach this stage of curiosity.

The tourist fishing boats had come in, and the docks were teeming with sunburned faces. Most were smiling as families admired the bags of fish, cleaned and filleted by the crew, souvenirs of a successful fishing trip. Others looked a bit green, grateful to be off the boat and back on terra firma, or at least a sturdy dock. The rain on previous days had kept down the number of tourists on the dock, but the welcome sun had brought them back, cheerful and noisy, like gulls that follow fishing boats in search of a tossed handout.

I saw Evelyn Phillips at the end of the dock taking a picture of a father and son holding up their prize catch of the day, which would probably end up in the next edition of the
Gazette.
Photos of visitors to our town with tangible proof of a successful fishing trip were staples in the paper during tourist season, along with kids and dogs enjoying what our lovely town has to offer.

Picture taking completed, Evelyn engaged in an animated conversation with the father and his boy, and I had the feeling she was urging them to return for the upcoming Cabot Cove Lobsterfest. They would be reminded as well, of course, by the colorful banners the committee had strung up along the shore, and which hung from every light post up and down Main Street.

Wedged between two of the party boats disgorging their passengers was Spencer Durkee’s lobster boat, easy to pick out in the harbor thanks to the purple roof of its wheelhouse. In light of what had happened to Ike Bower’s boat, I wondered if Spencer would now be more willing to talk about the incident that had landed him in the
Gazette
. I didn’t know whether Spencer was aboard or not, but I decided to see if he was. I dove into the crowd, fighting the tide of humanity surging toward the parking lot, holding the skirt of my dress out of the way of the damp bags of fish.

You can always tell the townies from the tourists,
I thought. There I was in a dress, stockings, and shoes, and all our visitors were attired in T-shirts, shorts, and sneakers. But, of course, I wasn’t coming ashore after a day’s fishing, or hiking, or shopping for bargains and souvenirs in our shops. I waited while a cluster of tourists passed me by before scooting across the dock to where the
Done For
was berthed.

“Spencer,” I called out. “Spencer Durkee, are you there?”

“He’s not, ma’am. He went ashore just as we were comin’ in,” said a crew member from one of the party boats who was busy untying the lines that secured his craft to the dock. The large boats were allowed to tie up when picking up passengers at the beginning of the day and when letting them off at the end. The rest of the time they were moored out in the harbor, leaving space for vessels that took up less room.

“Did you happen to see which way he went?” I asked.

“No, ma’am. Sorry.”

I walked toward Nudd’s Bait & Tackle, thinking Spencer might have gone there for supplies; maybe Tim Nudd would be able to tell me where to find him. Ike Bower’s boat was no longer anchored near the store, which didn’t matter. I’d decided that Ike was less likely to provide information than the more verbose Spencer. He was like so many older people I’ve come to know who seem to become more talkative as they age, possibly because they have more to talk about—and perhaps because they realize their time is running out.

Across the harbor I saw the lobster boats starting to line up at Pettie’s dock, waiting to unload their precious cargo and take home the day’s pay. I felt a pang of envy. Notwithstanding a bit of queasiness, helped immeasurably by the acupressure bracelets Seth had given me, I’d had a wonderful time on the water accompanying the lobstermen and learning about the creatures that were a big part of Maine life and one of the state’s major industries. It was fun being part of their special community—even if it had been for only a short period of time.

The entrance to Nudd’s was held open by an iron lobster doorstop, one of myriad items Tim stocked to attract tourists during the hours the fishermen were at sea. Many of the passengers who’d just disembarked from the party boats were wandering his aisles, hanging over the counters that held trays of colorful lures, and examining fishing tackle and professional gear. Little ones gawked at the mounted sunfish, a giant specimen, and the whale and shark that hung high up in the rafters, while their parents flipped through the racks of windbreakers, slickers, overalls, and other seaworthy attire. A group of teenage girls clustered around a display of hats and caps, trying them on and admiring themselves in a full-length mirror.

I found Spencer, in green work pants and a tan shirt, sitting near the potbellied stove and fixing a broken lobster trap. I was willing to bet Tim Nudd had encouraged him, maybe even paid him, to do his repair work in the store as a special tourist attraction—an authentic Maine lobsterman.

“Hello, Spencer,” I said. “How are you?”

“Nicely, thanks.”

“Mind if I join you?”

“Seat’s free,” he said, concentrating on his work.

I pulled a folding chair near him and sat.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Ring’s broken. Them bugs’ll dance right out of the pot, I don’t fix it.”

A few children had gathered to watch while Spencer removed the broken ring and threaded a new one into its place.

“You heard about Ike Bower’s boat?”

“All over town.”

“Do you know who did it?”

“Mebbe.”

“Do you think the same boys were responsible?” I didn’t have to add “for putting rotten bait on your boat.” He knew what I meant.

“Wouldn’t be surprised,” he said. “Young punks. Like to give ’em what-for.”

“Here’s your chance, Durkee,” said Nudd, who’d been standing nearby, keeping an eye on the customers.

We looked up. Framed in the doorway were Brady Holland and his pal Maynard. They were in their rubber overalls and boots, still damp from a day out on the water.

“Hey, Brady, look who’s posin’ for pictures.” Maynard chortled, pointing at Spencer.

Holland didn’t hear him. He was focused on the young women pretending to model hats for each other while they stole glances at the new arrivals. Holland pulled on the peak of his cap and winked when he caught the eye of one of the girls. “Nice to see you, ladies,” he said, strolling over to them. “You stayin’ in Cabot Cove?”

A peal of laughter rang out, and a chagrined Maynard followed his friend to the hat display.

“What’re you boys still in uniform for?” Nudd called, eyeing their boots. “You’re gonna traipse fish guts on my newly polished floor.”

“They’re showin’ off for the girlies,” Spencer said. “And showin’ off their ignorance. No true fisherman goes shoppin’ in his gear.”

“Well, if it ain’t the old man of the sea,” Holland said. He looked embarrassed that he’d been caught out. “How’s yer boat smellin’ these days?” He sidled in our direction.

Spencer squinted at him. “I don’t bother with buggers don’t know their bulkhead from a barn door. Go ’way, sonny. Come back when you’re growed up.”

“Why, you old bahstid. You’re crazier than a back-house rat.”

“Watch your language, Holland. I’ve got customers here,” Nudd said.

The teenage girls had stopped feigning disinterest and overtly stared.

Maynard pulled on Holland’s arm. “Let’s get out of here, Brady,” he said. “There ain’t nothin’ I want to buy.”

Holland shook off Maynard’s hand and squared himself in front of Spencer, smiling. “You want to challenge me, old man? You’re just a toothless goner, no good to yourself or anybody else.”

Spencer dropped the lobster trap on the floor and stood. “I’ll take you on anytime. It’s common talk you’ve a big mouth and a small brain.”

“I’ll drop you in a second.”

Nudd grabbed Spencer’s shoulder. “Don’t get all humped up. He ain’t worth it.”

“He come at me, I’m ready.”

I knew better than to step in front of Spencer, but I stood, too. “Mr. Holland,” I said. “Don’t you think it’s time you left?” I looked at Maynard. “And you, too. You don’t want to make a scene and shame yourselves in front of those nice young women who are watching.”

Holland spun around and saw that all eyes were trained on him. “I’m outta here,” he yelled, and stomped toward the door.

“Brady, wait for me,” Maynard said, hurrying after him.

Spencer sat heavily, his hands making a series of fists. He trembled, and I touched his shoulder. “They’re just ignorant boys,” I said, “all puffed up and anxious to show how macho they are.”

“They’ve got no respect,” Spencer said, “not for their elders, not for their parents, not for the sea, not for nothin’.”

“I know, I know,” I said, concerned for his health at that moment. His face was very red, and I feared he might have a heart attack or stroke. “But they aren’t worth getting sick over.” I sat in the folding chair again and waited for him to calm down. When he had, I said, “Spencer, I want to talk to you about Ike Bower’s boat.”