The Maine Mutiny (15 page)

“Gangsters is what they are,” he said. “Somebody chops a hole in a lobsterman’s boat, they chop a hole in his income. It’ll take Ike a couple’a days to mend it, and it’ll never be good like it was before. Like strikin’ a hole in a man’s heart.”

“I understand,” I said. “Ike claimed it was an accident.”

“Like I accidentally dumped a boatload of rotten bait on my deck. Some accident. He just don’t want trouble, but he got it anyway.”

“Why would someone do that to Ike? Does he have any enemies?”

“Nah. He’s hotheaded, but he’s solid.” Spencer picked up his lobster trap from where he’d dropped it when Brady Holland confronted him, and began working on it again.

“But someone is angry with Ike,” I said. “Why else would they single him out?”

“Mebbe.”

“Did he ever get into an altercation with Brady or Maynard?”

“Don’t think he ever paid them no never mind. Not worth thinkin’ about them two or their friends.”

“Then why would they do something so nasty—if they were the ones?” I asked. “It’s more than just malicious mischief.”

Spencer shrugged, but didn’t reply.

“Do you think someone put them up to it?”

“Mebbe.”

“Has this kind of thing happened before?”

“Mebbe.”

“Boats have been damaged before?”

“Boats’ve been damaged. Bait’s been spilled. Lines’ve been cut. Catch has been stolen.”

“Why hasn’t the association stepped in to stop it?”

Spencer glanced up at me, and then dropped his eyes back to his work. I was missing something here.

“Holland is Linc Williams’s nephew,” I mused. “Even if he doesn’t want to turn him in, you’d think Linc would have enough influence to put a halt to Brady’s crimes, if he knew his nephew was involved with this kind of activity.”

“You’d think.”

“But he didn’t. Why?”

“Have to ask him.”

“Linc and Ike argued the other night at the association meeting. Could Brady be getting even for his uncle?”

“Mebbe.”

“Linc wouldn’t have put them up to it, would he?”

Again Spencer didn’t answer, but I took his silence for confirmation.

“Why, Spencer? What reason could Linc have for hurting one of his own lobstermen?”

“He’s the king. Likes to keep it that way.”

“And Ike said the men could find another leader if Linc didn’t stand up for them against Pettie.”

“He did.”

“So anyone who disagrees with Linc or challenges his administration risks retaliation?”

“I’m not sayin’ that.”

“But you’re not disagreeing with it, either, are you?”

“Not sayin’ any more,” Spencer said, shaking his head. “As it is, word gets back I was talkin’ to you, there’s more hell to pay. Probably should stick on my boat tonight, just to be safe. Those hooligans show up again, I’ll be ready this time.”

“I’m sorry if talking to me causes you any trouble,” I said. “If there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know.”

“I’m an old man. I don’t worry what they’re gonna do to me anymore. But you take care.”

“I’ll be careful,” I said.

In summer, Mara closes her door and locks up by ten, so I planned to be down at the docks at that time for my meeting with Barnaby Longshoot. When I arrived, the luncheonette was already shuttered and dim, the light from a crescent moon barely visible through the incoming cloud bank, and failing to illuminate the front of the building or reflect off the plate-glass window. It was dark. Light from the street lamps, back in the parking lot, didn’t reach the front door.

I took off my sweater and laid it on the glass top of one of the tables Mara leaves outside. I put my handbag beside it. The heat of the day seemed to hover, reluctant to let go its hold on the waterfront, and the air was still; no breeze rattled the lines against the masts or ruffled the fringe on Mara’s awning. The only sound was the lapping of the water against the pilings and the irritating warble of a radio on one of the boats across the harbor. Someone was playing loud music, which clashed with the serenity of the waterfront.

I sat at the empty table and waited for Barnaby. What did I hope to learn from him? Spencer had been surprisingly forthcoming, although I’d had to phrase my questions carefully. He’d all but accused Linc of complicity in the two incidents I knew about firsthand—the pile of rotten bait spilled on Spencer’s boat, and the smashing-in of Ike’s hull—and had hinted at his involvement in others. That power is corrupting is an old maxim, but who would have thought that a pillar of the community like Linc Williams would be so intent on defending his lofty position that he would resort to violence to keep his fiefdom under control? A Williams had headed the Cabot Cove lobstermen’s association for a hundred years. Was I naïïve to hope that good management, proper care for the people who relied on them, and honest hard work had helped hold on to that tradition? What had happened to this generation? Was the crown more important to the king than his subjects? There had been no blood-shed yet, but it was only a small leap from smashing in the hull of someone’s boat to taking out that fury on someone’s person. Brady Holland had nearly come to blows with Spencer. He was a volatile young man, and I hated to think of how that contest would have come out had he acted on his intentions.

The song on the radio ended. I sat up straight. What was that noise? It sounded like a moan.
It’s your imagination, Jessica,
I told myself.
You think about the possibility of violence and your brain supplies the sound effects.
I strained to hear the noise again, but couldn’t make out anything when the music resumed.

Time seemed to move slowly. The clouds obscured what little light might come from the sky. The buzz of a mosquito broke my concentration and had me batting the air. I stood up. Maybe Barnaby wasn’t coming. Perhaps he’d had a change of heart. He’d been reluctant to talk to me in the luncheonette. Had someone convinced him not to come, arguing that whatever he told me might wind up in the pages of the
Gazette
? Not true, but how was he to know that?

Certain I’d solved the mystery, I zipped open my bag and took out my flashlight. Enough of this flailing around in the dark. I switched it on, picked up my sweater, shouldered my bag, and walked to the corner of the building. A narrow, pitch-black passage separated it from the neighboring shop. I aimed the beam down the alley, and jumped when the light caught a pair of eyes. A rat? They’re a common plague where land and water converge. But the creature turned tail, revealing itself to be a cat, for which I was thankful, and disappeared into the gloom. Tentatively I moved into the tight space. If I reached out my arms to the sides, I could touch the cedar siding of both buildings. The slender ray of the flashlight bounced up and down with each step in the soft, damp earth. It was impossible to see clearly. Fighting an encroaching sensation of claustrophobia, I picked up my pace, feeling the walls lean in on me, the sky disappear overhead; the alley’s end seemed to move farther away as I approached it.

Moments later I was in the backyard of Mara’s luncheonette and heaved a sigh of relief despite the dank air, redolent with the odor of refuse coming from the overflowing Dumpster. My relief was short-lived. The night, which had been so silent at the tables in front of the building, was abuzz in the back. Flies and mosquitoes and other winged insects drawn by the lure of rotting garbage now discovered other enticements, banging against the flashlight, circling my head, and diving at my face and arms. I swatted at the swarm and quickly put on my sweater, but I knew I couldn’t escape them. I flicked the flashlight over the back door and the concrete block at its base. No Barnaby. Should I leave?

I was about to go when a soft groan reached my ears. I hadn’t mistaken that. It was not a figment of my imagination. I knew a human sound when I heard it. I trained the flashlight on the ground and swept it back and forth in wide arcs, trying to ignore the cloud of insects reflected in its glow. At the base of the Dumpster were the vermin I’d feared to meet in the alley; two rats fought over scraps of waste that had fallen from the too-full bin. And not ten feet away from their sharp teeth and claws lay a human form, his face bloodied and covered with flies.

“Barnaby!” I raced over to him, my sudden scream and movement startling the rats, which scurried into the shadows under the Dumpster. I whisked the flies away and shook Barnaby’s shoulder. “Can you hear me, Barnaby?” I fumbled in my bag for my cell phone and pressed 911.

I knelt by his side, waiting for the emergency crew to arrive, and took a packet of tissues and a bottle of water from my bag to wipe away some of his blood. He’d been beaten severely. His right eye was swollen shut, and his nose was broken. A gash had been opened on his cheek beneath the damaged eye, where a fist had connected, and there was a cut on his lip. I pressed the tissues against it to stanch the bleeding, and waved away the flies that kept landing on his skin.

“Barnaby, it’s Jessica Fletcher,” I said. “You’re safe now. Help will be arriving any moment. Just hold on.” I doubted he understood me, but hoped the sound of my voice would give him reassurance, even if he couldn’t grasp the words.

The ground was damp and chilly. Barnaby’s skin was clammy and pale. I removed my sweater and tucked the folded garment under his head.

With my right hand, I aimed the flashlight on the ground surrounding us to see if a weapon had been discarded, but all I caught in its beam was the red reflection of beady eyes—eyes that were watching me.

Not knowing the extent of Barnaby’s injuries, I couldn’t take a chance on dragging him away from the Dumpster. We had no choice but to wait. And while we waited the rats crawled out again. Emboldened by my stillness, the pair crept out from under the garbage bin, keeping wary eyes on me as they moved in to graze on the scraps. They were large rodents with greasy brown fur and long, black, scaly tails. A scuffle broke out over a chicken bone. I shouted and waved my arms; the combatants jumped apart, took a few steps back, but then settled down again, no longer afraid of me. One began angling forward, skirting the rubbish on the ground, taking a circuitous path in our direction. I couldn’t leave Barnaby alone with them, but was unsure what to do. My experience with rats was limited. Were they rabid? Would they attack? What could I do to protect us?

I reached into my bag and groped around, feeling for anything that might be helpful. My fingers curled around a firm object, and I pulled out the green folding umbrella Seth had given me. I’d forgotten I’d left it in my bag. I slid off the green sleeve, released the tab that held the fabric tight, aimed the point at the rat, and pushed the button. The umbrella snapped open with a whoosh, and the startled rats retreated out of sight. Relieved, I closed the umbrella, keeping it in my hand in case I needed to repeat my defensive tactic.

Trying not to breathe in the fetid odors, I cradled Barnaby’s head and listened for the faint wail of a siren in the distance that would mean help was arriving. There it was: first one siren, then two. That would be the ambulance and the police.

“Barnaby,” I shouted into his ear. “The ambulance is almost here. Can you hear the siren?”

His response was a weak whimper. He lifted one hand, begrimed with dirt and blood, and dropped it down again.

“Stay awake, Barnaby. Who did this to you? Can you tell me?”

But he sank into unconsciousness again.

The sound of the sirens grew louder. I heard feet running on the boardwalk out front, then down the alley. Two uniformed Cabot Cove officers, led by Sheriff Mort Metzger, burst onto the scene, followed closely by a couple of EMTs from the fire department. To my surprise, Seth Hazlitt was with them. This was his usual night to conduct a medical class for EMTs at the firehouse, and after it to settle in for a friendly game of poker. One of the police officers gently pulled me away from Barnaby, and Seth led me to the side.

“You all right, Jessica?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m fine, Seth. A little shaken, perhaps, but fine.”

“Good,” he said, leaving me to take a close look at Barnaby, and to assist the EMTs as they placed the battered man on a stretcher and carried him away to the waiting ambulance.

Mort came over to me. “I’ll be setting this up as a crime scene,” he said. “Then we can talk.”

“I’ll be here, Mort,” I said.

The officers brought in two huge, self-powered floodlights and set them up to illuminate the entire area behind Mara’s, their brilliant light flooding the scene. They stretched yellow crime tape from the shed, across the yard, and back to the building, photographed the ground where Barnaby had lain, and combed the area, dropping possible bits of evidence into plastic bags. Seth rejoined me, and we moved out of the way and watched the proceedings. The rats were gone, having fled at the sight of lights and people. Now the back of Mara’s looked as it did in daylight—messy and muddy, but not threatening. I shivered, thinking about what had occurred there. Thank goodness the wait was over. Thank goodness help had arrived.

Mort brushed dirt from my sweater as he brought it to me. “This yours, Mrs. F?”

“Yes. Thank you.” I examined the sweater in the harsh light of the floods. It was soiled from the muddy ground, but there didn’t seem to be any blood on it.

“Will Barnaby be all right?” I asked Seth.

“Not sure yet, Jess. Got himself beat up pretty bad, but that kind of damage will heal. Can’t tell yet if he suffered any internal injuries. I’ll head over to the hospital when I leave here.”

“How did you happen to find him, Mrs. F?” Mort asked.