The Maine Mutiny (16 page)

“I didn’t just happen to find him. Actually, I was looking for him.”

“You were?”

“Yes. We were supposed to meet here at Mara’s. When he didn’t show up, I thought I might have gotten it wrong.”

“You don’t get things wrong, Mrs. F.”

“That’s nice of you to say, but hardly true. Anyway, I came back here, looking for him, and found him lying on the ground.”

“Sounds like someone didn’t want him talking to you.”

“I think you’re right.”

“Any idea who that might be?”

I shook my head. “I don’t. But whoever it was is probably left-handed.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Barnaby has a bruise on his right cheek, and his right eye is swollen. Assuming his attacker confronted him, the person who took a swing at Barnaby would have to be left-handed to connect with the right side of his face.”

Mort drew a narrow leather-covered notebook from his pocket and scribbled on one of the pages. “I’ll need to get a full statement, Mrs. F.” He looked up at me. “But if you’d rather not talk right now, I can get one of the deputies to take you home and we can get together tomorrow. That’ll be okay.”

“That could have been you lying there,” Seth said to me.

“I’d rather not think about that,” I said.

“Listen to Mort. Go home and rest.”

“No, no. I don’t need to rest,” I said. I turned to Mort. “Besides, I’d rather tell you everything I know while it’s fresh in my memory.”

“That suits me fine,” Mort said. “Mind if we go out front where we can sit down? Got a new pair of shoes, and my feet are killing me.”

Seth left for the hospital, and Mort and I sat down at the same table where I’d waited for Barnaby. I was grateful to get away from the smell of rotting garbage, and Mort was relieved to slip off his new shoes while I recounted what had happened earlier, and he took notes.

“Rats, huh?” he said, when I’d finished telling him my tale.

“Um-hmm. Big ones.”

“Whew! Glad I missed them. When I worked in New York City we would see them all the time, especially down at the waterfront.”

“This is the waterfront, too,” I said. “I remember when we had a rat problem—what was that, five or six years ago? But the mayor launched a project to get rid of them, and it seemed to work.”

“It’s the garbage that draws them, not the water,” said Mort. “I’d hate to see Mara get a citation, but she needs to close up that Dumpster and call in an exterminator.”

“I’m sure Mara wasn’t aware of the problem,” I said, “but we certainly don’t want our visitors seeing rats in Cabot Cove. We’ll have a lot of people down here during the festival, and a lot of food, too. I think we’d better let the mayor know what’s going on.”

“I’ll talk to Jimmy first thing in the morning,” Mort said.

Harold Jenkins, one of Mort’s deputies, stopped by the table. “We’re finished back there, Sheriff. Do you want to leave somebody on duty here tonight?”

“Nah. I don’t see the sense in it. You can go along back to the office. Make sure you don’t leave any of the floods here. Those things cost a fortune. I don’t need some kids deciding they’d make good lights for their driveway basketball court.”

“Okay. See you later, Sheriff. Night, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Good night, Harold.”

“By the way, Sheriff,” Harold said, walking backward as he spoke, a smile playing on his lips. “There’s someone here to see you.”

“Who?” Mort said.

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re still here,” Evelyn Phillips said, stepping around Harold and hastening to where we sat.

Mort clapped his hands on his head. “How did you know where to find us?” he asked.

“Police scanner,” Evelyn said, smiling triumphantly. She turned to me, surprised at my presence. “Were you involved in this?” she asked.

“No, of course not,” I said, suppressing a smile.

“So,” Evelyn said to Mort, “I heard we had an assault tonight. Any suspects?”

“The case is under investigation.”

“No suspects,” she said, making a note on her pad.

“I didn’t say that,” Mort said.

“Saying the case is under investigation is just a fancy way of avoiding the question,” Evelyn said. “Care to change your answer?”

“No! And if I had a suspect, I wouldn’t be telling you about it. People are innocent until proved guilty. I don’t want you trying anyone in the press.”

“Do you think tonight’s assault is related to the attack on Ike Bower’s boat this morning?”

“We don’t have any evidence linking the two incidents,” Mort said carefully. “And I’d like to remind you that Mr. Bower claims the damage to his boat was the result of an accident.”

Evelyn released a puff of air. “Sure. You can say that, but we both know it was no accident.”

“I can only go by what the man says.”

“Have you spoken with tonight’s victim yet?”

“He was unconscious when Mrs. F found him.”

“He was? You found him, Jessica?”

“Think I’m going to follow the doc over to the hospital,” Mort said, grimacing as he slid his feet into the new shoes.

“I’ll be joining you there shortly,” she said. “But I’d like to ask Jessica a few questions, if she’s willing.”

Mort looked at me and shrugged. “Whatever Mrs. F wants to do or say, it’s okay by me. It’ll all be in the police report anyway.”

“I don’t mind,” I told Evelyn, “but only for a few minutes. It’s getting late and I’m tired.”

“Five minutes,” she said, “ten at the top.”

“You’ll be all right, Mrs. F?”

“Of course.”

Mort hobbled up the dock toward his cruiser, and Evelyn took his chair.

“What’s he worried about?” she asked with a laugh. “Does he think I’ll worm something important out of you?”

I smiled. “I doubt it,” I said.

I gave Evelyn an abbreviated version of what I’d told Mort, omitting the swarming insects, the stench of the garbage, and the rats.

“So you didn’t hear the assault take place?”

“No. As I said, I was sitting right here. The only sound I heard was a radio on one of the boats.” I looked out over the harbor. The radio had been turned off. A slight breeze blew the day’s heat away, and the clouds had parted. The sliver of moon cast murky shadows on the boats at their slips. Was that Spencer tottering down his dock? He seemed to be bent under a heavy burden.
What’s he doing up so late?
I wondered.
And what on earth is he carrying? It’s a crazy time of night to bring supplies to the boat. He really needs to take better care. One of these days he’ll fall off the dock into the water when no one’s around.

Evelyn interrupted my reverie. “Any ideas who’d want to beat up Barnaby Longshoot?”

“No idea at all,” I replied.

A short series of beeps sounded from her pocket. She pulled out a pager and looked at the message. “I’ve got to run,” she said. “I asked a nurse at the hospital to alert me when Barnaby regains consciousness. Want to come along? Course, it could be a couple of hours till they let us see him.”

“No, thanks,” I said. “I’ll visit him tomorrow.”

“Well, appreciate the interview. I’m really glad we’re having the opportunity to work together.”

She stuffed her notepad in her pocket, shook my hand, and strode toward the parking lot.

I waited till I heard her start her car and drive away. Luckily she didn’t know I don’t drive, or she’d have been suspicious of why I wanted to stay at the harbor instead of hitching a ride with her.

I picked up my sweater. There wasn’t room to stuff it in my bag, so I put it over my shoulders, tying the sleeves in front. It would need a good washing when I got home. I walked up Mara’s dock, across the boardwalk, and down to the second of the piers that thrust out into the water, where Spencer’s boat was tied.

I’d been tired when the ambulance arrived. The tension of worrying about Barnaby’s injuries and keeping the rats at a distance had taken its toll. But now I had a second wind and felt alert and energized. The heels of my shoes made sharp clicks as I walked along the wooden planks.
I’m certainly not sneaking up on anyone,
I thought.

I saw Spencer moving around on the
Done For
.

“Good evening, Spencer,” I called. “You’re up late this evening.”

I couldn’t see his face, but he nodded at me and turned away.

“Since you’re up, I wonder if you wouldn’t mind talking with me for a few minutes,” I said. “I’ve never been on your boat before. May I come aboard?”

He didn’t answer, and I took that as an invitation; he hadn’t said no.

“It’s so dark tonight,” I said. “It’s hard to see where you’re going.”

It would have been polite if he’d helped me down, as Mort had done on Ike’s boat that morning. But he was obviously not feeling social, and since I was invading his privacy I didn’t begrudge him the lack of courtesy. I turned around, put my bag on the dock, and knelt down, holding on to a cleat. I reached down with one foot until connecting with the deck, and jumped the rest of the way. Brushing off the front of my dress, I turned toward the wheelhouse. Spencer had disappeared.

“Spencer? I know you may not be in the mood to talk, but something happened tonight I think you should know about. Spencer?”

There was no answer from inside the cabin.

“Please come out,” I said. “We have to talk. Barnaby Longshoot was assaulted this evening. He was beaten up and left for dead behind Mara’s. I shudder to think what might have happened to him if I hadn’t come along.”

I walked to the wheelhouse and leaned down toward the opening. Recessed steps led to the cabin door, which was ajar. “Spencer? This is serious. If Linc Williams is behind this, too, we need to do something—and fast. Are you listening? The lobstermen can’t remain silent forever. Someone has to be brave enough to stand up to Linc and demand that this madness be stopped before someone gets killed.”

No answer.

“Really, Spencer. I shouldn’t have to come in after you.” I stepped into the stairwell and pressed the door open. Spencer was lying across the bunk. He wasn’t moving. But it was so dark in the cabin, I couldn’t see very clearly. He couldn’t have fallen asleep so quickly— unless he was drunk. But he hadn’t seemed inebriated. There wasn’t any smell of alcohol in the air.

“Spencer?”

Suddenly the hairs on my arms stood up. Spencer and I were not the only ones on the boat. Someone was behind me. I put my hands on either side of the door to brace myself, but I knew I’d walked into the lion’s den. I felt the heavy blow, felt my legs crumple beneath me, felt my body being lifted and flung to the side. I’m not sure if I heard the engine start, but I felt its vibrations as the boat backed out of its slip and made for open water. After that, the clouds covered the moon again. And a deeper darkness descended.

I think it was the smell that woke me.

I’d been dreaming about a lobster boat on the water. I shut my eyes again and tried to recapture the vision. It had to do with the lobster festival. And Spencer Durkee was there. Why? We were on a boat, weren’t we? I struggled to remember, but the details kept fading away. Even so, I could still hear the quiet lapping of the sea on the hull, feel the gentle rocking of the boat, and smell the sour tang so reminiscent of a fishing boat.

What a vivid dream,
I thought.

A breeze was fluttering fabric against my legs. I felt it move across my body. I tried to turn over to escape the blinding light of the sun, but my bed was all lumpy and hard.

The shock of recognition made me bolt up quickly. I cringed at the pain and reached out to steady myself, my hand pressing against a hard surface. My heart was sounding a tattoo in my chest. I tried, but couldn’t take a deep breath, settling instead for shallow panting. Dizzy. Why was I so dizzy?

I looked up. Above me dangled the pulley of the hydraulic pot hauler used to pull lobster traps up to the surface of the water. It was attached to the purple roof of the wheelhouse, a Spencer Durkee trademark.

I’m on Spencer’s boat, the
Done For
. How did I get here?

While my brain struggled with the past, I took inventory of the present. I was alone on the ocean. No land in sight, only a straight line of water stretching away to where it met the sky. I was without food, without drinking water, without any way to communicate, without even knowing in which direction to go. All around me the seascape was the same. Water. No land. And a bank of dark clouds heading my way.

Gingerly I probed the left side of my head, discovering a good-sized egg that was tender to the touch. I knew that a bump on the head could cause amnesia. Was I one of its victims? I knew who I was. But I had no recollection of how I’d gotten here.

 

I stood on the wet floor in the cramped cabin of the
Done For,
staring at the body of a dead man, and little by little the events leading up to my being there returned.

I’d been talking to Spencer. Or was it Spencer? There’d been a man on the
Done For—
at least, I thought it was a man. I’d assumed it was Spencer, but I’d never actually seen his face or heard his voice. It had been so dark, and clouds had covered the moon. Even when there was a break in the clouds, the weak light of the crescent barely reached into the heavy shadows, making it difficult to see anything clearly.

There had been a pressing reason why I wanted to talk to Spencer. What was it?
Oh, yes. Barnaby.
Barnaby had been beaten.
Oh, dear.
I hoped he was all right. Mort had been there, and Seth. Not on the
Done For
. Where? At Mara’s. That was right. I was to meet Barnaby at Mara’s. They came to help after I’d called 911. I shivered at the memory and looked down at the dirt on the front of my sweater. I’d put it beneath Barnaby’s head to shield him from the damp and chilly earth. Evelyn Phillips was there, too. I still needed to finish that article on the lobstermen for the festival edition of the paper. It was all coming back to me now.