The Maine Mutiny (2 page)

Now upright, I gazed around. Like all lobster boats, Spencer’s sat low in the water, the rail not much more than knee height. Heavy seas would slap easily over the transom and the sides. Fortunately it was relatively calm, with a breeze raising only a slight chop, the small waves and delicate whitecaps extending as far as I could see. Alone. No land in sight, not even the slim dark blue silhouette on the horizon that indicated a terrestrial body. No. Only a straight line of water stretching away to where it met the sky. I staggered to the rail and looked toward the bow of the boat. The seascape was the same. Water. No land. But a bank of dark clouds was heading my way.

My mind raced. I’d never piloted a boat of any size other than a rowboat. Could I serve as master of this vessel? Could I find my way home? That was assuming, of course, that I could get the boat started. Had we run out of gas? The events leading up to my presence on the boat were lost in the fog of memory. I’d heard 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 swallowed convulsively and realized my throat was parched.
What I’d give for a glass of water. How ironic,
I thought. The lines from
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge sprang immediately to mind. How many times had I taught that poem?

I took a deep breath and straightened my shoulders. The first thing to do was to look around and see what was available. Lobster boats had radios, didn’t they? That would be a place to start.

Having a purpose gave me some energy. Perhaps there was some water on board. Maybe even something to eat. I sighed. Well, the day wasn’t lost altogether. Spencer practically lived on his boat. There must be some supplies or emergency gear, like a flare. And if I could figure out how to operate the radio, help might be just a call away.
The first thing to do is to get out of the sun,
I told myself.
Then everything will fall into place.

A lobster boat has a wheelhouse, a standing shelter from which the vessel is piloted. The
Done For
’s shelter had a roof and one long side for protection from the elements. An old-fashioned ring life preserver hung from a hook next to a small red fire extinguisher. In the corner, Spencer’s yellow rubber overalls and slicker had been hung on a peg, the bulky gear stretched and stiff, looking as if they could stand by themselves.

The opposite wall was shorter, the open area behind it accommodating the pot hauler. Sliding my feet along the deck, I sought refuge in the wheelhouse and examined the equipment fastened to the bulkhead. Spencer’s boat lacked the advanced technology most lobstermen rely on these days.

“I lived my whole life lobsterin’,” he once told me. “What do I need with radar or a chart plotter? Those dubs can’t find their way out of the bay, with the pier on their left and the rocks on their right, without spendin’ fifty thousand dollars on a machine to point them to where the water is.”

I pulled on the wheel; it was locked, the key to the engine missing. Of the three round gauges above it, only the compass was moving, its quivering needle pointing southeast. I tapped the gas gauge. The indicator was buried below empty, but I hoped it was only because the engine was off.

It was battered and black, bolted to the top of the bulkhead, with numbered dials and two silver switches. I flipped the switches and twisted the dials, hoping for the sound of static to signify it was working. But the only noise was the squeak of the pot hauler’s pulley as it swung back and forth in time with the rocking boat. I fiddled with the radio dials for a long time, moving from what I guessed would be one channel to another, my ear against the speaker straining to hear something. I checked the back and squinted at the bottom to see if the wires were frayed, but they were threaded through a hole in the bulkhead, out of my line of sight.

To the left of the wheel was a big wooden box probably used as a seat. I found a latch holding the top down, unlocked it, and was rewarded when it opened to reveal a jumble of fishing paraphernalia, a nail clipper, wire, a cracked coffee cup, a box of plastic sandwich bags, some of which had been used for screws, rubber washers, and other hardware. Dropping to my knees, I dug through the box, careful to set aside anything sharp, making piles of similar items on the deck, and hoping for something, anything, that would help me cope with my precarious predicament. I found a hammer, screwdriver, matches, fishing cap with a bent peak, and odd pieces, the uses for which mystified me. There was a small pad of paper, its corners all curled from the humid air, and a stub of a pencil with no eraser. In the bottom was a spool of lightweight fishing line, but no hooks. It didn’t look as if I’d be able to catch my lunch. I replaced the contents that lay scattered about me, secured the top, and sat on the box.
Don’t panic now. You’re safe. You’re dry,
I told myself.
It’s summer. There are lots of fishermen and pleasure craft on the water. I’m bound to come across another boat if I’m not too many miles from shore, if I’m still in the Gulf of Maine, if I haven’t been caught and carried in an east-flowing current to be lost at sea
.

Despite the warmth of the day, I shivered.
Goodness!
Where had that thought come from?
Lost at sea?

I tried desperately to remember where I’d been, what I’d done before I woke up aboard the
Done For.
Was the name of the boat prophetic for me? Was
I
done for? Had I interfered one too many times? Was someone I’d investigated taking revenge? Had I been involved in a case and come too close to the solution, too close for someone’s comfort? But who? And why?

My head ached, but the answers, if they were there, floated somewhere beyond my consciousness. I could almost grasp them. But they slipped away, leaving me frustrated and tired.

I leaned back against the bulkhead and closed my eyes. It would be so easy to sleep, so easy to fade into blankness and escape the frightening reality of my situation. My eyes popped open.

“That is not an option, Jessica,” I said out loud, my voice hoarse to my ears. My lips were dry and chapped.

I pushed out of my seat. There was a bit more of this boat to explore, but first I had to ensure my safety. I removed my stockings. Bare feet would hold better on the slippery deck. I tucked up the skirt of my dress into my belt so it wouldn’t trip me, opened the box again, and picked out the fishing cap. It was dirty but it would shield my face from the glare of the sun. Bending over and holding on to the rail, I inched my way to the back of the boat. On the top of the washboard was a series of strips spaced eight inches apart.

I could hear Spencer’s voice in my head. “Gotta have somethin’ to keep the pots from sliding all over the washboard. Makes a nice seat, too, if you don’t mind the ridges.”

I knelt on the hot deck, pushed the lobster traps aside, and peered beneath the shelf, reaching a hand under to feel for what I couldn’t see. I pulled out a red metal can shaped like a muffin with a spout on top. I shook it and heard some fluid slap against the side. I unscrewed the spout and inhaled the distinct odor of gasoline. But there wasn’t a bait barrel or a bin to hold lobsters, nothing to catch water if I was aboard long enough for it to rain. I stood and took some ungainly steps back toward the wheelhouse
. I don’t have my sea legs yet
, I thought, lurching a bit,
but I don’t have time to wait for them to develop.

At the short wall of the wheelhouse, I gripped a metal upright, took a deep breath, raised one knee, and placed a foot on the railing. I needed to see what was forward of the wheelhouse. The boat had a trunk cabin, a small space for storage below, the top of which jutted out on the foredeck. Through the windshield I could see there was a hatch on the roof, but the only way to reach it was to climb on the railing and make my way along the narrow ledge to the bow. One false step and I could end up in the water. If that happened, I wasn’t sure I could clamber back into the boat without assistance.

Praying not to trip, and holding my breath, I climbed up onto the ledge, clinging to the edge of the purple roof and the radio antenna as I sidestepped my way toward the forward deck. My weight caused the boat to dip, and my feet skidded on the narrow decking, one slipping down toward the sea. For a second I thought my worst fears were about to come true and I would topple off the side. I dug my fingernails into the roof molding and hung on; my toes reached for the deck and curled around the raised rail. I let out a big breath and rested my head on my arms till my heartbeat slowed and I could move again.

Where the shelter ended, the cabin roof, a low platform, rose from the deck, and I gratefully climbed on top and sat with my back against the wheelhouse windshield, bracing my feet on the hatch.
Whew!
My sweater clung to my dress, damp from perspiration and sea spray. I’d lost Spencer’s hat when I’d stumbled, but I felt the thrill of a dangerous feat successfully achieved. I forced away the thought of the return trip and drew a deep breath, smiling as I let it out. Ahead of me the water was flat, the earlier chop smoothed out. A light breeze ruffled my hair. A flock of seabirds—gannets, maybe?—flew just above the surface of the ocean, dropping down to dip their beaks into the water. It was beautiful and peaceful.

My tranquil feeling was short-lived, however. I needed to get into the cabin. Perhaps I could find something to help me understand how I got here. At worst, it might contain provisions. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if there was a bottle of water? Reluctantly, I crawled forward and knelt over the hatch, hooking my fingers over the edge and pulling up as hard as I could. It wouldn’t budge.
My luck that it opens only from the inside.
I tried again, but was no closer to lifting the lid of the hatch.
There must be a door I’ve overlooked.
Vaguely, I remembered seeing a door. I thought I’d given the wheelhouse a thorough inspection, but I could have missed something. I leaned over the side of the cabin roof and noticed two oval portholes. They didn’t open but allowed light into the tiny cabin. Stretching out on the cabin roof, I slid my body slightly over the edge and, shading my eyes, tried to peer into the cabin through the scratched glass of the porthole. I could barely make out what was inside. Something long and dark—perhaps a berth—but the details were lost in glass that had been etched by years of salt water and scrubbing. Both portholes on the port side and the pair on the starboard side were equally impenetrable, and the only option left was to hunt for the access.

Having conquered the narrow rail once allowed me to negotiate it easily on the return trip. This time I was prepared for the dip when my weight tilted the vessel as I retraced my steps, edging along the railing toward the rear of the boat. But the joy of success was no less sweet when I jumped down to the aft deck from the railing.

I examined the bulkhead minutely, using all my strength to push the heavy wooden box out of the way to see what was behind it. Nothing. But I had missed the low door that squatted in back of Spencer’s overalls and slicker. The rubber apparel had flared out, concealing the line of the closed door and the recessed steps that gave access to the cabin below. I wrapped my arms around Spencer’s foul-weather gear, lifted it off its peg, and laid it on the deck out of the way. I went back to the door, leaned over, and pressed on the panel. It swung inward a few inches, but something kept it from opening completely.

I stepped down the stairs and pushed on the door. Why did this feel familiar? I put my shoulder to the wood, pressed as hard as I could, and managed to gain a few inches more, but not enough for easy access. Could I squeeze through the narrow opening? I pushed my arm and shoulder through first, forced my knee in, then my hips. My head was last, and there was a panicky moment when I thought I might get stuck there permanently, with my body half in the cabin and my head wedged between the frame and the door.

Once inside, I groped along the wall for a light switch but found none. After the brilliant sunshine of the deck above, it took more than a moment before my eyes became accustomed to the dim light in the small, fusty cabin. But once they had, I was not happy with what I saw. The long, dark shape I’d made out peering through the cabin portholes from above was now discernible. A man was lying diagonally across the berth that filled the triangular space of the small cabin. His head was thrown back, and his mouth gaped open; a trickle of blood had dribbled from the corner of his mouth down his cheek and pooled in the creases of his neck. He was dead.

You’d never know that Mara’s had a beautiful view. The windows that overlooked the waterfront from the luncheonette’s favorable location on the docks in Cabot Cove were spattered with rain, the mist off the bay obscuring even the tall masts that tilted back and forth on the choppy surface of the harbor.

Gwen Anissina, body bent forward, arms folded on the table just behind her empty coffee cup, dropped her head and wailed. “Please, somebody, tell me it’s not going to rain the Saturday after next.”

Barnaby Longshoot swiveled toward Gwen from his seat at the counter. “Don’t know why not. Been rainin’ every weekend since Memorial Day. Wettest summah I ever see.”

“Shut up, Barnaby. Gwen’s miserable enough as it is. More coffee, hon?” Mara filled Gwen’s cup from one of the two pots she was holding and leaned over to check the milk level in the stainless-steel pitcher on the table. “I gave you decaf this time. It’s your third cup.”