The Maine Mutiny (20 page)

There’s nothing like a brush with death to bring your everyday blessings into sharp relief. I savored each morning task as I went about my household chores, took pleasure in the flavors of my breakfast, and breathed in deeply when I opened the front door to retrieve the morning paper. I left the paper unread as I took a leisurely hot shower, reveling in the soothing effect of the hot water. I wrapped myself in a terry-cloth robe and went into my study, where a flashing red light on the answering machine indicated that I’d received seven calls while showering. The recorded messages from friends prompted me to go where I’d dropped the paper on the kitchen counter. There it was, a banner headline in huge letters that Evelyn Phillips had put across the top of the front page: MURDER IN CABOT COVE, and beneath it, LOBSTERMAN HELD FOR QUESTIONING. Next to the story was a photo of the deceased that must have been taken years ago, when there was no gray in his hair and no meanness in his eyes. At the bottom of the page in smaller type was: MYSTERY WRITER FOUND, accompanied by a photograph of me being assisted into the ambulance. I could make out in the background the empty harbor and the crowd of people on the dock. Evelyn had chosen her position well from which to take the shot to illustrate the story.

I had just sat down with the paper and my second cup of tea when the phone rang. It was the editor herself.

“I’m calling to apologize,” she said. “I feel terribly guilty.”

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“I’ve been hearing from some of your friends that they consider me responsible for your having been kidnapped and nearly killed because . . . I ‘deserted you,’ is how they put it, at Mara’s the night you were kidnapped.”

“I certainly don’t feel that way, and no apologies are necessary,” I said. “You couldn’t have known that I don’t drive. Besides, I deliberately didn’t ask you for a ride home because I wanted to investigate something I’d seen on the dock. You assumed I had a car there. So you see, Evelyn, you’re not in any way responsible. You can stop feeling guilty.”

“Thank you,” she said with an exaggerated sigh. “I just wish those sending me vituperative e-mails and leaving nasty messages on my answering machine would see things the same way.”

“If it helps, I’ll write a letter to the editor exonerating you.”

“You wouldn’t mind doing that?”

“I made the offer. You didn’t even ask. I don’t mind at all. It will give me an opportunity to thank all the people who helped look for me. I’ll drop it off later today, along with my article for the festival edition.”

“It’s nice not to have to feel guilty. But I do feel like a fool for not having picked up a fact that everyone in Cabot Cove but me seems to know—that you don’t drive.”

“Considering your short tenure as editor,” I said, “I think you’ve learned a remarkable amount about our town. It takes years and years to get into the heart and soul of a community, and some never do. I think you’re doing a fine job.”

“Thank you, Jessica Fletcher. You’re a very kind lady. I owe you. And I always honor my obligations.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I was planning to pick your brain to find out what you know about Henry Pettie, and the people who didn’t hold him in especially high regard.”

“You can probably include the names of every member of the lobstermen’s association, with the possible exception of Linc Williams, and maybe him, too. The men hated him. But am I reading you correctly that you don’t think Spencer killed Pettie? I spoke with Sheriff Metzger earlier this morning. He seems pretty confident he’s got the right man.”

“He may have,” I said. I realized I was talking to the press, and didn’t want Evelyn to write in the paper that Jessica Fletcher was questioning the competence of our sheriff, and my dear friend. “I’m not giving an interview here,” I said. “I don’t want to see myself quoted in the paper.”

“In other words, this is off the record. I understand. I’ll make a deal with you.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ll tell you everything I know and everything I find out, if you’ll write up your experience on the
Done For
and let me publish it in the
Gazette
.”

I had no intention of satisfying her readers’ morbid curiosity by reliving that harrowing experience in print, but I didn’t say that. As it was, people would be pressing me for the details. I knew that. But I’d already given the details to the two people who needed to know, Seth and Mort, and who were genuinely concerned for my welfare, not merely eager to hear the lurid story. Perhaps there would come a time when I’d want to write about it, when it might form the centerpiece of one of my stories, altered, of course, with events purposely made more dramatic for a fictitious heroine. But that was for another time. I wasn’t about to make a spectacle of myself in the newspaper. Furthermore, I had more important things to do.

“No deal,” I said.

“Too upsetting, huh? I’m sorry I asked. I’ll tell you what you want to know anyway.”

“You could put something in the paper for me.”

“What’s that?”

“According to Mort Metzger, Spencer claims he spent the night down at the beach. It’s August and it wasn’t raining. There’s a good chance there may have been other people there, someone who might have seen him and can come forward to verify his alibi.”

“That’s a good point, Jessica. I’ll write something up right away. Maybe Matilda Watkins would be willing to post a reward for information. She likes the idea of investigative reporting, except, of course, when it comes to her. Oh, the stories I could tell you.”

“Another time,” I said. “But you might want to check with Mort before posting any rewards. He might not be pleased with any interference on the paper’s part. You don’t want to get in the way of his investigation.”

“I’ll call him right away. When do you want to talk about Pettie?”

“Why don’t I stop by your office later today, say around three?”

“I’ll be here. See you then.” Just before I hung up she added, “And Jessica, I am so relieved you’re home safe. It must have been a nightmare.”

The hot shower had felt wonderful on my aching body, but after I’d been talking with Evelyn, my muscles began to stiffen up again, and my joyous mood began to fade. Nevertheless, I wrote the letter to the editor I’d promised, and put the final touches on my article on the lobstermen for the festival edition of the
Gazette,
finishing just in time to head downtown for my meeting with the authorities.

I took a taxi to the small, white building on the village green in which Mort Metzger’s sheriff’s office and the town jail were situated. It was a relatively new facility, erected six years ago to replace what had become a decrepit, and even unsafe structure. A bond issue was floated, and the new building took its proud place alongside other town government buildings.

Although I’d never conducted a poll, I could only assume that those unfortunate enough to have to spend time in a cell there were pleased that their accommodations were fresh and clean. Actually, for the most part, we have relatively little crime in Cabot Cove—traffic infractions, an occasional domestic dispute, and a citizen who now and then imbibes too much alcohol and becomes Mort’s guest to sleep it off. When murder does occur, however, like the one that took place on Spencer Durkee’s lobster boat, you can imagine the furor it creates in town.

FBI special agent Lazzara, Maine investigator Dailey, and a uniformed officer from the coast guard, whose name was Grissom, were in Mort’s office when I arrived. They apologized for putting me through a round of questioning, but I assured them I understood the necessity for it, and suggested they get started. They were terribly polite and solicitous, and took notes as they encouraged me to tell what had happened in my own words and at my own pace, with few interruptions for clarifications. The session lasted a half hour. When it was over, they thanked me for my cooperation, suggested they might contact me again, to which I readily agreed, and left.

“Nice men,” I said to Mort.

“Suppose they are, only it looks like we’re about to get into a turf war.” His expression was pained.

Jurisdictional disputes between law-enforcement agencies weren’t alien to me—I’d been in the middle of them on more than one occasion. While I knew that Mort would have preferred to handle the case alone without interference from other agencies—he’d successfully investigated murders before—I also knew he was a rational enough lawman to accept help when it was offered. He simply didn’t have the manpower to launch a thorough investigation while he was also preoccupied with arranging security and traffic control for the upcoming festival.

“Well, Mrs. F,” he said, taking the seat behind his desk and heaving a relieved sigh, “it was good of you to come in this morning. How are you today—you all right?”

“Aside from feeling as though I’ve been run over by an eighteen-wheeler, I’m fine. But tell me more about Barnaby Longshoot. How is he doing?”

“He looks like he went twelve rounds with George Foreman, but other than that, he’s okay.”

“I’m so glad he wasn’t seriously injured. You questioned him, I’m sure. What did he say?”

“Couldn’t tell me much. Says he was hanging around outside Mara’s and he heard a man calling his name. He followed the voice down the alley to the back, and pow!—someone got him with a couple of roundhouse punches. Too dark to see who it was.”

“So his assailant lured him to the back of Mara’s, where the attack wouldn’t be seen?”

“Sounds that way.”

“Did he recognize the voice?”

“Says he didn’t.”

“Whoever it was wanted him off the dock. But did that person know he was there to meet me, or not?”

“It’s a good question. You’re lucky you didn’t end up like him.”

“I might have been better off. At least he stayed on land.”

“Sorry, Mrs. F. Forgot for a second what happened to you. You look fine, though, apart from a little sunburn.”

“The injuries are all in here,” I said, pointing to my head. “It’s an experience I’m not likely to forget for some time.” I gave an involuntary shiver. “Mort, as long as I’m here, I’d like to talk to Spencer.”

“Are you sure, Mrs. F? You’ve been through a lot. We’ve already got a good handle on the case.”

“I’d like to hear what he has to say about what happened the night before last,” I replied.

“I can tell you that,” Mort said. “He claims he was down at the beach sucking on a bottle of liquor when somebody stole his boat. That part rings true to me. I’ve had a drunken Spencer Durkee as an overnight guest in our jail on more than one occasion. But I don’t believe he stayed down at the beach and slept there. From what I see and hear so far, I think he got himself boozed up, had a confrontation with Henry Pettie, killed him, and decided to get rid of the body at sea.”

“I just don’t think he’d sink his own boat,” I said, “not even if he was in a drunken stupor.”

“I’ve considered what you and the doc said last night. But anything’s possible when you’re under the influence and not thinking clearly, Mrs. F. All I know is a murder took place on his boat, and I don’t need to remind you, there was an attempted murder as well. Until I receive information to the contrary, I’m holding Spencer.”

“And maybe it’s just as well that you do,” I said. “But surely you haven’t closed your mind to other possibilities, such as someone else killing Henry and then stealing Spencer’s boat.”

“Got anything to offer on that score, Mrs. F? Any ideas who that other person might be?”

“Not at the moment. Frankly, Mort, I’m surprised that you’re holding Spencer on so little evidence.”

“Maybe you don’t know how much evidence I have,” he said.

“I’m sure I don’t,” I replied. “Care to share it with me?”

“I don’t mind,” he said, leaning his elbows on the desk and lowering his voice. “I’ve got an unimpeachable witness who put Spencer with Henry Pettie the night you disappeared. Of course, Spencer denies it, claims he never saw Pettie that night nor had any intention of meeting with him.”

“Who is this unimpeachable witness?”

“Linc Williams, the president of the lobstermen’s association. Got to him first thing this morning, before he cast off. He says Pettie told him that he was on his way to meet with Spencer.”

“You got an early start,” I said, smiling.

“Looking to catch the worm,” he said, sitting back, a satisfied expression on his face. “Not only that, the deputies and I combed the beach and never found that bottle where Spencer said he was drinking. So you see, Mrs. F, I’ve got pretty good reason to view Spencer as the primary suspect—at least till I hear something to change my mind.”

“I appreciate your sharing that information, Mort. I don’t mean to question your investigation. You haven’t wasted any time in interviewing people who might know something. And I know it certainly looks damning. But there’s something that bothers me. I can’t quite put a finger on it yet, but perhaps if I speak with Spencer, it’ll become clearer. May I speak with him? I won’t take long. I can’t see what harm it could do. Please. Just to satisfy my curiosity.”

Mort squinted as though it would help him make a prudent decision. “Sure, Mrs. F,” he said. “Maybe you can squeeze out of him who his accomplice was. But I gotta ask you to make it short.”

“I’ll be as quick as I can, and I appreciate your accommodating me.”

“It’s nothing. By the way, that new editor of the
Gazette
, Mrs. Phillips, called here this morning. Wants to run an item in the paper asking whether anybody was down to the beach and maybe saw Spencer there. She said you suggested it.”

“Yes, I did. But she also mentioned the idea of posting a reward for information. I told her to check with you first. I’m glad to see that she did.”

“She never mentioned any reward. I guess her boss, Mrs. Watson, wasn’t so keen on that idea. I told her it was okay by me to ask for information. Won’t amount to anything, and I don’t want to be somebody who’s accused of being against free speech and the First Amendment.” He got up and came around from behind the desk. I noticed he was in his stocking feet.