The Maine Mutiny (6 page)

I closed my eyes and sighed, enjoying my private concert, only to have a voice intrude on my reverie.

“They meetin’ yet?”

I glanced up to see a sturdy woman about my age with short-cropped gray hair; perched on her nose were half-glasses attached to a gold cord. She wore a flowered green housedress and a loose linen jacket with patch pockets of the same fabric as the dress. A large, heavy-looking tote bag pressed down on one shoulder, making her tilt to the right.

“Yes,” I said. “I believe they’ve just started. You probably haven’t missed much.”

“Oh, they’d never let me in,” she said, grinning. “Guess you’re not a lobsterman, either.”

“No, I’m not,” I said, returning her smile.

“I’ll wait,” she said. “Name’s Evelyn Phillips.” She stuck out her hand.

“Oh, yes, the new editor of the
Gazette
,” I said, taking her hand. “I’m Jessica Fletcher. I’m sorry there’s not another chair.”

“That’s no problem.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a bundle of short black bars tied up with a bungee cord. She released the hooks, snapped the bars together to form a tripod, set a small padded leather disk on top to create a stool, and settled herself on the tiny seat.

“I certainly know your name,” she said, setting the considerably lightened tote bag on the dock. “You’re probably Cabot Cove’s most famous citizen.”

“I don’t know about that,” I said, embarrassed.

“Read one of your mysteries last winter. Liked it a lot.”

“That’s very kind of you to say.”

“Not kind. Just true.”

“Well, welcome to town. I heard you’re originally from Bangor; is that so?”

“Right in one,” she replied. “Guess that makes me a city girl. In any case, like all Matilda Watson’s editors, I’m from away. She must’ve run out of local applicants a long time ago.”

“She does seem to go through editors at a rapid clip,” I agreed. “I hope you break the pattern.”

“Thanks very much. I hope so, too. I have a chance at a longer run, since she’s so wrapped up in the pageant for the festival.”

“Miss Lobsterfest? I hadn’t heard that.”

“Just happened today. I’m hoping it’s because she thinks the paper is in competent hands. Named herself pageant coordinator and is already poking her fingers into all parts of the pie. Gwen Anissina, bless her heart, is so grateful for help, she’ll take it wherever it comes from.”

I shook my head. “It’s hard to believe that Matilda would involve herself with a beauty contest,” I said, thinking of the publisher who was often described as an aggressive, hard-nosed businesswoman.

“It’s a stretch,” Evelyn said. “Must be living vicariously; maybe she wanted to enter a pageant when she was young and never had the chance, although she doesn’t seem the pageant type.”

“My view precisely,” I said.

“By the by, why are you hanging out outside the lobstermen’s association?”

“I believe I’m here for you,” I said.

“For me?” Her eyes twinkled. “Well, that’s news I haven’t heard.”

“Gwen asked me to substitute for her on the day-in-the-life-of-a-lobsterman article. She said you wanted it for the festival edition. I assumed she’d informed you. I hope you don’t mind the switch in authors.”

“Mind? I’m absolutely tickled. And so will our readers be. Not every day they get to read a piece by a celebrity on the pages of the
Gazette
. Not only that, for the first time they’ll get you for free. We’re giving away that issue. Of course, I’m not counting the books of yours they take from the library. They don’t pay for those, either. But still, what a coup for the
Gazette
. Matilda will be ecstatic. Have you told her?”

“No, I haven’t seen her recently,” I said, amused at her enthusiastic response.

“Well, don’t tell her Gwen set it up. I’d like her to think it was my idea. Another feather in my cap. No need to frown. Gwen won’t mind a bit. She’s a great kid. Actually, I’m a little annoyed I didn’t think of it myself. A byline by Jessica Fletcher. That’s terrific. I’d better put your story on the front page.”

“I think you’d better wait till I’ve gotten permission to do the story in the first place. That’s why I’m here.”

“You’ll convince them, I’m sure,” Evelyn said, reaching into her bag and pulling out a skein of yellow yarn and two knitting needles. One held the beginnings of a project, and she settled in to knit, casting on a series of stitches.

“What are you making?” I asked.

She chuckled. “Someone accused me of ‘trafficking in yellow journalism,’ ” she said, tugging on the wool to loosen a strand. “I figured I’d live up to the insult and make myself a yellow scarf, just to thumb my nose at him. I don’t think of the stories in the
Gazette
as being sensational, do you?” She didn’t wait for my reply and added, “I try to be ‘fair and balanced,’ as the fellow says. But you can’t please everybody.”

The sound of angry voices inside Nudd’s drew our attention to the door. I couldn’t make out what was being said, but it was obvious from the shouts that some people weren’t happy with one of the topics on the agenda. I hoped it wasn’t mine.

“I wonder if it was wise to make this request so soon after the article appeared on the troubles Spencer had,” I said, half to myself. “I understand the lobstermen were quite upset.”

“They’ll get over it. Or if they don’t, they’ll want you to put their side in the paper. Everybody wants ‘happy news,’ leastwise when it comes to themselves. They don’t mind if you trash their neighbor. Makes for good reading, in fact. You wouldn’t believe how many letters I get, telling me to check out what so-and-so did. But they don’t have the guts to sign their names. Drives me nuts. I won’t publish anonymous letters. And I wish I could say I won’t follow up on anonymous leads. But it wouldn’t be true. It was a tip that put me on to what happened to Spencer’s boat. Of course, if you were anywhere near the docks, you wouldn’t need anyone pointing it out. That thing did reek.”

“For some reason I missed that story,” I said. “Did the sheriff look into who dumped the rotten bait on Spencer’s deck?”

She shook her head. “Durkee wouldn’t file a complaint. I told Mort Metzger what happened and he asked around. I know that for a fact. But no one was talking. He told me to keep him informed if anything like it happened again, but those guys in there”—she cocked her head toward Nudd’s—“they’ll cover for each other, even if they don’t like what happened. Kind of a force unto themselves. Don’t let them push you around. They can be very demanding about what appears in print.”

“I’m not a journalist,” I said, beginning to wonder what I’d gotten myself into. “I hope you don’t expect investigative reporting.”

“It would be interesting to read your take on the lobstermen’s issues—which, by the way, they refuse to discuss with me.” The click of the knitting needles accompanied Evelyn’s voice. “But this is the festival edition, and Mrs. Watson wants to present a spit-shined Cabot Cove, all cozy and picturesque, the tourists’-eye view of a Maine village.”

“It’s not as if we’re so far from that image,” I said, feeling the need to defend my hometown. “I was planning a nice colorful piece on the lobstermen and what they do for a living. People eat lobsters and never think of where they come from. Oh, they know they’re from Maine, but they have no idea what hard work goes into putting that elegant meal on their plate.”

Evelyn paused in her knitting, tipped her chin down, and peered at me over her half-glasses. “That’s exactly what I had in mind,” she said.

I smiled at her. “I knew you did,” I said. But what I didn’t know was that writing a story on the lobstermen would land me in the same place as their prized catch—in hot water.

The door to Nudd’s was flung open, and Levi stepped outside, shutting it firmly behind him. He started when he caught sight of Evelyn, and his face reddened. Quickly he schooled his features into a bland expression, but he had no control over the flush in his cheeks. “Didn’t know you were bringing the press,” he said to me.

“Well, actually, Levi—” I began.

“Invited myself,” Evelyn interrupted. She looked up at Levi, but her fingers continued to work on the stitches. “Mrs. Fletcher didn’t know I was coming. She’s as much a victim of my stealthy approach as you.”

“I hardly consider myself a victim,” I said. “Besides”—I turned my gaze on Levi—“the reason I’m asking a favor of the lobstermen is so that I can write an article for Mrs. Phillips and the
Gazette
. I hope the association understands that.”

He nodded. “For the festival,” he said. “We know.”

“Well, then, why not invite me in, too?” Evelyn said.

“This is not a public meeting,” he said stiffly.

“I’m aware,” she replied. “But if a controversial decision the lobstermen make is going to affect the whole town, we have a right to know what it is, don’t we?”

Levi cleared his throat. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said. “An article in the paper is not a controversial decision.” He turned to me. “Jessica, we’re ready for you now.”

My eyes darted back and forth between Levi and Evelyn, neither of whom was looking at the other. There was an undercurrent here, another message they were exchanging that I didn’t understand. “It was nice to meet you,” I said as I stood. “I’ll be in touch.”

“I’ll look forward to reading your piece,” she said, returning her focus to the knitting needles.

Levi escorted me inside, indicated a seat in the front row, which I took, and positioned himself by the door, leaning back against the wall.

Nudd’s Bait & Tackle was a barn of a building, although all the activity took place on one floor. Tim Nudd had used the extra airspace to hang mounted fish, huge ones, from the rafters. He even had a small whale arched over one door and a fierce-looking shark on the opposite wall. By far the oddest hanging on display was an ocean sunfish, a behemoth weighing over a ton, and perhaps eleven feet from fin to fin. It was more round than long; in fact, it looked as if it were missing a body and was merely a giant swimming head. It was a sight the locals had long since grown used to, but awe-inspiring to the tourists, especially those under ten.

I leaned back in my seat and turned my attention to the speaker. Apparently one piece of business wasn’t finished, and I was witness to the end of it.

Lincoln Williams was standing at the front of the room, his arm draped over a stack of lobster pots. He held a gavel in his left hand. His face was set in a stern expression. Another man stood slightly ahead of him and nervously played with his car keys, using his thumb to flip the remote door opener off his hand and then swinging it back up to his palm. The movement was almost hypnotic.

“Now, this is allst I can say. I can’t get you a better price unless the market goes that way, but right now, it’s still tight.” The speaker was a small, wiry man. Although the evening was warm enough for a shirt alone, he wore a leather jacket with the sleeves pushed up, revealing tattoos on both forearms. There was a sharp crease in his trousers and a high shine on his intricately patterned cowboy boots. His carefully coiffed wavy hair was more pepper than salt. And a flat gold disk with markings on it glinted from one earlobe. I gauged him to be mid-forties. Some might have considered him good-looking, but there was something in his expression that stopped short of handsome.

“They got twenty-five cents more a pound today over in Boothbay Harbor, Pettie,” said a man in the audience, confirming my suspicion that the guest speaker was Henry Pettie, the broker.

“And Hull’s Cove,” another voice said.

“Boothbay is quite a hike from here,” Pettie said. “And I wouldn’t want to have to hustle to Hull’s Cove and back either. Much easier to stay close to home after such a long day on the water, don’t ya think? See your family, sit down for a nice dinner together, don’t have to break your back to put a few extra pennies in your pocket.”

“Twenty-five cents a pound would put some few pennies in my pocket, thank you. If the other men’re getting more, why aren’t we?”

“You know the prices fluctuate, Ike, some days better than others. Plus, Boothbay, for one, has a much bigger market, bigger distribution system. Cabot Cove is small potatoes by comparison. More costly to get the lobsters to market from here. That’s reflected in your price. But believe me, I’m always working for you, looking for ways to shave my expenses so I can give you more.”

“So you can keep more,” muttered someone in back of me, but I doubt anyone else heard.

“We made a deal in March,” Pettie continued, “and I’m keeping to my end of it. I been good to you guys for years. Right, Carver? Paynter? Not a man here I haven’t helped out. And you owe me. Any man doesn’t trust me, thinks he knows my business better than I do, doesn’t want to work with me, well, he knows where he can go. He can sell his catch somewhere else. I’ll never stop him. But I might not take him back either.” Pettie let that threat sink in a moment. Then he pocketed his keys and straightened. “Now, gentlemen, I’ll let you get back to the business at hand. You take care of the fishing—we’re still a little low for the festival’s needs—and I’ll take care of the market. That way, we’ll both come out on top.”

“Any more questions for Henry?” Linc asked. “There being none, we’ll move along.” He swung his gavel against a woodblock set atop the traps, and it made a satisfying bang.

Henry Pettie nodded at Linc and slipped quietly toward the door. Levi reached out his hand and opened it, closing it softly behind him.

“That should satisfy,” Linc said.

“Only if you swallow that bucket of fish guts.” It was the lobsterman who’d argued with Pettie. “You stand to lose money, too, Linc,” he said, pointing his finger at Williams. “Why are you defending Pettie?”

“I’m not defending him. I simply said, we signed a deal, we keep it. We’re men of our word, aren’t we?”