The Maine Mutiny (11 page)

“If he can get away with it, he will. That’s human nature. But we have ways of finding out what other dealers are payin’.”

“I can find out on the Internet,” Evan put in.

“They can’t hide it from us anymore,” Levi said, ignoring the interruption. “And if we see he’s living off what he steals from us, I can make the case to change dealers or start up a co-op.”

“It won’t be that hard, Pop. I know I can find it on the Internet,” Evan said. “I’ll get everything we need to start a co-op.”

“You’re talkin’ a lot of work, son. It’s not as simple as all of us deciding to sell the bugs on our own. We need a manager, someone with the right connections in the market. Someone with the experience of a dealer, but working for us instead of himself. And somebody who doesn’t gain anything unless we all gain.”

Levi and Evan dropped the topic while they filled two more bins, four altogether, and part of a fifth—over four hundred pounds of lobster for the day—and took the totes to be weighed. Pettie’s assistants gave Levi a chit and dropped the buoyant bins into an area of the water that was cordoned off by floating booms. On shore, three large trucks waited to take their live cargo to market, and a gaggle of tourists surrounded one of the drivers, trying to bargain for some lobsters to take home.

I followed Levi into the shack, where Henry Pettie leaned back in an office chair, resting his cowboy boots on a scarred table, and argued with someone on the other end of the telephone. The room was large and mostly bare. In addition to his office furniture, Pettie’s shack contained three stacks of lobster traps in one corner and boxes of what looked like replacement parts for them. Alex Paynter’s sternman, Maynard, was sifting through the boxes, looking for something.

“We’ll be there by six. That’s what I promised and that’s what I’ll deliver. They’re coming in right now. I can’t make the boats go faster. Don’t tell me what I’ve got in the lobster pound. That’s not for you anyway. You’ll get when I said you’ll get and not a minute earlier.” He dropped his feet to the floor and raised his index finger at Levi to indicate he knew he was there. “Sam, if I put you at the top of the list, I got to charge you more. My men are suffering down here because no one wants to pay more, you understand. That’s what I thought. Don’t you worry. I’ll take care of you.”

He hung up the phone and pulled his checkbook toward him, reaching a hand out to take Levi’s receipt. “It’s tough this year,” he said, selecting a pen from a mug filled with them. “No one wants to pay more than last year even though the hauls are smaller. I know the men are angry. But what can I do?”

He sounded as if he were talking to himself, not us. But Levi was listening and wasn’t happy with what he was hearing.

“Last year we were swimming in lobsters,” Levi said. “When they’re plentiful, I expect I’m not goin’ get much per pound, but I’ll make it up in volume. But this year they’re scarce and you’re paying the same price. It don’t fly with me. I want to know why.”

Pettie tore the check from his checkbook and waved it around as if to dry the ink, although he’d used a ballpoint pen to write it. “You heard what I told Sam. No one wants to pay more than they paid last year. That’s the market. When Boston pays less, we all get it in the neck.” He opened his desk drawer and took a piece of paper from a pad, scribbled something on it, and gave it to Levi along with his check.

“I don’t want you mad at me, Carver,” Pettie said. “You’re one of my highliners. No better fisherman around, not even down the coast. I rely on you guys, but I can’t control the market. You know that. Give that note to Nudd. He’ll give you a discount on the bait for tomorrow. It’s not much, I know, but it’s the best I can do right now. Things’ll turn around soon, I’m sure.”

Levi glanced at the amount of the check, stuffed the papers in his shirt pocket, turned, and left without saying another word to Pettie.

The broker shrugged at me. “He’ll get over it,” he said. “I’m the only game in town.” He pulled a small black notebook from his hip pocket and made notations in it. Then he picked up the phone and dialed a number.

I followed Levi back to the dock. Evan had moved the boat to where the gasoline pumps were located and was filling the tanks.

“That man’s cheating us. I just know it,” Levi said.

“He told me you’ll get over it,” I said, “because he’s the only game in town.”

“He said that?” Levi looked back toward the shack, his mouth in a tight line. “Not for long, he ain’t. Not for long.”

“How’s the coffee, Mrs. F?”

“Just fine, Mort. Do you like the doughnuts?”

“What cop doesn’t like doughnuts?”

I had stopped at Charlene Sassi’s bakery on the way to see Cabot Cove’s sheriff and my friend, Mort Metzger. Charlene had just taken a tray of plain doughnuts out of the oven and iced them with her special recipe for vanilla glaze. I’d bought half a dozen, and while she boxed them up I perused notices taped to her front window. Next to a plea for help finding a missing cat and an announcement of yoga classes forming at the hospital was a photo of Katherine Corr, the young lady Sassi’s Bakery was sponsoring in the Lobsterfest pageant.

“Is that Jim Corr’s daughter?” I asked. Jim was the high school choirmaster.

“That’s her,” Charlene said, handing me the box tied up with several strands of string.

“They grow up so fast. I think I had her in one of my classes, years back. Tiny girl with an elfin face. Very bright and very shy.”

“She’s not so shy anymore. All grown up and gorgeous now. Wait till you get a load of her.”

“I’m planning to stop by the pageant rehearsals this afternoon,” I said. “I’ll look forward to seeing her again.”

Mort had a weakness for Charlene’s doughnuts, and I allowed myself one while we shared the latest news over a cup of his jailhouse coffee. Mort had worked in New York City before coming up to Cabot Cove to take over as sheriff after Amos Tucker retired. He was a bit of a coffee snob, claiming our local brew was not up to his standards, and sending to the city for special blends from a secret source he wouldn’t reveal. I suspected his secret source had moved closer to home when a Starbucks opened out near the new mall. But Mort wasn’t saying and I wasn’t pressing. The coffee was good and the company even better.

“Heard you went out with Levi Carver and his son. How did that go?”

“Who told you about that?”

“I met the doc in the emergency room yesterday. Said you were writing a piece for the
Gazette
.”

“What were you doing in the ER?”

“We had a fender bender over by the high school.”

“Any serious injuries?”

“Nah. One of his patients. She already had a bandage on her head. I figure it may have distracted her while she was driving. The other guy was fine.”

“Oh, dear. That must have been the lady who stepped on a hoe.”

“That sounds right.”

“She’s not having a good week. Was she okay?”

“I think so. Maybe a little whiplash, but that’s all. So how’d the lobstering go?”

“Pretty well, I thought. We brought in over four hundred pounds,” I said. “Will you listen to me? ‘
We
brought in.’
They
brought in over four hundred pounds. I just watched.”

“Did you take notes?”

“No. I’m relying on my memory. There’s just no way to write on a rocking boat. I knew if I tried, the salt spray would smear the ink and curl the pages, assuming I could even read my handwriting once I’d gotten home. I typed up a first draft last night, but I was too tired to work on it in earnest.”

“Think you’ll remember everything you need?”

“Enough to finish the article, I’m sure. And Levi isn’t moving away, so if I have any questions, I can call him up and ask.”

“Tough business, lobstering,” Mort said, reaching into the box for his third doughnut. “Those guys work long hours for not a lot.”

“Maureen is not going to be happy with me if you finish that whole box,” I said. Maureen, Mort’s second wife, was always putting him on a diet. “Why don’t you save some for tomorrow?”

“The deputies will finish whatever I don’t eat right now. Are you sure you don’t want another?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “One’s my limit.”

“I’ve been thinking about joining a gym or taking an exercise class,” Mort said, licking the sugar off his fingers and wiping them on a napkin. He closed the box, carried it across the room, and put it on the top of a file cabinet. “Out of reach, out of mind,” he said. “For now anyway.”

“Where are your shoes?” I asked, noticing he was in socks.

“Under the desk. They’re new. Don’t want to scuff them up.”

“If you’re interested in exercise, they’re starting yoga classes at the hospital,” I said. “I just saw the flyer hanging up in Sassi’s.”

“Can you see me standing on one foot and humming?”

“I’m sure there’s more to it than that.”

“Maybe, but I want something more active, like weight lifting.”

“I like to jog myself. I’ve gotten out of the habit with all the traveling I’ve done recently. But yesterday convinced me to start again.”

“Yesterday? What happened?”

“Nothing, really. I spent the day sitting on a stool and holding on to keep from falling off. But even with a long bath last night, I woke up pretty sore today. It’s too easy to get out of shape and hard to get back into it. Those men did all the work, and I got the charley horse.”

“Maybe
you
should look into the yoga classes.”

“Maybe I should,” I said, thinking that wasn’t a bad idea. “But tell me, what’s new? Any more cases of rotten bait being spilled on a boat?”

“You’re talking about the
Done For.
I know who did it, but Durkee won’t press charges.”

“Brady Holland and his friends, I’m guessing.”

“How did you—”

“I was at the lobstermen’s association meeting the other night. They’re still giving Spencer a hard time.”

Mort shook his head. “It took me two days of investigation to track down that information. I should just have waited and asked you.”

The phone rang and Mort picked it up. “Sheriff’s office. Metzger here.” There was a long silence. I started to rise, thinking it was time to get over to the high school gym, where the pageant rehearsals were scheduled to start in another half hour, but Mort waved me back into my seat. “Where are you now?” he said. He picked up a pencil and hunted for a clean sheet of paper on his desk, which was covered with stacks of folders and forms left from the change of shift. He finally settled on writing in the margins of the morning newspaper. “And where is he? Okay, we’ll be right over. Stay where you are.”

He hung up, pushed his feet into his shoes, and plucked his cap from the coatrack behind his desk. “Coming, Mrs. F?” he said.

“Where are we going?”

“Down to the harbor. There’s been another incident.”

“What happened?”

“Someone chopped a hole in Ike Bower’s boat.”

Mort paused on his way out of the office to cast a final look at the doughnuts on top of the file cabinet. For a moment I thought he was going to grab one for the road. He exercised admirable restraint and led me out of the building to his patrol car with SHERIFF emblazoned on its sides. We climbed in and headed in the direction of the docks.

“Care to fill me in on who called?” I asked. “Was it Ike?”

“No, Mrs. F. It was Evelyn Phillips from the
Gazette
.”

“Oh? She said someone made a hole in Ike’s boat?”

“ ‘Chopped’ is the word she used.”

“How terrible.”

“If it’s true. Remains to be seen.”

He was right, of course. Our sheriff was not a man who jumped to conclusions. When it came to crime in Cabot Cove, Mort functioned under the old Missouri adage of “Show me!”

The trip to the waterfront usually took only minutes from Mort’s office, but a knot of tourists blocked our way at the entrance to the parking area that abutted the docks. The visitors to Cabot Cove were gawking at a sight that was familiar to residents—my friend Tobé Wilson, who with her husband, Jack, ran the leading veterinarian practice in town, was walking her pet pig, Kiwi. When she wasn’t managing their office, Tobé occasionally exercised one or other member of the Wilsons’ sizable menagerie with a stroll downtown, to the amusement of onlookers. Tobé is petite, not quite five feet tall, and the pig is enormous. The combination of mistress and swine always attracts attention.

Mort gently tapped his horn, and the crowd parted to allow us to pass. He pulled into an empty space near Nudd’s Bait & Tackle, not far from where Ike Bower’s lobster boat was tethered to the dock. We exited the car. Ike, who was on board, saw us approach but turned away, tugging down on the bill of his cap to mask his eyes from us.

“I don’t see Evelyn,” I said.

“Probably around somewhere,” Mort said. “We’ll catch up with her later.”

“Hello, Ike,” Mort yelled.

Ike tossed us an indifferent wave and returned to what he was doing.

“Mind if we come aboard?” Mort asked, not waiting for an answer and jumping down onto the deck. He winced, then took my hand and helped me join him. In a shirtwaist, stockings, and pumps, I wasn’t exactly attired for boating. Bower, in stained, frayed tan coveralls and rubber boots, was dressed more appropriately for his task. He was in the process of rigging up a small table saw. Other carpentry tools were spread at his feet.

“Heard you had a little problem,” Mort said.

“Nope,” Ike said, not looking at us. “No problem.”

“That’s good to hear,” Mort said, casually examining the boat’s hull from deckside. “Somebody called, said you’d sprung a leak.”

“Happens with boats all the time.”

“Well, this was maybe not expected?”

“Had a little accident, is all,” Ike said as he plugged in the saw to a long orange cord that snaked across the boards from where he’d connected it to a power source on the dock. He switched on the tool and its loud drone filled the relative quiet of the harbor at that hour, the other fishermen long gone.