The Maine Mutiny (26 page)

“Yes,” I said, turning the blue bottle around. “I didn’t know Levi made wine.”

“He doesn’t. We get a couple of these as a gift every year. Levi isn’t crazy about the stuff, but he doesn’t want to be rude, so he gives it away to someone who might like it.” She giggled. “Don’t tell.”

“Who makes the wine?”

“Ike Bower, Sandy’s husband. You met her the other day.”

“Yes, of course. The lady with all the blueberries. Her husband makes wine from them and gives it away?”

“Everyone I know has at least one bottle in their pantry. You should have one, too. Take this home and try it. You might like it. Lots of people do.”

“You wouldn’t mind?”

“No, I’ve got another bottle, although I thought I had more. Levi must have found another taker.”

Mary wrapped up the bottle in a newspaper and put it in a shopping bag for me.

As I was leaving, I asked, “Where is Levi today? Is he out fishing?”

“All the lobstermen are checking the stock at the pound for tomorrow.”

“Will he be home later? I’d like to talk to him.”

“Actually, he probably won’t be home till late. There’s a meeting of the executive committee of the lobstermen’s association tonight. You want me to tell him you’re looking for him?”

“That’s not necessary,” I said. “I can catch him another time. Thanks for the wine, Mary. I can’t wait to taste it.”

I stepped outside and was hit in the face by a wet gust of wind. The rain was coming down even harder, if that were possible. I stepped back into Mary’s kitchen.

“I think I need a taxi,” I said.

“You want me to drive you?”

“Absolutely not. You’ve got enough to do today.”

“I’ll call the cab company,” she said, taking the receiver from a wall phone.

A few minutes later, the cab, driven by an elderly man who’d been working for Cabot Cove’s largest and busiest taxi company for years, arrived. I ran to it, pulled open the rear door, and tumbled in. “My goodness,” I said, “it’s a downpour.”

“Not fit for man nor beast,” he said with a scowl.

I pulled the gold earring from my blouse’s breast pocket, and a wave of despair swept over me, as the rain had done. That small, gold disk, with its initials on the surface, had the potential, I knew, to cause a great deal of pain to certain people in my beloved Cabot Cove, and possibly place a damper on the lobster festival that no rain could ever equal.

That I was the one who might be the instigator of this bad news did not sit well with me.

I called Seth from home, and asked if he’d like to bring more flowers to the hospital. He had said my kitchen resembled a funeral parlor, and while I was thankful for the thoughtfulness of so many friends, it was not a look I was eager to preserve. Seth had just seen his last patient of the morning, and agreed to drive over and pick up some of the bouquets. I placed baskets of blooms in my bedroom and living room, put Mary’s roses on the kitchen table, and even pulled a few blossoms to go in a small bud vase to brighten the bath. That was more than sufficient. Knowing the excess would cheer up the day for patients and nurses alike was a pleasing contemplation.

“You feelin’ better, my friend?” Seth asked, while we selected the arrangements he would take with him.

“Yes, much.”

“Stayin’ home this afternoon?”

“I, ah . . . I’m not sure. I thought I might treat myself to lunch at Mara’s.”

“Well, that’s all right, but don’t go getting cocky just because you’re feeling better. Takes a long time to get over what you went through.”

Dodging raindrops, I helped him load the flowers in his car. Afterward, over a quick cup of tea, I quizzed him on a question that had been bothering me.

“I keep thinking about the murder,” I said.

“I imagine that will be on your mind for a while.”

“No, not from an emotional point of view—although I can’t deny the lingering effects of the shock—but from a practical one.”

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t examine the body as carefully as I might have.”

“For heaven’s sake, Jessica, you were abandoned at sea on a sinking ship. You can’t fault yourself for not conducting an autopsy.”

“I know that, but hear me out. From what I did see, I don’t believe Henry Pettie knew what hit him,” I said.

“Why do you say that?”

“There were no defensive marks on his hands or arms.”

“Well, if you don’t see what’s coming, there wouldn’t be.”

“Exactly. The strike came from behind, and there was only one. Can a single blow to the head be fatal?”

“Ayuh. Blunt-force injury to the back of the skull is more likely to be fatal than one to the front. That’s why you’re such a lucky lady. That bump you sustained was toward the side.”

“I must have turned my head slightly. It’s hard to sneak up on a person. I was certainly aware of someone behind me just before I got hit, even though I didn’t have time to defend myself.”

“That movement of your head may have saved your life. Gave you a painful egg but did relatively little damage to the braincase, a mild concussion, but that will heal—if you rest and let it.”

“I’ll remember that,” I said.

“Be sure you do.” He glanced at his watch, rose from the table, carried our cups to the sink, and rinsed them out. “Come along and I’ll drop you at Mara’s,” he said. “Got a meeting at the hospital, and I want to deliver those flowers first.”

I grabbed my raincoat, still damp from the morning’s deluge, and opened the front door. The sight that greeted us was a surprise. As though someone had flipped a giant switch, the drenching rain of the past hours had suddenly ceased, and shafts of sunlight played off the glistening grass and wet, shiny road. We stepped outside with buoyed spirits. As I stood on my front step, I was able to see a lovely rainbow that arched from a massive cloud down to the eastern horizon.

“What a positive omen for the lobster festival,” I said.

“Ayuh, looks like we may get good weather after all.”

Mara’s was virtually empty when I walked in. The inclement weather had kept people at home, and the change from rain to sunshine had been too sudden to change that in the near term.

“Will you look at that?” Mara said, referring to the sunlight. “The man upstairs is looking out for us.”

“Wonderful, isn’t it?” I said, settling into a booth by a window. “Clam chowder on the menu today?”

“Certainly is. Just made it. Bowl or a cup?”

“A bowl, please.”

I sat back and drew deep breaths. All the tension of the past week seemed to drain from me, and I enjoyed the resulting feeling of well-being. The sound of the door opening caused me to turn. It was Barnaby Longshoot. He stood just inside the entrance and seemed unsure of where to sit. I could see from my vantage point that he still bore the scars of his beating. The area above his right eye was swollen, the eye itself ringed with a greenish-purple hue, turning yellow, a classic black eye. His lips, too, were still puffy from where a fist had connected.

“Hello, Barnaby,” I said, waving. “Join me?”

He hesitated, looking left and right in search of others in the restaurant. I was pleased that he eventually decided to take me up on my offer. He slid into the booth opposite me and managed a painful smile. “I don’t look too good,” he said, his lips barely moving, the pain from talking evident in his expression.

“Actually,” I said, “you don’t look that bad, considering the beating you took. I feel terrible about it, Barnaby. You waited here after Mara’s closed because I asked to meet with you.”

“Wasn’t your fault, Mrs. Fletcher.”

A few other patrons entered Mara’s, but fortunately took seats apart from us. Barnaby seemed visibly anxious that others had arrived, and I knew any productive time with him would be limited. I leaned across the table and asked, “Are you still willing to talk to me, Barnaby, about what’s been going on?”

He nodded solemnly. “My mother says you’re somebody who can be trusted.”

I hadn’t expected that answer, and paused to digest it before saying, “Thank you, Barnaby. That’s very flattering, and I’ll try to live up to your mother’s faith in me. Do you know who was responsible for dumping rotten bait on Spencer Durkee’s boat?”

Barnaby nodded again.

“Was it Brady Holland?”

Another nod.

“Was he also responsible for the hole in Ike Bower’s boat?”

Another nod.

“And was it Brady who attacked you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Yet you told Sheriff Metzger it was too dark to see your assailant.”

“Didn’t want to tell tales outside the association. Linc, he gets real mad when anybody does that. No airing our dirty laundry, he says. What happens here stays here.” He smiled. “They say that about Las Vegas. I’ve never been there. I’d like to go someday.”

“I’m sure you will,” I said. “But Barnaby, you’re not a member of the association. You’re not a lobsterman. You can tell the truth about what happened.”

His smile turned into a frown.

I leaned even closer as others came into the restaurant. “Barnaby, what do you know about Henry Pettie’s murder?”

“I think I’d best be going,” he said, sliding to the edge of the bench. “I’ve got things to do.”

“Sure you don’t want lunch? My treat.”

“No, thank you, ma’am.”

“Barnaby, I appreciate your talking to me today, and for telling me the truth about Brady Holland.”

“I can do it now.”

“Why? Why can you do it now?”

“He doesn’t live here anymore.”

“Ah.”

“But I’ve got one more thing to say.”

“What’s that?”

“You be careful. There’s bad stuff going on around here.”

I watched him grimace as he stood. He placed the index and middle fingers of his right hand to his brow and gave me what I assumed was a form of salute, navigated tables between him and the door, and left just as Mara delivered my chowder.

“Looks like someone wiped up the floor with him,” Mara said.

“He took quite a beating, that’s for sure,” I said.

“I told him to take off a few days and come back for the festival.”

“That was nice of you.”

I drew in a whiff of the steam coming up from my chowder bowl. “Smells delicious,” I said. “How about some fresh bread?”

“Coming up,” Mara said, leaving me to enjoy my chowder—and contemplate my next move.

I took the earring from my pocket again and rolled it in my fingers. I’d formulated my own theory of what the earring meant to the murder that had taken place, and the question of who had committed the crime. Whether Mort would agree with me was conjecture. But we needed to talk again. I’d make my case and accept where the chips fell.

I went directly from Mara’s to Mort’s office, and from there home, and used my time to put together what was essentially a presentation, not unlike opening and closing statements used by attorneys in criminal court cases. I was fairly confident that I’d pieced together what had happened to Henry Pettie, and the events following his death. But I was also realistic enough to admit that there were holes in the scenario I’d created, questions that still did not have answers, at least those that would stand up in a court of law.

I ate a light dinner from among the selection of casseroles stacked in my freezer, thanks to my neighbors. Seth called as I was having my meal and asked what my plans were for the evening. I hated to lie to him, but I knew that if I were truthful, he’d be upset and try to dissuade me. So I fudged in my answer. Fortunately, he was pressed for time and didn’t question me further. It was better that as few people as possible know of my plans. Mort Metzger was an exception. He needed to know.

The August night had just begun to descend on Cabot Cove as the taxi driver I’d called drove me down to Cabot Cove’s dock area. My ultimate destination was Nudd’s Bait & Tackle where I assumed the lobstermen’s executive committee meeting would be held that evening. But I had the driver drop me off at the opposite end of the dock. I wanted some time in the outdoors before confronting those who would be in attendance. I walked slowly along the dock, the briny sea air clearing my nostrils, and hopefully my mind. The break in the weather had held. It was a lovely, pristine night, warm enough to make a sweater unnecessary, but with low humidity that ensured a minimum of annoying insects. The tourists were out in force, as were townspeople. I stopped to chat with a few friends, and a visiting couple recognized me from photos on my books and asked for an autograph. But my progress toward Nudd’s was only slightly impeded, and I arrived at a quarter of eight to see Alex Paynter coming out the door.

“Good evening,” I said.

He seemed slightly dismayed at my presence.

“Is this where the meeting is taking place?” I asked.

“Thought so,” he replied, “but got it wrong. Tim’s stayin’ open for the visitors. Our meetin’s bein’ held down at Henry Pettie’s dock, I’m told. Just heading there. You plannin’ to stop by?”

“Yes,” I said. “I wanted to thank the association and everyone in it for having launched the search for me.”

He shrugged. “Just glad you come back safe, Mrs. Fletcher. Terrible thing that happened.”

“It certainly was.”

“Want a lift over to Pettie’s dock? My car’s right here.”

“Thank you.”

During the short drive, I asked whether he’d ever gotten the part he needed to fix the engine on his lobster boat.

“No, ma’am. Still waiting for it. Had to order it out of Rhode Island. That’s the problem with old clunkers like mine. Parts aren’t easy to come by.”

Linc Williams was about to close the door at Pettie’s when we pulled up.

“Mrs. Fletcher,” Williams said as I got out of Paynter’s car. “What brings you here?”