The Maine Mutiny (28 page)

“What now?” Linc asked.

“The attempt on my life.” I locked eyes with Brady. “Getting rid of a body and evidence is bad enough, Brady,” I said, “but you assaulted me, intending for me to go down to my death along with Henry Pettie’s body. That’s attempted murder, young man.”

Brady started to swear, but Mort said, “Watch your tongue, Holland.”

“I surprised you by coming on board the
Done For
, didn’t I? You panicked, hit me, and took me along to where you intended to scuttle the boat and get rid of the body—and me. And Maynard over there was your accomplice.”

Brady glared at Maynard. “Why, you—”

“I didn’t tell them anything, Brady, I swear.”

Brady started to reply to me but didn’t seem capable of forming the words. Instead, he pointed at Ike Bower. “He was there, too,” he said.

“Were you, Ike?” Mort asked.

“Levi called me first,” Ike said, his voice quavering. “I went to his house and saw what had happened. It turned my stomach, seeing Pettie lying there on the floor, blood oozing out of the back of his head. Levi wanted me to help move the body, but I wouldn’t do it. I told him to call Linc, said Linc would know what to do. So Linc came over and called Brady. That’s all I did, show up. That’s all I did.”

“That, along with concealing evidence, Ike.”

Mort turned to Deputy Jenkins. “Better get another squad car down here. Looks like we’ve got at least five to bring back to headquarters.”

 

Later, after Brady, Linc, Levi, Ike, and Maynard had been taken away in handcuffs, and Alex and Ben had gone off to notify the wives of the prisoners, I stood outside with Mort.

“I feel terrible for Mary,” I said. “She had no idea anything was seriously wrong. She came home that night and found Levi cleaning the kitchen and complaining that the kids were tracking in dirt. She thought he was becoming a disciplinarian, and was confused by his change in behavior.”

“Funny she didn’t question him about it.”

“Yes. She should have.” I looked up at Mort. “I believe Pettie’s death was an accident,” I said.

“Yeah, me, too,” Mort said.

“What will happen to them, do you think?”

“I don’t know. The judge will hear their stories and maybe he’ll let them out on bail.”

“What a shame they concocted an elaborate scheme to cover up an accident. You see it all the time, the cover-up being much worse than the crime itself. If only Levi had picked up the phone and called you instead of Linc Williams.”

“People do strange things when they’re scared, Mrs. F.”

“Yes,” I said, “like trying to kill me, too, as part of the cover-up.”

“Attempted murder. Brady will go away for a long stretch for that. I’m going to argue against bail for him.”

“I can’t say I’m sorry,” I said, wrapping my arms about myself as a sudden chill coursed through my body. Visions of being on Spencer’s boat as it was sinking caused me to close my eyes against the memory. “I think I’d like to go home now,” I said.

“Now, the founder of Rum Row was one Cap’n William S. McCoy.”

Spencer Durkee sat on a folding chair outside Nudd’s Bait & Tackle, a deep-peaked fishing cap shading his eyes from the brilliant sunshine. A gaggle of children surrounded him, some holding their parents’ hands, others dancing in and out of the circle the adults had allowed around the storyteller, more sprawled at his feet. “He was a sharp one, McCoy was. Had this slicked-up boat called the
Tomoka.
British registry it was, and he’d heave to outside the three-mile limit, in international waters.”

Anna Carver sat slouched on the dock and squinted up at the old salt. “Why wasn’t it American?” she asked. “Wasn’t
he
American?”

“ ’Cause the guard—the coast guard to you—could stop U.S.-registered ships outside our waters, but they couldn’t touch the foreign ones.”

“Oh, so he was pretendin’ to be British.”

Spencer smiled. “Kinda. This was back in ’twenty-three, in Prohibition days, you see. McCoy, he was a teetotaler, didn’t touch alcohol hisself, but he knew a lot of people could go for a jug now and then, but the law wouldn’t let ’em.”

“So he brought up rum from the Caribbean,” Anna announced, sitting up.

“Now you let me tell it, missy. You’re too young to remember these things.”

Anna slouched down again and fiddled with her laces. The day was not shaping up as she’d expected. She knew something was wrong at home, but no one had told her what it was. Her parents had been silent at breakfast on this, the most exciting day ever in Cabot Cove. She couldn’t understand it. They’d decided against renting out Ginny’s old room for the festival. Well, at least that meant more for her of those special cookies from Sassi’s Bakery. But she’d trade all them, even those with the chocolate on both ends, for a smile from her father.

“McCoy was no piker,” Spencer said. “He got the best booze from the islands, didn’t water it down like some others I could tell you about, and sold it at a fair price. He was an honest man in a dishonest business. Anyway, Cap’n McCoy got so popular, people started askin’ for his goods by name. They didn’t want just any old booze; they wanted the stuff sold by the cap’n.” He leaned over and mussed Anna’s curly hair. “So, missy, tell the people what they said when they motored out to the
Tomoka
to buy the booty.”

Anna smiled. She straightened her back and sang out, “They said ‘Gimme the real McCoy.’ ”

There was laughter from the crowd, mostly from the parents, but also from children who didn’t really understand what was funny.

“Ayuh, that’s what they said, all right. And that’s where we get that sayin’ ‘the real McCoy.’ It’s ’cause’a the honest rumrunner, Cap’n William S. McCoy. You ask Tim Nudd, inside, if you don’t believe me. He’s got a book on rumrunners off the Maine coast. He might show it to you, if you ask him nice.”

His audience gave Spencer a round of applause. He nodded his acknowledgment and sat back to bask in the admiration of the youngsters who lingered nearby while the crowd dispersed.

“How do, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“It’s nice to see you, Spencer,” I said. “You’re a star attraction down here.”

He cocked his head toward the door. “Old Tim, he hired me to tell my stories, says if I tell a hot supper of a tale, people will come in and look around the store. Guess it’s workin’.”

“Clever marketing on his part,” I said. I leaned down to tap Anna on the shoulder. “How are you, young lady?”

“Okay, I guess. My pop didn’t go on the lobstermen’s float this mornin’. Said he wasn’t feelin’ up to it. Too tired. He walked next to it for a while, though.”

“And you were disappointed,” I said.

“Yeah, but it was the biggest float in the parade, and everybody clapped and yelled for them.”

“The lobstermen deserved all those cheers. They provided the reason for the festival—lobsters. That’s why all these people are here in Cabot Cove.” I looked around. The docks were chockablock with visitors, and so was the downtown, which I’d passed on my way to the harbor. Shoppers were wandering in and out of Cabot Cove’s stores on Main Street, smiles on their faces, their arms filled with packages. The Cabot Cove Lobsterfest was a big success.

“I’m goin’ over to watch the pageant now,” Anna announced. “My friend Emily’s sister, Katherine, is one of the contestants. I don’t know whether to root for her or for Abigail, my brother’s girlfriend.”

“Root for Abigail,” Spencer told her, winking at me.

“Okay,” she said, skipping off.

In light of the honesty and courage demonstrated by a certain young lady, the judges of the Miss Cabot Cove Lobsterfest beauty pageant, among them my good friend Dr. Seth Hazlitt, had rejected the resignation of Abigail Brown the day before, and ruled instead that she could continue as a contestant. Abigail and her parents were ecstatic.
Gazette
publisher Matilda Watson was not certain it was the right decision, but she said she would bow to the collective wisdom of the judging committee.

Judge Ralph Mackin had left his bed to arraign Mort’s prisoners in the middle of the night. Levi Carver and Ike Bower were released on their own recognizance, and told not to leave town. Brady Holland and his sidekick, Maynard, who’d driven Alex Paynter’s boat out to pick Brady up and whose last name turned out to be Young, had been remanded over to the county seat to face changes of attempted murder and conspiracy to murder. Bail was denied, and they remained in jail. The judge came down hard on Lincoln Williams, head of the lobstermen’s association, who, together with Levi and Ike, faced charges of obstruction of justice. Judge Mackin clapped him in a home-detention ankle bracelet, effectively keeping him from participating in the lobster festival, and lectured him on the moral obligations of leadership.

 

Fall arrived in Cabot Cove, and I was firmly ensconced in my house working on a new novel. The fallout from the lobster festival, Henry Pettie’s untimely death, and the attempt on my life had pretty much dissipated, although they were still topics of conversations at Mara’s, in the beauty parlor, and around water coolers in Cabot Cove businesses. I’d managed to put behind me the terror of that night and day at sea on Spencer Durkee’s lobster boat, although an occasional dream about it caused me to awake with a start and wonder for a moment whether I was still on that sinking boat.

I’d just finished a chapter in the book I was writing, and had made myself a celebratory cup of tea in my kitchen, when the phone rang.

“Jessica? It’s Jim Shevlin.”

“Good morning, Mr. Mayor,” I said. “What a nice surprise hearing from you on this lovely autumn day.”

“I debated bothering you, knowing you’re in the midst of another book. But I’m hosting a dinner the night after next for the key people involved in the festival, sort of a postmortem, and hope you’ll join us. I meant to do it sooner, but you know how those things can get away from you. At any rate, I’d really be pleased if you can attend.”

I agreed to come, and two nights later joined a large group in a private room at Finch Tavern, one of the town’s better restaurants. There were more than a dozen people there, including the mayor with a RE-ELECT SHEVLIN button on his lapel, newspaper owner Matilda Watson, her editor, Evelyn Phillips, wearing a long yellow scarf, Jim and David Ranieri of Charles Department Store, Seth Hazlitt, Sheriff Mort Metzger and his wife, and others who’d played a role in organizing the first annual lobster festival. Two of those attending the dinner surprised me with their presence. Gwen Anissina, who I knew had left town after the festival, was there. So was Linc Williams.

“How wonderful to see you,” I told Gwen.

“Same here, Mrs. Fletcher. The mayor called and said he wanted me back to work the festival next year.”

“What are you doing now?” I asked.

“I’ve set up my own consulting firm, promoting festivals, concerts, and other community events. I learned a lot here.”

“Sounds like you’ve taken good advantage of the experience, Gwen. It’ll be great to have you back.”

I looked across the room in which the predinner cocktail hour was taking place, and saw Linc Williams talking with the mayor. Linc noticed me, excused himself from Jim, and came to me.

“Good evening, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said pleasantly.

“How have you been, Linc?” I asked.

“Pretty fair,” he replied. “Pretty fair.”

The legal ramifications of the decisions made by Linc and the others on the night of Henry Pettie’s death were well-known to virtually everyone in town.

“I understand Brady Holland is still in jail awaiting trial,” I said.

“Yes, but they let Maynard post bail. He’s living home with his parents, hasn’t been lobsterin’ since the summah.”

“How are Levi Carver and Ike Bower doing?” I asked. I knew the three men had received probation, and agreed to hundreds of hours of community service, in return for pleading guilty to obstruction and promising to testify at Brady’s and Maynard’s trials.

“They’re fine. We’ve finished painting the community center and cleaned up the grassy area next to the highway leading into town. We start in the school next week. We’re teaching an assembly on the life cycle of the lobster.”

“I’d like to see that myself.”

“I don’t know if you’ve heard, Mrs. Fletcher, but the lobstermen’s association has established its own co-op to sell our catch directly to wholesalers.”

“That sounds like a sensible move,” I said. “I
have
heard what you and your men did for Spencer Durkee.”

Because there was no record of monies owed Henry Pettie—Brady having tossed overboard Pettie’s infamous little black book in which he recorded those IOUs—the men had come up with an alternative way to pay their debts. The association had voted to buy Spencer a new lobster boat. But the old man informed them that, as he put it, “My lobsterin’ days are over.” The lobstermen then shifted gears and used the money to purchase a small used houseboat for Spencer, and to secure a spot on the docks for him to moor the craft, and live in it rent-free for the rest of his life. He named it the
Tomoka.

“Anyway,” Linc said, “I also want to thank you for convincing Ms. Watson to hold the story out of the paper until after the festival. Even though I wasn’t allowed to ride in the parade, having the float and the approval of the crowd meant a lot to the other lobstermen.”

“I’m afraid your thanks are misplaced, Linc,” I said. “Matilda Watson called me to get my input about holding the story, and I told her I thought it was a good idea. But she made the decision, not me. As for the lobstermen’s float, nothing could take away from honoring the men who give so much to our community.”

“Well,” Linc said, “we were grateful.”

He started to walk away, but I called after him, “By the way, Linc, congratulations on being reelected president of the association.”