The Maine Mutiny

by Jessica Fletcher

  The flames on the bow began to crackle, the smoke choking me, and I hurried aft to push Henry Pettie, tied to his blue vinyl mattress, into the sea. I lifted the life preserver over my head and squeezed my shoulders through the round hole, grabbed Spencer’s overalls, and stepped off the rail, following Pettie on his floating bier.

  The ocean was icy. I don’t know why I had expected it to be otherwise. The life ring kept my head and shoulders dry, but the rest of my body was stung by the frigid water. For a minute I thought I might not be able to move. Then practical considerations goaded me into action. Pushing Henry ahead of me, holding on to the rope around his body, I kicked my legs to get away from the burning boat and the cloud of smoke it created. When it sank, the Done For might create a whirlpool, the suction taking anything in its vicinity to the bottom, along with the ship. I swam a safe distance away and turned to watch. The blaze I’d hoped would be a distress signal was going out. There hadn’t been enough gasoline to ignite a conflagration. The flames had managed to consume the “volatile accelerant,” as arson investigators would call it, and perhaps a bit of the paint and varnish had burned, but the boards never caught; the fire was dying. It didn’t matter anymore. The Done For was listing seriously, the port side completely under. The seawater would soon douse the rest of the flames.

  I almost didn’t notice when it disappeared from view. It was surprisingly quiet, the death of the Done For. There was a soft gurgling noise and the sound of bubbles as the remaining pockets of space were submerged. The boat tilted till its starboard side was the only part visible, like a breaching whale exposing its flank to the sky. Then it slid slowly downward and was gone.

  With the last sigh of the lobster boat lingering in the air, the enormity of my dilemma came pounding home. All alone, except for my dead companion. How many days could I survive in the water? For that matter, how many hours? The sun was warm overhead, but I had no illusions it would remain that way. Unlike the seaplane, the bank of clouds I’d seen when I awakened that morning was moving toward me, not away. What would I do if it rained? If the seas became rougher and I couldn’t even see above the swells?

  I treaded water, more to get my circulation flowing to warm my feet and legs than to keep myself afloat. The life preserver would do that. But the cold penetrated through to the bone. My legs felt heavy and slow, my movements clumsy. I considered trying to wrap myself in Spencer’s slicker, but I was fearful of losing my grip and having it go under or float away. I needed it, not to keep the crackers and juice dry, but to use it as a banner. Its bright yellow color spread out on the surface would help attract attention should the plane come back. Please let the plane come back.

  I felt something slither past my legs and leaned over the side of the life preserver to peer down into the water. A school of little silver fish flitted by. There must have been hundreds—no, thousands of them. They moved in unison, yet so quickly I was surprised they didn’t bump into each other. How did they know how far to go, which way to turn? How did they communicate instructions for their synchronized movement? Perhaps the currents influenced them, or the temperature of the water. Or maybe they were being chased by larger fish, ready to scoop them up should they move in the wrong direction.

  A chill crept up my spine. The little fish knew how to escape. But I did not. One moment they were sparkling below the surface, and in the next they’d vanished. They were gone. But something else was there. I looked over my shoulder and froze. Not twenty feet away was a sharp gray fin poking out of the water. Behind it another one pushed up out of the water, and behind that, a third. And all three were steaming toward me.

  Up until that moment I’d been fairly successful in keeping my wits about me. I’d managed not only to arrange for me to stay afloat; I’d brought Henry Pettie’s body with me. But the sight of those dorsal fins heading in my direction wiped away any semblance of rational thought.

  Those fins represented every swimmer’s worst fear—sharks!

  I forced my mind into gear, and tried to remember what I’d seen about sharks on TV, on National Geographic and Learning Channel specials, and what I’d read about these fierce predators in books and magazines. I came up blank. What do you do when confronted by a shark? Do you splash the water to scare them away, or do you remain still in the water, pretending to be an inanimate object? Sharks were drawn to blood, I knew. I didn’t enter the water with any cuts that would produce blood, but there was Pettie. He had blood on his cheek, and perhaps a wound had produced blood on his scalp. I hadn’t bothered to check that, although it really didn’t make any difference at that juncture. It was too late to do anything about it.

  I decided that holding perfectly still and making myself as small as possible made the most sense. I tried pulling my knees up toward the surface, but the cold had made my legs so numb they wouldn’t bend. So I hung from the life preserver, immobile. For a second I thought my actions had been effective. The three fins swerved away from me and began to circle, rather than continue on their course toward me. But after completing a few circles, one of them broke away from the others and bore down on me.

  I couldn’t help myself; I started kicking, and added my voice to what I hoped would be a deterrent, yelling, “Get away! Get away!”

  My attacker reached me, the fin only eight or ten feet away; then the head bumped into my thigh. I closed my eyes against what I was certain would come next, the clamping down on my leg of a large mouth full of sharp teeth. It was over! My life was over!

  Except that after bumping me, the huge fish’s body slid along my leg. It felt like sandpaper, and the contact was much shorter than I would have thought a good-sized shark would feel like, given the size of that fin. I opened my eyes and dared to look at my “attacker.” The fin was enormous and was attached to an even larger head, but there was barely any body to speak of.

  The creature swam away, joining the others a dozen yards in the distance. It hadn’t attacked me, hadn’t bitten down. It swam closer again, but I didn’t panic this time. As it neared, it angled its body up toward the surface, looking like a huge oval platter floating in the water. A dark eye stared into mine. I stared back, mesmerized, my heart pounding in my chest. For a moment I felt a connection with this odd denizen of the sea. I was the intruder here, the one in the wrong place, the fish out of water, I thought ironically. The creature rolled over and slowly swam back to its companions. The three fins made another circle of me and Henry Pettie, then left.

  I let out a whoosh of relief and watched the fins grow smaller before disappearing. They hadn’t been sharks. A vision of the gigantic ocean sunfish mounted on the wall at Nudd’s Bait & Tackle came into my consciousness. That was what they must have been, Ocean sunfish, whose fins are virtually indistinguishable from those of a shark.

  I took deep breaths in an attempt to slow my racing heart, and force me to think clearly once again. Once I’d succeeded, I took renewed stock of my situation. That the fins turned out not to be attached to a killer shark didn’t mean sharks weren’t in the area. That realization, coupled with my obvious helplessness to do anything, struck a stake of abject dejection into me, and I thought I might begin to cry. It was at that low moment that a sound reached my ears; the drone of an engine, an airplane engine.

  I’d come to recognize the sound of a plane’s engine when I’d taken flying lessons from Jed Richardson. He was a former airline pilot who’d settled in Cabot Cove and operated Jed’s Flying Service, giving lessons and ferrying people to larger airports. That I’d earned a private pilot’s license but didn’t possess a driver’s license struck many as strange, even amusing. But I’d loved the experience of piloting an aircraft, and those comments meant nothing to me.

  I swiveled my head in search of the sound’s origin. There it was, off to my right, and heading in my direction. But it was high in the sky. Would he see me? Now’s the time, I told myself. I spread out Spencer’s slicker on the surface of the water on one side of me. I hoped it would serve as a yellow
bull’s-eye to draw the pilot’s attention. I put the bib overalls I’d made into a float on my other side, hoping to widen the visual target. Henry Pettie, tied to the dark blue cushion, would be less easy to spot from the air. Nevertheless, together with the white wooden box and the red gas can, which were floating about ten yards away, they added to the flotsam in the water. Who knew what might catch the eye of the pilot first?

  As the plane got closer, I saw that it was an amphibious floatplane—Jed Richardson’s red-and-white, high-wing floatplane. He’d recently added it to his fleet of small planes. Unlike a basic floatplane that can land only on water, Jed’s amphibious model had, besides floats, retractable wheels, which allowed him to operate from land or water.

  I reached as high as I could and waved and yelled, even though I knew the pilot would never hear me above the growl of the engine. I kept my arms moving as the plane flew over me and continued on, the echo of the motor fading in the distance. Oh, no. He didn’t see me.

  I don’t think I’ve ever been more despondent in my life as I was at that moment. I crossed my arms on the life preserver and bowed my head, praying for strength. I always knew I would die; I never expected it to be this way, cold, alone, without the comforting touch of those who care for me. But just as I was at my lowest, the motor grew louder again. I looked up. Jed was flying lower this time, and coming straight toward me.

  The plane flew overhead—Jed wagging his wings from side to side to indicate he’d spotted me—and made a tight turn. I knew what he was doing. He had to make two decisions: One involved the direction of the wind. He would want to land into it, not have it at his tail. The second had to do with the condition of the sea. Landing on a choppy surface was dangerous, perhaps too dangerous for him to attempt it. That possibility didn’t dampen my spirits. If he couldn’t land, he would radio his position to the coast guard, and they would dispatch a boat to save me. It would take a little longer, but I didn’t care.

  I felt the breeze against the left side of my face, and watched Jed line up to come in from the opposite direction. There was a distinct chop to the water, and I hoped he wouldn’t take an unnecessary risk on my behalf. I doubted he would. Jed was too professional a pilot, with thousands of airline hours behind him, to make an imprudent decision.

  He brought his plane down to only a few feet above the water, the nose slightly elevated, and touched down, the rear portion of his floats making contact first, the forward portion immediately following. The plane bobbed up and down in the water as he taxied to within a few feet of me.

  “Jessica,” he called out through his open window.

  I waved, a broad smile on my face.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes, Jed, I’m fine now.”

  He slowly, carefully maneuvered the aircraft until one of the floats was within reaching distance of me. I extended my hand and grabbed hold of it, just as the first drops of rain began hitting the water.

  “Who’s that?” Jed yelled, referring to Henry Pettie.

  “He’s . . . It doesn’t matter,” I said. “He’s dead.”

  “Gorry!” he said, using a popular Maine expression of surprise and shock. “Here’s what we do,” he said, and proceeded to instruct me on how he would get me out of my predicament.

  It took Jed a half hour to securely tie Pettie to the top of one of the floats, and for me to haul myself up onto the other, with Jed’s strong hands helping me. He pulled me into the cockpit, where I slumped into the right-hand seat. We were both soaked to the skin, me from my sojourn in the sea, he from the pelting rain.

  Until that moment I’d concentrated all my efforts on following Jed’s instructions, and was surprised at the strength I was able to muster. But once I was safely inside the cockpit, that strength and energy drained from me as though someone had opened a valve.

  “You okay?” he asked, as he wrapped a silver rescue blanket around me. The space-age material, developed for NASA, would keep my body heat inside and help to warm me faster.

  “Yes,” I managed. “I think so.”

  I looked down through my window at Pettie’s body strapped to the float.

  “Do you think that’ll work?” I asked.

  “Ayuh,” Jed said. “Should work fine. It’ll put some weight on that side, but nothing I can’t manage. Buckle up, Jessica. You’ll be back on solid ground before you know it.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jed landed the seaplane in Cabot Cove Harbor and taxied toward shore. The sun was out; the storm hadn’t reached the coast. I looked out the window and was shocked by the view. The marina was empty. Not a single vessel was anchored in the water; nor were any tied up at the piers.

  “Where are all the boats?” I asked. “What’s happened?”

  “They’re all out looking for you,” Jed said, laughing. “The lobstermen’s association organized the search. But I got the prize. And there’s your reception committee.”

  While the water was deserted, the dock was not. There were a hundred people or more, all standing and waving to the plane as Jed maneuvered closer to the pier. It looked a little like the crowd we get on Main Street for the Fourth of July parade, but instead of applauding the colorful red-white-and-blue floats, here they were saluting our arrival, cheering and clapping. Practically every emergency vehicle owned by the town was in the parking lot. I could see Mort’s squad cars, their red lights circling, an ambulance, a fire engine, a hook and ladder, the EMT truck, and a couple of motorcycles. The only piece missing was the paddy wagon.

  “Good heavens, how did they know we’d be coming in?”

  “I radioed the coast guard when I spotted you. Word must’ve gotten passed along.”

  “How did you even know I was missing?”

  “You may not be aware of it, Jessica, but there’s lot of people in this town looking out for your best interests. Let’s get you ashore. The sheriff can answer your questions.”

  Jed cut the power and allowed the plane to approach the dock under its own momentum, a tricky maneuver. Cut power too soon and you don’t reach the dock. Cut it too late and you risk ending up with twisted metal and splintered wood. But Jed’s timing was perfect, and we gently nudged up against the dock, where men tossed out two lines with which to tie the plane securely. Jed opened my door and helped me out into the waiting arms of Seth and Mort. A cheer went up from the crowd.

  “You all right, Mrs. F?” Mort asked.

  “No sense askin’ her if she’s all right,” Seth said. “She’s probably suffering from hypothermia. Won’t know her right hand from her left till we get her warmed up.”

  “I’m fine; really I am,” I said.

  “She looks pretty good to me,” Mort said.

  “What do you know? You’re a policeman, not a doctor. I want her in the hospital pronto.”

  Seth had had a wheelchair brought to the dock and insisted I sit in it. I was too tired to argue.

  “What’s that?” Mort asked, pointing to Henry Pettie’s body tied to the float. In the commotion surrounding my arrival, the bundle strapped to the pontoon had gone unnoticed. Jed had covered the body with a tarp; what was beneath it could have been anything.

  “Another passenger,” I said. “Jed can tell you about him.”

  “I’ll take care of it, Mrs. F. And I’ll come see you as soon as we clear out this crowd. We’re all happy you’re back.”

  “So am I. Thank you so much.”

  As Seth pushed the wheelchair up the dock, wellwishers pressed in to greet me.

  Matilda Watson patted my shoulder. “Oh, Jessica, thank goodness we found you.” There were tears in her eyes. She surveyed the gathered crowd. “Where is Evelyn with the camera?”

  I looked around. It seemed everyone I knew in town had heard I’d been found and came out to greet me. Familiar faces surrounded me. Mara was there, and Charlene Sassi from the bakery. Loretta Spiegel and Mort’s wife, Maureen. All the Friends of the Library, and David and Jim from Charles Department Store.
Elsie Fricket in her plastic collar. And Gwen Anissina with the young ladies in the pageant, among many others.

  “Nice to have you back, Jessica.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Fletcher, thank God you’re all right.”

  “Three cheers for Jessica Fletcher. Hip, hip, hooray. Hip, hip, hooray.”

  “All right, folks, let’s break it up,” Seth called out. “She’s safe. Make room, please. We need room to get this chair through.”

  Mort’s deputy Harold stationed himself in front of the wheelchair and waved his arms to encourage people to move aside. Our progress was protracted, but eventually we reached the parking lot, where Seth assisted me into the ambulance.

  “You know, this really isn’t necessary,” I said.

  “Now don’t be your usual stubborn, hardheaded self. Humor me, Jess. I’ll feel a lot better once you’re in the emergency room and the staff can examine you. You’ve been through an ordeal, whether you acknowledge it or not. I want them to give you a clean bill of health before we let you go.”

  “All right, but I’m telling you, the best place for me right now is in my own house, in my own bed.”

  “Later, if everything checks out, I’ll drive you home personally.”

  “I’ll hold you to it.”

  After examinations, blood work, X-rays, and a CAT scan of my head that revealed only a minor concussion, I was discharged. The hours lying on an uncomfortable hospital bed did more to discomfort me than the time I’d spent dangling in the icy water, fending off giant fish and the danger of despair. After being given painkillers to take with me in the event I needed them at home that night, Seth pushed me in my wheelchair to the main lobby. “You sit tight,” he said, “while I get the car.”

  He’d no sooner exited the hospital when Mort Metzger came through another set of doors, accompanied by two men in suits. “Mrs. F,” Mort said. “Glad we caught you before you left.”