The Maine Mutiny

by Jessica Fletcher

  I focused on my breathing and tried to relax the tightness in my muscles. Memories and emotions surged through me, each swamping the last like waves on the beach as I tried to analyze why I felt so shaken by this latest scare. Perhaps it was the series of shocks piled one upon the other that had finally overwhelmed my psyche. Finding myself alone at sea, then not quite alone with the discovery of a murder victim. Desperately trying to signal for help and failing. Then struggling to save a corpse when the only security I’d had—Spencer’s boat beneath my feet—began to give way and sink below the surface of the sea. The iciness of the water as I hung helpless, prey to the elements and the potential violence of creatures hunting for their next meal. I’d been lucky, yes, that the terrifying fins that approached me belonged to a gentle species, not a voracious shark. But the contemplation of that possibility alone was sufficient to strike terror into my heart, more than any gun that had ever been aimed at my head. The despair that had seized me when I thought my rescuer was flying away was a feeling I never want to repeat. It was perhaps the only time in my life I’d given up, given in to hopelessness.

  But I was home now, back in the bosom of my community, alive—and safe. Why did this unease, this sense of vulnerability cling to me? Sitting on the stone wall, I traced my feelings back to their source and found the rough surface that would not be smoothed.

  It was the calculated abandonment. That someone who knew me was willing not only to let me die, but to suffer in the process, knowing that the boat would go down and that I would drown far out to sea, where no help could be expected. How chilling that a person could be that cruel. Many murders were the result of passionate emotions—fury, jealousy, lust, obsession, fear. This seemed like such a coldhearted decision. What had motivated my would-be murderer?

  Satisfied that I had pinpointed the cause of my discomfort, and rested enough to complete my walk without falling down, I continued into town and stopped in various stores and shops to deliver the pictures drawn by the schoolchildren. My final stop was Kent Liquors, owned by Gordon Kent. He was opening cartons in the back when I entered, setting off harness bells nailed to the top of the door.

  Gordon looked up and waved. “Good mornin’, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, coming to the counter. “What can I do for you today?”

  “How are you, Gordon? I have a couple of things I need, but first of all I brought you a picture for your window.”

  He held it at arm’s length, admiring it. “This is wicked good. Amazing how talented little kids can be. Gives you hope for the future, don’t it?”

  I agreed.

  “Won’t be hard for them to do better than this generation. Saw the paper this mornin’. Cabot Cove got a black eye yesterday. Don’t know what this is gonna do to attendance at the festival, know what I mean?”

  “You’re thinking about what happened with Henry Pettie and Spencer Durkee. It’s terrible, I agree.” I

  heard the bells over the shop door jingle, indicating that another customer had come in. I turned at the sound, but a series of tall shelves in the middle of the shop kept me from seeing who’d just entered.

  “Can’t believe it of Spencer,” he said. “And I heard about your involvement.”

  “Just a blur,” I said, waving my hand. “Glad it’s over.”

  “You were on Spencer’s boat,” he said.

  I nodded. “But I’d rather not get into that, Gordon.” I leaned across the counter and said in a low voice, “I’d like to ask you a question.”

  “Fire away.”

  “Is Spencer a hard drinker?” I asked softly.

  Gordon drew a deep breath. “Well, wouldn’t be right for me to say,” he said. “Sort of like doctor- patient confidentiality, I suppose.”

  “I ask because . . .” I felt light-headed again and gripped the edge of the counter.

  “You all right, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “Just need to sit for a minute,” I said. He ran to the back and brought a chair for me, onto which I gratefully sank. “Thank you.”

  “Sure. You were saying?”

  I shook my head, trying to collect my thoughts. “I ask about Spencer because I need to know how much he drinks, and what he drinks.”

  “Sure thing. The sheriff was in asking the same questions. You writin’ this up for one of your books?”

  “Not right now,” I replied.

  “Right. Well, I’ll tell you what I told the sheriff. I don’t believe old Spencer killed anybody,” Gordon said.

  “Nor do I,” I said. “I’m trying to help him.”

  “Glad to hear that. Sheriff Metzger’s sometimes a bit hasty to point a finger.”

  I didn’t respond to his comment about Mort. “Gordon,” I said, “Spencer told me he was drinking a special wine the other night. What kind would it have been?”

  “Had to be blueberry wine.”

  “Blueberry?”

  “That’s right. Always blueberry wine. Never knew him to drink anything else.”

  “He told me it had a fancy label, and was in an unusually shaped bottle. Do you carry anything like that?”

  “You talked with him after he was arrested?”

  “Yes.”

  Gordon rubbed his chin and screwed up his face. “Hmm,” he said. “Fancy label and unusual bottle? Doesn’t ring a bell for me. Old Spencer’s favorite wine is Blacksmith’s—at least, when he has the cash. That’s not too often. Otherwise, he buys cheaper stuff.”

  “With fancy labels and unusually shaped bottles?”

  Gordon shook his head. “I’ve seen ’em all, and I wouldn’t describe any of ’em like that. But you can take a look at the blueberry wines I have on the shelf over there. I stock different kinds, mostly for the tourists to take back with ’em. You know—Maine, blueberries—Maine, lobsters, that sort of thing.”

  I walked to the shelf Gordon pointed out. There were only about a half dozen bottles of blueberry wine on it, none that struck me as being unusually shaped.

  “How often do you sell blueberry wine?”

  “I got some extras in for Saturday, for the tourists. But it’s not a big seller with the locals.”

  “Has anyone bought some this week?”

  “Now, let me see,” he said, cocking his head. “Nope. Don’t think anyone has.”

  “Spencer claims someone dropped off a bottle on his boat the night of the murder. Might that someone have bought it at a different liquor store?”

  “Could be. Mebbe one of them discount stores out on the access highway. Tough competition for me. They buy in bulk and cut prices to the bone.”

  “But none of them have your charm,” I said, standing and patting his shoulder. “Thanks for the education on blueberry wine, and for the chair. Got to be going.”

  “Sure you feel okay?” he asked, walking me to the door.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Just a momentary weak spell. Thanks again.”

  I realized as I stepped out to the sidewalk that I still hadn’t seen who’d entered Gordon’s liquor store after me. It was as though whoever it was had deliberately remained behind the shelves in the center of the store to avoid being identified by me. Why would anyone do that? I silently asked myself. Probably my imagination. Still, I was curious, and waited outside, pretending to examine something in the window of Charles Department Store two doors down. Less than a minute later, the door to Kent Liquors opened and Alex Paynter exited the shop. His hands were empty—no paper bag. He obviously hadn’t made a purchase. He started when he caught sight of me, but quickly pulled on the peak of his cap in acknowledgment and hurried down the street toward his truck. Was it just coincidence that he had been in the liquor store? Or had he followed me inside, hoping to eavesdrop on my conversation? I looked across the way to the village green. The park was strangely empty, but a man was lounging on a park bench, his back to me. I turned toward the shop window, angling my head in hopes I could see him in the reflection of the glass. Would he turn around now that I was looking away? I shook my hea
d. Don’t be so dramatic, Jessica, I told myself. Your experience has made you paranoid. Not everyone on the street is shadowing you.

  “You thinking about buying that post-hole digger, or are you just planning to stare at it all day?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I said.

  David Ranieri stood at my side. “I know our window dressing is a cut above the others on the street,” the co-owner of Charles said, “but I can’t say I’ve ever seen a woman show such interest in a post-hole digger.”

  I forced a smile, and grimaced against a stab of pain in my lower back.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “I’ve been better,” I replied.

  “Come on inside,” he said, extending his elbow for me to hold. “Everybody’s happy to see you back after what you went through, but I’m not sure you should be out shopping so soon. Come sit for a spell and I’ll get whatever you need, whether it’s a post-hole digger or a cup of tea.”

  I laughed. “I’ll take you up on the tea,” I said.

  “We’re trying out a new company from California, Mighty Leaf. They have lovely teas. I’ll make you a cup of Ginger Twist, or Mint Mélange, if you prefer.”

  David escorted me into the store and guided me to an armchair next to the counter. He disappeared into a back room, and I looked around the store that had anchored Cabot Cove’s downtown for decades. My eye went to a pretty blue vase on the counter. It was shaped like a heart, with wilting wildflowers in it, and I thought it would go nicely in my home, on one of my kitchen windowsills.

  David returned with a leather-bound book in which little compartments held various tea packets. I selected one, and he went behind the counter to where a carafe of water sat on a hot plate. “I know you’re supposed to rinse the pot out with boiling water right before you make the tea,” he said, “but I hope you won’t mind if I break the rules.”

  “You don’t have to worry about any complaints from this lady.”

  David brought me a cup and a lovely little green teapot, which he placed on a stool next to the chair. “We always stock distinctive blends of coffees, as you know,” he said, “but I thought tea would be a nice change. We’re having a special on these this week. See, the infuser is right inside the teapot, so you can drop the leaves in but you won’t get them in your cup.” He flipped open the stainless-steel lid to show me how it worked.

  “Very clever,” I said.

  “Let this steep a moment and I’ll get cream and sugar for you.”

  “Just lemon if you have it, please,” I said.

  I heaved a sigh of relief. It had already been a long day, and I still had an appointment to keep with Evelyn Phillips to deliver my story and the letter to the editor. Everything ached from my head to my toes. I was beginning to think Seth had it right: I was a stubborn, hardheaded woman. I should have stayed home to rest, at least for one day. Now I was experiencing the consequences, and wasn’t pleased with the results.

  “Here you go, Jessica,” David said, placing a small saucer holding lemon wedges on the stool next to me.

  “I should come here for tea every day,” I said, fixing my cup and taking a sip.

  “And you’d always be welcome.”

  “Where are your customers today?” I asked. “It seems very quiet.”

  “There’s a pageant rehearsal at the shore and everyone went down to watch. Half my staff is there. Jim, too.” He looked at his watch. “They’ll be back in a half hour and business will pick up again. Meanwhile, I can keep you company or leave you alone, your choice.”

  “I always enjoy your company, David. I’ve been admiring that pretty vase up there on the counter. I’ve never seen one like it.”

  “It’s not really a vase,” he said, lifting the drooping blooms to reveal the neck. “It’s a wine bottle. Too bad about the flowers. Wildflowers don’t last very long.”

  “It’s a wine bottle?”

  “Yes. Levi Carver brings me a bottle like this every Christmas.”

  “I’ve never seen wine in a bottle like that. What kind of wine is it?”

  “Homemade blueberry wine.”

  “And you save the empty bottles?”

  “My wife does. The kids brought this one in.”

  “Your children?”

  He laughed. “No. Evan Carver brought these flowers in for Abigail Brown. I think they’re having a lovers’ tiff.” He laughed.

  “I’m sorry, David. Bear with me. I’m a little confused. Did you put the flowers in the bottle?”

  “No. The flowers were in the bottle when Evan brought it in. Is there something wrong?”

  “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten an appointment I have.” I looked at my watch. “Good heavens, I’m due there right now. I’m sorry to be rude, but I think I’d better be on my way. Anyway, I’ve taken up enough of your time today. You’ve been very kind.”

  “You haven’t finished your tea, Jessica.”

  “It was wonderful. I feel so much better now. Not only did it ease my aching muscles, it cleared my mind. Thank you so much, David. I’ll be back to buy some of that special tea. It was delicious.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  I was only a few minutes early for my meeting with Evelyn at the Gazette, but when I discovered that she was still at the harbor covering the final preparations for our festival, I was frankly relieved. There was too much pain afflicting my body, and too many thoughts churning around in my mind, to concentrate on much of anything. I left the article and the letter with Evelyn’s assistant and limped out of the office, thankful to be off the hook but wondering if I’d be able to manage to walk home.

  Lucky for me, I didn’t have to ponder that very long. Seth Hazlitt saw me, stopped his car, and got out. He didn’t say a word as he came around and opened the passenger door for me, and was silent while I climbed inside and fastened my seat belt. I didn’t need words to know what he was thinking. The frown on his brow and the hard line of his mouth said loud and clear that I was in for a tongue-lashing.

  “You look like the wreck of the Hesperus,” he growled once he’d reclaimed the driver’s seat. “Any lumper’s helper would know they need a few days’ rest to recover from what you’ve been through. And you’ve been out and about since . . . when? . . . nine this morning?”

  “Ten.”

  “I’ll bet you didn’t even stop for lunch.”

  Lunch! I’d forgotten to eat anything since breakfast except for the two cookies I’d had at Mary’s.

  “If you listened to your body, you’d be home in bed right now.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” I said, closing my eyes and leaning back against the headrest.

  “Got yourself a headache, don’t you? You had a concussion, Jessica. Rest is the only thing that will heal that.”

  “I know.”

  “And with the assault on your body from overexposure in cold ocean water, and Lord knows what else you strained dragging that body out of the cabin, you’ve got to be hurting bad.”

  “I am.”

  “And yet where do I find you? Wandering downtown with no way to get home.”

  “I was thinking about calling for a taxi if you hadn’t shown up.”

  “Well, at least that shows some common sense.”

  “You needn’t be sarcastic, Seth. I agree with you. Every word you said is true. I am sore and my head aches and I was foolish to press myself so soon after being injured.” I knew his scolding stemmed from his concern. I was too drained to argue. Agreeing seemed the only way to head off more reprimands. In any case, I had no excuse. I knew he was right.

  Seth grunted but stopped his harangue. “Didn’t mean to holler. Well, mebbe I did. I’ll drop you home, but I want your promise you’ll stay there.”

  “You have it.”

  Seth drew up to the front of the house and turned off the engine.

  “Looks like you had some visitors.”

  “Oh, my,” I said. A sea of flower arrangements covered the front steps and spilled onto the lawn. The s
ight of all the flowers, evidence of good wishes from so many friends, lifted my spirits, and for a moment I forgot my aches and pains.

  “They’re beautiful,” I said, wading through the flower gifts to get to the door. “But what am I going to do with all of them?”

  Seth leaned down to pluck the gift card from a tall basket filled with fruits and jams. “ ‘From all your friends at Buckley House Publishing.’ And this one says, ‘So glad to hear you’re safely home. Signed, Harriet Schoolman Bennett.’ Who’s that?”

  “The dean at Schoolman College. I taught there for a semester.”

  “I remember. Here’s one from Levi and Mary Carver. ‘Get well soon,’ it says.”

  “How thoughtful,” I said, taking the Ball jar from Seth’s hands. It was filled with summer roses from Mary’s garden.

  “The Carvers didn’t strike me as the sending-flowers type,” Seth said. “I would have thought Mary was good for a casserole.”

  I opened the door and together we brought in a dozen baskets and vases and arrayed them around the living room and kitchen.

  “Looks like a funeral home in here,” Seth said, dusting off his hands.

  “I love flowers, but this is more than I can handle. Why don’t you take some to the nurses at the hospital? Just leave the gift cards so I can write my thank-you notes.”

  “Think I’ll do that,” he said. “They’ll be much appreciated. Meantime, get yourself something to eat and take a nap, or at least put your feet up and relax.”

  “I will,” I said, “and thank you so much—not just for the ride home, but for everything.” I felt my eyes tear up. Seth was such a good friend. How would I ever have managed without him?

  “When my friend Jessica Fletcher starts getting sentimental,” Seth said, guiding me to a chair, “then I know she’s overtired. Get yourself some sleep. I’ll be happy to take a couple of these bouquets off your hands.”

  After Seth left, I listened to the messages on my telephone answering machine. They were all well-wishers, mostly from Cabot Cove, but a few from friends of long standing I’d lost touch with, but who’d read of my recovery in the wire service stories. I would have a lot of thank-you notes to write when things calmed down. One call was surprising. It was from Barnaby Longshoot, who evidently was feeling up to making it. I jotted down all the names and numbers, including his, intending to sit down in my study to begin returning the calls. Instead, I dragged myself to the bedroom and slept for five hours, waking only to have a light supper from the food provided by my generous neighbors before going back to sleep.