The Maine Mutiny (12 page)

“What sort of accident?” Mort asked, continuing his perusal of the craft.

“Must have had some driftwood come in overnight on the current,” said Ike. “Nothin’ major.”

Mort and I watched Ike lean over the side of the boat. We flanked him and did the same. A jagged hole the size of a football was slightly above the waterline.

“Must’ve been one big piece of driftwood,” Mort said, “and traveling at quite a clip to pierce the side of the boat.”

“Seems strange it made a hole above the waterline,” I added.

Mort pulled out his notebook. “Of course, I don’t know a lot about boats, but it seems to me that—”

Ike straightened and looked down at Mort, who was a good deal shorter than the strapping lobsterman. “Like you said, Sheriff, you don’t know a lot about boats. You can put your pad away.”

“Don’t you want to file a report?” Mort asked. “For insurance purposes?”

“Insurance don’t pay for accidents like this. Now, I’ve got some work to do to get this here thing fixed before I lose another day’s work.” He looked at me and said, “Ma’am,” in such a way that it was obvious I was being dismissed, along with Mort.

Mort and I climbed back up onto the dock and walked toward the parking lot.

“He’s hiding something,” Mort said.

“One thing is certain,” I said. “That was no accident.”

“What’s he afraid of? Why won’t he file a complaint?”

“Maybe he’s worried about reprisals.”

“For what?”

I thought back to the meeting of the lobstermen’s association at which Ike had spoken openly of not needing the association and Linc Williams if they weren’t going to support the lobstermen. Had someone chopped a hole in Ike’s boat in retribution for his stand, the way another someone had dumped rotting bait on the deck of Spencer Durkee’s boat? Were Ike’s fellow lobstermen so vindictive as to resort to such physical threats in order to keep everyone in line? Did the hole in Ike’s boat carry with it a message? That was a distinct possibility, although I reminded myself to adhere to Mort’s philosophy of not jumping to hasty conclusions.

We stood alongside Mort’s marked vehicle and looked back to Ike Bower, who was engrossed in repairing the hole in his hull.

“I wonder,” Mort said, squinting against the sun.

“Wonder what?” I asked.

“I wonder why Evelyn Phillips said that somebody chopped a hole in Ike’s boat. Maybe she knows something we don’t, and that Ike’s not willing to admit.”

“I suggest we ask her,” I offered, pointing to the far end of the parking lot. Evelyn was walking toward us.

“Good morning Jessica, Sheriff,” she said.

“Morning, Ms. Phillips,” Mort said. He glanced in the direction of Ike’s boat before asking the newspaper editor, “So, what’s this about somebody chopping a hole in his boat?”

“Why don’t you go on and see for yourself?” Evelyn said.

“We just did,” I said. “Bower says it was an accident.”

“That’s not what he told others,” she said.

“What others?” Mort asked.

“Other lobstermen. I was down here early, before the sun came up,” she said. “I don’t sleep well, and I like to come down the docks and watch the fishing boats get ready for the day. I was here when Ike Bower arrived and discovered what had happened to his boat.”

“And you heard him say something about it to others?” I asked.

“Yes. He didn’t see me. The docks are pretty busy at that time of day, what with the lobstermen and the fishing boats going out, and the party boats getting ready for the tourists.” She patted her tote bag. “I had my little stool with me, and I was sitting over there, near Spencer Durkee’s boat, over by a pile of lobster traps. I didn’t see when he found the hole, but I sure as heck heard him. He was furious, swearing up a storm; I wouldn’t dare repeat what he had to say, let alone write it in the paper. But I heard him yell that somebody’d taken an ax to his boat, and he swore he’d get even.”

Mort and I looked back to where Ike continued making repairs. What had intervened between the time he expressed his anger at what someone had done to his boat and the time we arrived? Was this another case of lobstermen keeping their troubles to themselves? Or had someone convinced him he’d better accept what had happened, chalk it up to an accident, keep quiet, and not make waves?

“Anything else you remember, Ms. Phillips?” Mort asked.

“I don’t think so. After Mr. Bower vented his anger to his colleagues, he went back to his truck and took off. I didn’t see him again after that.”

“Who were the others he told?” I asked.

“Well, one of them was Linc Williams. And Levi Carver was there. I don’t know the names of the others. I think I’ve seen them around town, though.”

“You’d know them if you saw them again?” Mort asked.

“Oh, sure. But there must’ve been a lot of people who heard him. He was pretty loud.” She pulled a slim reporter’s pad and a pen from her canvas shoulder bag, opened the pad, and said to Mort, “Any statement, Sheriff?”

“Statement? About what?”

“About what happened here,” she replied. “Obviously a crime has been committed. You’re here investigating it. Aren’t you?”

“I’m here because you called me,” said Mort. “According to you, based on what you claim you heard Ike Bower say, somebody cut a hole in his boat. Unless Bower chooses to file a criminal complaint, there’s nothing I can do.”

“But I heard it,” Evelyn said.

“Hearsay,” Mort responded. “
You
want to file a complaint?”

“Of course not.”

“I’m not sure there’s anything to base a story on for the paper,” I said to her. “If Ike claims it was an accident, it’ll have to stay that way.” But I had the feeling she wasn’t about to let it go that easily.

She proved me right a moment later. “I write about car accidents all the time,” she said. “I can write about boat ‘accidents’ too.” She emphasized the word to make sure we knew she didn’t consider it an accident at all. “I’ll come back when the lobstermen come in with their catches and see if I can interview the men who talked to Ike Bower this morning. Then, if one of them confirms it, I—”

“Suit yourself, Ms. Phillips,” Mort said. “Meantime, I’ve got to get back to my office.”

“How’d your day on the lobster boat go?” she said to me.

“Fine,” I said. “I’m hoping to have something to give you tomorrow.”

“Can’t wait,” she said. “I’m sure it’ll be terrific.”

I looked at my watch and said, “I want to stop in on rehearsals for the beauty pageant. Any chance you can drop me off, Mort?”

“Happy to.”

Mort opened the passenger door for me and I got in. He came around to the driver’s side and was about to join me when he called after Evelyn, who’d started to walk away.

“Ms. Phillips,” he said.

“Yes?” she said, turning.

“How about you making a statement for the record?” he said.

She thought for a moment before saying, “I don’t think that would be appropriate, considering I’m a journalist.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with anything,” Mort said. “You claim a crime has been committed. Seems to me being a good citizen is more important than being a journalist.”

“I don’t think so, Sheriff,” she said. “But I’ll let you know if I uncover anything else.”

“You were a little short with her,” I said when he climbed into the car.

“Yeah? Didn’t mean to be. Must be feeling a little cranky today.”

Mort fell silent as he drove me to the high school, where the pageant rehearsals were taking place. He pulled up in front of the school, reached across, and pushed open my door.

“Thanks for the lift,” I said.

“She’s right, you know,” he said.

“That it wasn’t an accident?” I said. “I was thinking the same thing.”

“First Spencer’s boat, now Ike Bower’s. I’ve got a bad feeling about what’s going on with the lobstermen.”

“So do I,” I said. “Let’s hope they can resolve whatever differences they have before the festival.”

Mort’s laugh was wry. “We can’t have a lobster festival without lobsters, now, can we?”

“I’d hate to see us have to serve hot dogs and hamburgers; that’s for certain.”
But it might come to that,
I thought.

The high school gym was set up as if a game were to take place. There were bleachers on either side of the basketball court, with a sprinkling of onlookers lolling on the benches. It was warm inside, even with the ceiling fans on and the doors to the outside propped open. A group of teenage boys sat on the floor near the exit, watching the girls and whispering to each other. I spotted Gwen Anissina sitting in the first row of the bleachers, with an open binder on her lap. Next to her was Matilda Watson, the
Gazette
’s publisher and Evelyn’s boss. Wheeled in for the occasion and sitting under one of the baskets was the upright piano the school used for assemblies. I couldn’t see over the top, but someone was pounding out a tune while the gym teacher shouted instructions.

“One, two, three, four. Arms up, ladies. Don’t look at your feet. Big smile. That’s it. Turn, bow.” Lynda Peckham clapped her hands. “One more time. Mrs. Fricket, please take it from the top.”

The eight young women who were contestants vying for the title of Miss Cabot Cove Lobsterfest arranged themselves in two rows and began their presentation. I recognized Abigail Brown right away from her picture in Charles Department Store. She was a stunning brunette with long straight hair and a twinkle in her green eyes. And I thought I picked out Katherine Corr, too, although she certainly had grown up from her days as one of my students. Charlene was right: She was a curvaceous beauty now.

Lynda Peckham tapped out the rhythm with her toe and put the girls through their paces; the performance was not quite a dance but involved a large number of arm movements and poses. Miss Peckham had a lot of experience choreographing for the cheerleading squad, but perhaps her familiarity with dance was more limited. Or maybe it was the talent of the contestants that required more simplified steps.

“We should have the costumes tomorrow, ladies, so remember to leave enough room between you for them. They tend to be quite full. Arm lengths apart, now. Follow the music.”

I waved to Gwen, who motioned me to join her and Matilda.

“Jessica, you’re just the one I wanted to see,” Matilda said when I sat down. “Would you mind proof-reading this for me?” She handed me a piece of paper headlined
Pageant Rules.
“I wrote it out this morning but I never can find mistakes in my own work. I need a fresh eye.”

I scanned the sheet, my eyebrows rising as I took in the list of rules, which, along with demands for participation in all the events leading up to and following the coronation, included several paragraphs on morals, as well as a ban on piercing any part of the body other than ears, and instruction on how much jewelry was permissible. “I don’t see any errors,” I said, handing it back to Matilda. “But it’s quite stringent, don’t you think?”

Gwen gave me a wan smile, and I wondered if she, too, had just seen this communiqué for the first time.

“You have to police these things,” Matilda replied. “Otherwise we could crown someone and discover later she’s inappropriate to represent the community. This way we know we won’t be embarrassed. I don’t want to put some girl’s picture on my front page only to find out she has a questionable reputation.”

“But these girls have already been accepted as contestants. Is it fair to change the rules on them now?”

“This is standard stuff, Jessica. All the pageants have rules like this. You’re just behind the times.”

“I may be,” I said. “But I thought this kind of thing went out of style long ago. What happens if you lose several of them after issuing this edict?”

“Then they never should have been contestants to begin with,” she said, a satisfied grin on her face. “That just proves my point.”

Gwen’s eyes flew up to the ceiling, but she remained silent.

“Okay, ladies, take five and we’ll try it again,” Miss Peckham called out. “Do not leave the room. I don’t want to have to hunt you down.”

Several of the young women needed no encouragement. They flopped down right where they were on the glossy varnished floor, stretching out or sitting cross-legged, while the others wandered over to talk to their mothers or friends waiting in the bleachers or to flirt with the boys near the door.

I heard Elsie Fricket play two final chords and close the piano cover. A former guidance counselor, Elsie had always supplied the music for the school’s plays and other theatrical events. She was retired now, but obviously had been called into service for the pageant rehearsals. I looked over as she stood up from the piano, and I did a double take. Elsie was wearing a white plastic neck brace, and there was a large bandage on her forehead, just above a black eye worthy of a pugilist.

Oh, dear,
I thought. Elsie must be the lady who stepped on the hoe. Seth hadn’t told me his patient’s name, but it was clear to me between the bandage and the neck brace that Mrs. Fricket had also been the victim of the fender bender Mort had attended to.

“Elsie, are you all right?” I asked, coming to take her arm and lead her to where Gwen and Matilda sat.

“Oh, Jessica, how nice to see you. I’m fine,” she said, looping her arm through mine. “Thank you. It’s a bit hard to get around with this neck brace on. I can’t look down. Makes it tough on the stairs.”

“I can imagine,” I said.

“I’ve been playing the piano by feel—I can’t see the keys. Hope I didn’t hit too many sour notes.”

“You sounded fine to me. You know Matilda. Have you met Gwen?”

“Darling Gwen, of course. You and I are old pals, aren’t we?” Elsie said, sinking down on the bench and patting Gwen on the arm. “How are you, Matilda? Still the scourge of downtown?”