The Maine Mutiny (8 page)

“They’re more’n that,” Spencer said, dusting off his trousers. “Don’t think I don’t know what you done,” he called after them. “You better watch your step. I’ve got friends, too. I’ll get even. You’ll find yourselves facedown in a barrel of bait. And I’ll be there to whack your bottoms.”

Maynard turned and walked backward. “You never shoulda been on that committee,” he said. “You fub everything you put a hand to.” He turned back to Holland, elbowing his buddy and chuckling as the pair swaggered toward the parking lot. “Told him good, didn’t I, Brady?”

Spencer started to go after the young men, but Ben held him back. “Don’t bother,” he said. “They’re lackin’ the wits they were born with. Next time they ask one of us for advice, they’ll find out what we think of them.”

“I didn’t screw up,” Spencer said. “Pettie, that sanctimonious pen pusher, he tricked me. I’m gonna get even with him, too.”

“Yeah, yeah, not here. We’ll talk about it later.” Ben put his hand on Spencer’s shoulder and they walked away.

“What’d I miss?” Evelyn said coming up behind me.

I turned to her. “Holland knocked Spencer over,” I said, “and it wasn’t accidental.”

“Stupid punk!” she said. “You didn’t try to help him up, did you?”

“No,” I said, “but I wanted to.”

“They’d think the cure was worse than the disease,” she said. “Never did see such macho types as these lobstermen.”

“I’m learning that,” I said. “But at least you’ll have your story. I got permission to go on a lobster boat tomorrow.”

“Good for you,” she said. “You must have been very convincing.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I got the feeling this was merely a formality.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’d already decided to accommodate me before I got up to speak. I’m not sure why they put me through the motions, unless it was just for show.” And what was it they wanted to show me? I wondered.

“Well, you get to ride on a lobster boat for a day,” she said. “That’s exciting. I’m jealous. I’d love to do it myself, but they’d never agree to let anyone from away peek into their world. But I know you’ll give me a good story.”

“I’ll do my best,” I said. Now that I had permission to spend the day on a lobster boat, I began to prepare mentally for the task. It would be a long day at sea, hours upon hours in the company of men who were less than enthusiastic about my presence. But it had been a while since I’d sailed out of Cabot Cove’s harbor, and I was eager to feel the roll of the waves underfoot and the stroke of salty air on my cheeks.

“Will your waders do the trick?” Seth asked, stirring some sugar into his tea.

“They’re waterproof, cover me up past the waist, and have built-in boots. I think they’ll serve the purpose,” I said, taking down another cup and saucer. “Thanks for the ride home. Your arrival was very timely.”

“No trouble. I’d finished up at the hospital.”

“I didn’t expect to see you at the dock.”

“It’s on the way home, for the most part.”

“Did you have long to wait?”

“Now don’t start giving me the third degree. You weren’t swimmin’ in offers of a ride, were you? You gave your thanks, and I said you’re welcome. Enough said.”

I covered up a smile. “Actually you said ‘no trouble. ’ But you’re right: I wasn’t swimming in offers.”

I poured myself a cup of chamomile tea. If I had to be at the docks by five, I didn’t want caffeine keeping me awake at night. I opened the freezer and removed a coffee cake, one of three from the last time I’d baked. I sliced off a hunk, put it in the toaster oven to heat, and sat down at my kitchen table with Cabot Cove’s favorite physician.

“How’s your patient?” I asked.

“Twenty stitches and a sizable bandage, but she’ll live. Imagine she’ll have quite a shiner to go along with it. Won’t keep her out of the garden, however.”

“Maybe it’ll make her a little more careful where she leaves her tools.”

“One would hope so.”

“Spencer Durkee is one of your patients, isn’t he?” I asked.

“Ayuh.”

“How long have you known him?”

“Must be nigh on forty years if it’s a day. Why? Was he lookin’ peaked?”

“Not at all. He looks quite fit for a man his age.”

“Spencer said good-bye to eighty some years back.”

“Have you spoken with him recently?”

“Only to say hello. What are you fussing about? Get to the point, Jess.”

I smiled at Seth’s impatience. He was often brusque and occasionally cranky, but his gruff demeanor hid the kindest of hearts. He was also loyal, thoughtful, caring, and my dearest friend. We’d been through many adventures together. I relied on his discretion, good judgment, and thorough analysis and, he, bless him, put up with my inquisitiveness and tenacity, even when they put me in the way of danger, which, he was quick to point out, was not all that unusual.

“Spencer seems to have disturbed some of his fellow lobstermen,” I said, trying to ease into the topic.

“That incident with the bait? Read about that in the
Gazette
. Bunch of hooligans, picking on an old man.”

“Yes, and—”

“Mort says he knows who did it, but Spencer won’t press charges.”

I sat back. “Well, I’m certainly behind in the news,” I said.

“Do I smell something burning?”

“Oh, my heavens, the cake!” I jumped up and opened the toaster. A corner of the coffee cake was singed. I grabbed an oven mitt and pulled the tray out. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

Seth peered over my shoulder. “Doesn’t look too bad,” he said. “You can cut off that corner.”

“Are you sure you still want it?”

“It’ll be fine,” he said, taking his seat again.

I sliced off the burned corner and served the well-done coffee cake, although my recipe didn’t benefit from the overheating. What would normally be flaky simply fell apart when speared with a fork. Seth consumed it anyway, scooping up the crumbs with his teaspoon. While he ate, I filled him in on my talk with Mary and on the part of the lobstermen’s meeting I’d attended.

“Do you know Henry Pettie?” I asked.

“Heard of ’im. Never met the man.”

“What do you hear?”

“Well, he locked up this part of the coast. He handles the harbors to the north and south of Cabot Cove. Makes it tough for a man to sell his catch anywhere else nearby unless he’s supplyin’ the local residents. The shore restaurants won’t deal with an individual lobsterman. If they do, Pettie will lock ’em out when supplies are short. That’s how he controls the market.”

“Does he control the prices as well?”

“Not entirely. The lobstermen have ways finding out the going price elsewhere in the state. Pettie’d better not stray too far from that number, or he’ll lose even more of his credibility and influence with the men. He’s not exactly a popular fellow, I hear.”

“If they don’t trust him, why do they keep selling to him? Seems to me they could find another dealer.”

“Might be more trouble than it’s worth,” Seth said, brushing crumbs from the front of his shirt. “The system works fine as it is.”

“Well, couldn’t they form a cooperative?” I said. “They do that elsewhere in the state. That way they’d work for themselves. They could do that, couldn’t they?”

“Mebbe.”

“Sounds logical to me,” I said, sipping my tea. “Why do you suppose they haven’t done it so far?”

“Inertia, probably,” Seth said. “You know the old saying: ‘If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.’ ”

“The men don’t trust Pettie,” I said. “Sounds to me as if it’s broke.”

“Well, there’s broke and there’s broke. They’d have to have a powerful motivation to kick the man out after so many years.”

“I hope the lobstermen’s difficulty with him doesn’t have an impact on the upcoming festival.”

“Now, Jess, don’t go borrowing trouble.”

“There’s borrowing and there’s borrowing,” I said. “Mary Carver hinted that the dispute between the men and their broker might mean fewer lobsters available for the festival’s shore dinner. And one of the men at the meeting threatened to sell his catch up coast.”

“Idle talk,” Seth said. “If a man has to sail up the coast to sell his catch, he’s adding hours to an already long day. He might be willin’ to do it once or twice to make a point, but beyond that, I don’t see it happening.”

“I agree,” I said, feeling comforted that the festival dinner was seemingly secure. “Would you like more tea?”

“Not for me, thanks. And if you’ve got to meet Levi Carver at the crack of dawn, I’d better let you get some sleep.” He rose and pulled his jacket from the back of the chair. “By the way, I’ve got something here for you.”

“What is it?” I asked as I gathered up our cups and saucers and took them to the sink.

“It’s here somewhere,” he said, reaching into first one and then the other jacket pocket.

I turned on the water, quickly washed up our tea things, and left them in the dish drainer to dry. “Did I tell you that Matilda Watson is helping Gwen out with the beauty pageant?” I said, drying my hands on a towel. “I heard it from Evelyn Phillips tonight.”

“You don’t say? That’s not an easy picture to conjure up.”

“I felt the same way myself,” I said, hanging up the towel and turning. “Seth, what
are
you looking for?”

“Got ’em!” he said, triumphantly drawing a pair of broad red fabric rings from his trouser pocket. Each one had a white plastic button protruding from it that looked like half a marble.

“What are they?”

He dropped them in my hand. “Acupressure bracelets.”

“I’ve heard of them,” I said, pulling on the bands and discovering they were elastic. “What are they for?”

“Seasickness. Put them on. I’ll show you how they work.”

I slipped them over my hands, and Seth adjusted them so the buttons were positioned between two tendons on the undersides of my wrists. “Where did you find these?” I asked.

“Truman sent them up from Key West. Says his patients down there swear by them. Thought I might like to give them a go up here.”

Dr. Truman Buckley was an old schoolmate of Seth’s. They’d attended medical school together and had been good friends, even though Truman came from a patrician Boston family and Seth’s upbringing was decidedly more modest. Over the years the men had kept in touch, occasionally speaking by telephone and faithfully sending each other holiday greetings and birthday cards. Truman had retired to Key West, and had invited Seth and me to visit him at his home when we and the Metzgers, Mort and his wife, Maureen, were in Florida to attend the funeral of an old friend originally from Cabot Cove. After so many years apart, Seth and Truman had found themselves knocking heads over medical procedures and philosophy, and some fireworks ensued. Eventually they rekindled their friendship, but it was not without accommodations made on both sides. But that’s a tale for another time.

“How do they feel?” Seth asked.

“They’re a little tight, but generally comfortable,” I said, running a hand over the top of the wristband. “But I’m a pretty good sailor, Seth. I don’t usually get seasick.”

“You’ve never spent a whole day on a lobster boat, with the smell of the bait rotting in the sun, and the constant rocking.”

“Don’t make it sound so appealing.”

“Just keep these in your pocket. If you don’t need ’em, don’t use ’em. But if you do, you’ll be my test patient on how well they work.”

“Fair enough,” I said, accompanying him to the door.

“And better take along this as well,” he said, pressing a tiny white envelope into my hand.

“What’s in it?”

“Seasick pills.”

“Muckle onto that toggle, will you, son?” Levi said, using his gaff, a long pole with an iron hook at the end, to point at the small buoy that marked where he’d set his trap. He passed the gaff to Evan, handle end first.

Evan hooked the Styrofoam toggle and pulled it into the boat, looping the rope that connected it to the trap over a pulley and then between the plates of the hydraulic lift. Moments later, the rope—or warp—was forming wet coils on the deck at his feet, as the pot hauler, as it was sometimes known, pulled the wood and metal lobster trap up from the ocean floor. As the wheel spun, salt water spilled across the boards, along with slimy pieces of seaweed and other debris the rope had snared on its journey upward.

“Better keep your seat,” Levi yelled at me over the noise of the trap hauler and the idling engine. “Gonna be real slippery now.”

I nodded to indicate I’d heard him, and tightened my grip on the stool he had brought aboard for me and had tied firmly to a cleat fastened to the wheelhouse wall.

I’d met the men at Nudd’s that morning, arriving at a quarter to five. But they’d been there for some time before me, tying up at the dock, donning their boots and orange rubber bib pants, taking on fuel, and muscling barrels of bagged bait onto the boat in preparation for the day.

Fifteen minutes later, the edge of the sun drawing red lines across the horizon, we roared out of the harbor, angling toward a fishing territory claimed for Cabot Cove’s lobstermen and no others. We passed a flotilla of fluorescent-hued buoys bobbing in the water, careful not to come close enough to snag the lines.

“Every man has his personal colors,” Levi had yelled over the noise of the engine. “Makes it easy to pick out your own.”

The morning air was refreshing, brushing my hair back from my face, blowing steadily on the boat and covering up its smell, which at that early hour was fishy but not yet sour. We whizzed over calm water, attracting an audience of gulls that circled overhead checking for breakfast and, finding none, winged off toward another possible meal. Before the sun was fully up, we’d reached an area dotted with Levi’s buoys, which were painted with alternating stripes of shocking pink and lime green.