The Maine Mutiny (24 page)

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 sight 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.

I was vaguely aware that the stressful dreams continued, but the sheer number of hours I spent sleeping did a world of good for my body. I awakened the next morning rested and refreshed, still achy, but not nearly as uncomfortable as I’d been the day before.

It was pouring when I went to collect my newspaper. Even though the newsboy had folded the paper into a plastic bag and flung it on my doorstep, it was soaked halfway through, the pages of the front half of the issue stuck together. I opened the newspaper carefully and spread it on my kitchen counter to dry, disappointed that my usual breakfast reading matter was a soggy mess.

Instead, over tea and toast, I tried to pull together what little I knew of the events that had led up to and followed the murder of Henry Pettie.

The broker was not a popular man, and several of the lobstermen—notably Hank Bower, Levi Carver, and Alex Paynter—had talked not only of their dissatisfaction with him, but with their leader, Linc Williams, as well, for supporting Pettie. There may have been others I was not aware of. Linc’s nephew Brady Holland, who I was convinced was responsible for having dumped rotten bait on Spencer’s boat, was also likely to have been the one who chopped the hole in Hank’s lobster boat. Had he acted independently—or was he carrying out his uncle’s orders?

According to Linc Williams, Pettie had claimed he was meeting with Spencer Durkee the night the broker was murdered. In the meantime, someone had left a bottle of blueberry wine where Spencer would find it, most likely a homemade bottle of blueberry wine, if my suspicions were correct. Spencer had abandoned his boat and taken his gift down to the beach, where after consuming its contents, he’d fallen asleep and spent the night. Mort didn’t believe that story and Spencer was in custody. Without witnesses, would his alibi stand up in court?

I’d had an appointment with Barnaby Longshoot, but a left-handed attacker had lured him away and beaten him. Was it to keep him from talking to me? Or was there another reason?

After the ambulance had taken Barnaby to the hospital, the police had departed, and while I was sitting with Evelyn Phillips in front of Mara’s, I’d seen someone—I had thought at the time it was Spencer—carrying something to the
Done For
; I was now fairly confident it was the body of Henry Pettie, which meant he hadn’t been killed on the boat. When I came aboard, whoever had dumped Pettie’s body in the cabin hid out of sight and then knocked me out. I touched my head where the lump raised by that blow was still tender to the touch. It was on the left side of my head.
My
assailant had been left-handed, too.

The bottle I’d seen at Charles Department Store holding wildflowers kept coming in and out of focus in my thinking. Could it be the same bottle Spencer had taken to the beach? The police hadn’t found a bottle where Spencer had been drinking and had fallen asleep, which didn’t help his story. Where had that bottle gone? Had someone picked it up to use as a vase? Evan? If so, it meant he’d been at the beach, perhaps at the same time Spencer had been there. If it had been Evan, had he picked up the bottle because he’d appreciated its aesthetic beauty? Or had he taken it for a more pragmatic reason? It was a question I knew I had to find the answer to.

David at Charles Department Store had said that Levi gave him homemade blueberry wine every year, in a bottle of unusual design, and with a striking label. Another visit to Mary Carver was definitely in order. And a visit to Barnaby, if he was willing.

A knock at the front door interrupted my conjuring. I put down my teacup, tightened the belt of my robe, and went to answer it. Abigail Brown stood on my doorstep, the rain dripping off her slicker.

“Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher. I’m sorry to disturb you so early. May I talk with you a minute?”

“Of course, Abigail. Come in. You’re soaked.”

Once she was inside, I asked, “Isn’t there a rehearsal this morning? From what I’ve heard, you’ve been rehearsing night and day.”

“I’m not going to the rehearsal.”

“Oh? Well, hang up your coat. I’ve just made a new pot of tea. Would you like some?”

“Sure, but I don’t want to trouble you.”

“No trouble at all. Come, sit down.”

She followed me into the kitchen, her wide eyes taking it all in. “Gee, it looks like a flower shop in here,” she said.

“It does a bit, doesn’t it?” I surveyed the room. Baskets of colorful blooms—roses, daisies, hydrangea, and myriad other flowers—were perched on every surface.

“You must have a lot of friends, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Yes, and I’m grateful for them.”

I poured another cup of tea, set it in front of her with a napkin and a spoon, refilled my own cup, and sat facing the pretty young woman. Her large green eyes had turned apprehensive.

“Too bad about the rain, isn’t it?” she said. “They’re still planning to hold the parade, but the pageant won’t be as nice indoors.”

“These things work out,” I said. “If everyone coming to the festival is planning to have a good time, they will, whether it’s under a tent in the village square, or in the high school gym. Rain won’t make a difference.”

“My friend Kathy Corr, she’s in the pageant, too. She says there won’t be any point in getting her hair done if the rain will only mess it up. She’s very pretty. I hope she wins.” Her voice trailed off.

“I have the feeling, Abigail, that you’ve decided not to be in the pageant.”

Her chin dropped. “I’m not sure,” she said glumly. Her hands were fisted in her lap, and she heaved a great sigh. “I . . . I have something to tell you, Mrs. Fletcher, but I’m not sure how to say it.”

“Feel free to say anything you wish, Abigail. You obviously have something important on your mind. It’s always better to get such things out in the open.”

She averted my eyes as she said slowly, “It’s about Mr. Durkee.”

“Yes? What about him?”

“He . . . he was at the beach, just like he said he was.”

I thought for a moment before offering the scenario I’d been considering all morning. “You and Evan saw Spencer Durkee down at the beach, didn’t you?”

Her head bobbed up and down.

“Evan brought you flowers in an empty blueberry wine bottle. Did you pick it up at the beach that night?”

“Evan did.”

“Do you know why he did?” I asked.

“He did it for me.”

“For you?”

“He didn’t want people to know we’d been down there that night. You know, the pageant and all, its rules, those silly rules. He thought that if we came forward and said we’d seen Mr. Durkee there, Mrs. Watson might kick me out of the pageant.”

“How did you feel about it?” I asked.

“I wanted to tell the police what we’d seen, but Evan told me to stay out of it. He said somebody else would come along who saw Mr. Durkee there.”

“You’ve been arguing about it,” I said, thinking back to David’s comment about there being a lovers’ tiff between them.

She nodded again. Tears appeared on the edges of her eyelids. “We’ve been fighting for two days,” she said. “No one else has come forward, have they?”

I shook my head.

“I read the piece in the paper where they were asking for any witnesses, and I just couldn’t keep it quiet anymore. I feel terrible that Mr. Durkee’s in jail and it’s all my fault.” She started to cry in earnest, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“No harm’s done yet,” I said. “Spencer’s had an extra night as Sheriff Metzger’s guest, that’s all. It isn’t the first time.”

She dabbed her eyes with the napkin. “You knew we were there, didn’t you?”

“No, I didn’t, but I started wondering about it this morning. The flowers Evan brought you at Charles Department Store were in a wine bottle. Is that the same bottle Spencer was drinking from?”

“Uh-huh.”

“After Spencer Durkee was arrested, didn’t it bother Evan that if no one found the bottle, Mr. Durkee’s alibi might be compromised and he might be charged with murder?”

“He was thinking of me, Mrs. Fletcher. He was afraid Mr. Durkee might have seen us there.”

“And if he had seen you, he might tell someone that you and Evan had been together at the beach after dark.”

Another embarrassed nod from her, head hanging low, eyes on the table. “It sounds terrible, I know.”

“Yes, it does,” I said. “Is a beauty contest that important?”

“When Mrs. Watson read us the pageant rules, I couldn’t believe it. We weren’t supposed to be seen talking to boys, much less dating them. If she finds out Evan and I were on the beach after dark, she’ll throw me out. And she’d probably put it on the front page of her newspaper. My parents would be so embarrassed. I could never look them in the face again. It’s not what you think. We weren’t doing anything so terrible. We just like to lie on the beach and look at the stars. But no one would believe us if we said that.”

“Especially since that was a pretty cloudy night,” I said, smiling.

A blush spread over Abigail’s cheeks. “We mostly talk,” she said.

“But now you realize it was the wrong thing to do.”

“We thought we could risk it. We never thought something like this would happen.” She drew in a deep breath. “I’d rather drop out now than have Mrs. Watson accuse me of moral turp . . . turpen . . . I can’t remember the word she used.”

“Turpitude?”

“Yes. That.”

“Well, that’s one option for you. There may be others,” I said, rising and taking my cup and plate to the sink. “Thank you for telling me, Abigail.”

She smiled wanly. “You’re welcome.”

I noticed her hands were still clenched. “Was there something more?” I asked.

“Kind of,” she said. “Would you come with me to the sheriff’s office? I really don’t want to go there alone, and I’m not ready to tell my parents just yet. I’ll tell them afterward, I promise, after I tell the police, and after I resign from the pageant. It’s just that they’re so proud of me.” The tears started up again. “And this will be so hard for them. They invited all our relatives to come see me in the pageant, and I know they’re going to be heartbroken. And Mr. Ranieri, too. He’s been so good to me. They’re all going to hate me.”

“Maybe not,” I said, patting her shoulder. “If I were your parents, I’d be very proud of you. You made an adult decision today, one that has painful consequences for you, but one that is morally, ethically correct. It’s the right thing to do for you, and, of course, for Spencer Durkee. You hold your head up, Abigail. You have every reason to be proud. Give me a few minutes to get dressed and we’ll go see Sheriff Metzger together.”

Mort had a shoe box open on his desk when his deputy, Harold Jenkins, escorted us into the sheriff’s office.

“Good morning, Mort. I hope we’re not intruding.”

“Not at all, ladies. Take a seat. Please excuse me for not standing.” He drew out a pair of new shoes from the box and placed them on the floor.

“Did you buy those online?” I asked after Abigail and I had taken seats across from him.