The Maine Mutiny Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Teaser chapter

  A SHOCKING DISCOVERY

  I stepped down the stairs and pushed on the door. Why did this feel familiar? I put my shoulder to the wood, pressed as hard as I could, and managed to gain a few inches more, but not enough for easy access. Could I squeeze through the narrow opening? I pushed my arm and shoulder through first, forced my knee in, then my hips. My head was last, and there was a panicky moment when I thought I might get stuck there permanently, with my body half in the cabin and my head wedged between the frame and the door.

  Once inside, I groped along the wall for a light switch but found none. After the brilliant sunshine of the deck above, it took more than a moment before my eyes became accustomed to the dim light in the small, fusty cabin. But once they had, I was not happy with what I saw. The long, dark shape I’d made out peering through the cabin portholes from above was now discernible. A man was lying diagonally across the berth that filled the triangular space of the small cabin. His head was thrown back, and his mouth gaped open; a trickle of blood had dribbled from the corner of his mouth down his cheek and pooled in the creases of his neck. He was dead.

  OTHER BOOKS IN THE Murder, She Wrote SERIES

  Manhattans & Murder

  Rum & Razors

  Brandy & Bullets

  Martinis & Mayhem

  A Deadly Judgment

  A Palette for Murder

  The Highland Fling Murders

  Murder on the QE2

  Murder in Moscow

  A Little Yuletide Murder

  Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch

  Knock ’Em Dead

  Gin & Daggers

  Trick or Treachery

  Blood on the Vine

  Murder in a Minor Key

  Provence—To Die For

  You Bet Your Life

  Majoring in Murder

  Destination Murder

  Dying to Retire

  A Vote for Murder

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto,

  Ontario M4V 3B2, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2,

  Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124,

  Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

  Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park,

  New Delhi - 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), cnr Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany,

  Auckland 1310, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue,

  Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, April 2005

  Copyright © 2005 Universal Studios Licensing LLLP. Murder, She Wrote is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-01070-9

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To all the honest and hardworking men and women of Maine who bring in the lobsters, with admiration and fondness.

  Prologue

  I think it was the smell that woke me.

  I’ve lived near the ocean my entire life, not counting the time I moved to Indiana for a semester to teach at Schoolman College, nor the time I lived in New York City as a part-time professor at Manhattan University. Even then, I’d come home to Cabot Cove on the weekends. And I don’t mind the smell of fish. If you live in a coastal village in Maine, you get used to it. When Ethan Cragg and I used to go fishing, his boat was pretty aromatic, especially when he was cleaning our catch at the end of the day. So I know the smell of a working boat, and a lobster boat definitely falls into that category.

  But this was different.

  I cracked my eyes open. The sun was beating down on my head. I love the mornings when its rays slant through my east-facing windows. I like to pause, turn my back to the panes, close my eyes, and luxuriate in the sun’s warm embrace, just for a moment, before the day’s work pulls me away. Had I left the shades open last night? I didn’t remember.

  I’d been dreaming about a lobster boat on the water. I shut my eyes again and tried to recapture the vision. It had to do with the upcoming lobster festival. And Spencer Durkee was there. He’s something of a town eccentric, when he isn’t cuddling up to a bottle down at the beach. A lobsterman for sixty-five of his more than eighty years, he regales youngsters and oldsters alike with his colorful accounts of rumrunners during Prohibition. I suspect he’s spinning tales he’s heard but never really experienced. All the same, everyone loves to hear him tell the stories. Yes, Spencer was in my dream. What was he doing there? We were on a boat, weren’t we? I struggled to remember, but the details were fading away, the sun bleaching them out of my consciousness. Even so, I could still hear the quiet lapping of the sea on the hull, and feel the gentle rocking when the boat bobbed in the water.

  What a vivid dream, I thought.

  Sometime during the night I must have kicked off my covers. A breeze was fluttering fabric against my legs. I felt it move across my body. I tried to turn over to escape the blinding light, but my bed was all lumpy and hard.

  This isn’t my bed!

  The shock of recognition made me bolt up quickly. I cringed at the pain and reached out to steady myself, my hand pressing against a hard surface. My heart was
sounding a tattoo in my chest. I tried, but couldn’t take a deep breath, settling instead for shallow panting. Dizzy. Why was I so dizzy? And where was I?

  I held perfectly still and squinted against the brilliant light. Gradually, my surroundings came into focus. Outside. I was outside; that’s why the sun was so intense. I shaded my eyes with a trembling hand and looked down. I was sitting on a pile of rope. My lumpy bed, I thought, grasping a coil of the line and holding on as if it would keep me from tumbling overboard.

  Overboard! You’re on a boat, a lobster boat.

  Across the beam of the boat, a white buoy painted in stripes of yellow and purple—Spencer Durkee’s colors—leaned against the corner where the rail meets the washboard, a ledge that runs along the back of the boat. Two wire-and-wood lobster traps sat nearby, empty except for the three bricks in the bottom that kept them from floating along the ocean floor when the current was strong. Above me dangled the pulley of the hydraulic pot hauler, a winch used to pull lobster traps up to the surface. It was attached to the purple roof of the wheelhouse, a Spencer Durkee trademark. “Never have no trouble pickin’ out my boat in the float.”

  I’m on Spencer’s boat, the Done For. How did I get here?

  My head ached, and I squeezed my eyes closed against the throbbing. Maintaining a hold on the rope with my right hand, I gingerly probed the left side of my head, discovering a good-sized egg that was tender to the touch. I opened my eyes again and looked up. Had I hit my head against the pulley?

  You’d better find out what’s going on, Jessica, I told myself. It doesn’t matter if you’re in pain. Something is terribly wrong. Get moving.

  Every muscle in my body complained as I tried to pull myself up to a standing position. I rolled over onto my knees, but was unable to balance on the uneven surface of the rope. I crawled off the coils to the smoother planks of the platform, and slipped off my shoes. They were not appropriate for standing on a deck. And a dress. I’d never have worn a dress if I’d known I would be on a boat. Slowly I raised myself till I was standing, legs apart, knees flexed, and bent forward, the only way I could maintain my equilibrium. I took a few breaths and straightened up. Carefully I moved to the middle of the deck, sliding in my stocking feet. I untied the sleeves of a cotton sweater that was looped around my shoulders—how did it get so dirty? I pulled it over my head and pushed my arms through. I wasn’t cold. But the sun was high and would burn my skin to a crisp, if it hadn’t already.

  Now upright, I gazed around. Like all lobster boats, Spencer’s sat low in the water, the rail not much more than knee height. Heavy seas would slap easily over the transom and the sides. Fortunately it was relatively calm, with a breeze raising only a slight chop, the small waves and delicate whitecaps extending as far as I could see. Alone. No land in sight, not even the slim dark blue silhouette on the horizon that indicated a terrestrial body. No. Only a straight line of water stretching away to where it met the sky. I staggered to the rail and looked toward the bow of the boat. The seascape was the same. Water. No land. But a bank of dark clouds was heading my way.

  Well, Jessica. You’ve been in fixes before. What do we do now?

  My mind raced. I’d never piloted a boat of any size other than a rowboat. Could I serve as master of this vessel? Could I find my way home? That was assuming, of course, that I could get the boat started. Had we run out of gas? The events leading up to my presence on the boat were lost in the fog of memory. I’d heard a bump on the head could cause amnesia. Was I one of its victims? I knew who I was. But I had no recollection of how I’d gotten here.

  I swallowed convulsively and realized my throat was parched. What I’d give for a glass of water. How ironic, I thought. The lines from The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge sprang immediately to mind. How many times had I taught that poem?

  Water, water, everywhere,

  And all the boards did shrink;

  Water, water, everywhere,

  Nor any drop to drink.

  I took a deep breath and straightened my shoulders. The first thing to do was to look around and see what was available. Lobster boats had radios, didn’t they? That would be a place to start.

  Having a purpose gave me some energy. Perhaps there was some water on board. Maybe even something to eat. I sighed. Well, the day wasn’t lost altogether. Spencer practically lived on his boat. There must be some supplies or emergency gear, like a flare. And if I could figure out how to operate the radio, help might be just a call away. The first thing to do is to get out of the sun, I told myself. Then everything will fall into place.

  A lobster boat has a wheelhouse, a standing shelter from which the vessel is piloted. The Done For’s shelter had a roof and one long side for protection from the elements. An old-fashioned ring life preserver hung from a hook next to a small red fire extinguisher. In the corner, Spencer’s yellow rubber overalls and slicker had been hung on a peg, the bulky gear stretched and stiff, looking as if they could stand by themselves.

  The opposite wall was shorter, the open area behind it accommodating the pot hauler. Sliding my feet along the deck, I sought refuge in the wheelhouse and examined the equipment fastened to the bulkhead. Spencer’s boat lacked the advanced technology most lobstermen rely on these days.

  “I lived my whole life lobsterin’,” he once told me. “What do I need with radar or a chart plotter? Those dubs can’t find their way out of the bay, with the pier on their left and the rocks on their right, without spendin’ fifty thousand dollars on a machine to point them to where the water is.”

  I pulled on the wheel; it was locked, the key to the engine missing. Of the three round gauges above it, only the compass was moving, its quivering needle pointing southeast. I tapped the gas gauge. The indicator was buried below empty, but I hoped it was only because the engine was off.

  Okay, so there’s no radar or chart plotter, not even a depth finder—or Fathometer, as the lobstermen call it. But there is a radio.

  It was battered and black, bolted to the top of the bulkhead, with numbered dials and two silver switches. I flipped the switches and twisted the dials, hoping for the sound of static to signify it was working. But the only noise was the squeak of the pot hauler’s pulley as it swung back and forth in time with the rocking boat. I fiddled with the radio dials for a long time, moving from what I guessed would be one channel to another, my ear against the speaker straining to hear something. I checked the back and squinted at the bottom to see if the wires were frayed, but they were threaded through a hole in the bulkhead, out of my line of sight.

  To the left of the wheel was a big wooden box probably used as a seat. I found a latch holding the top down, unlocked it, and was rewarded when it opened to reveal a jumble of fishing paraphernalia, a nail clipper, wire, a cracked coffee cup, a box of plastic sandwich bags, some of which had been used for screws, rubber washers, and other hardware. Dropping to my knees, I dug through the box, careful to set aside anything sharp, making piles of similar items on the deck, and hoping for something, anything, that would help me cope with my precarious predicament. I found a hammer, screwdriver, matches, fishing cap with a bent peak, and odd pieces, the uses for which mystified me. There was a small pad of paper, its corners all curled from the humid air, and a stub of a pencil with no eraser. In the bottom was a spool of lightweight fishing line, but no hooks. It didn’t look as if I’d be able to catch my lunch. I replaced the contents that lay scattered about me, secured the top, and sat on the box. Don’t panic now. You’re safe. You’re dry, I told myself. It’s summer. There are lots of fishermen and pleasure craft on the water. I’m bound to come across another boat if I’m not too many miles from shore, if I’m still in the Gulf of Maine, if I haven’t been caught and carried in an east-flowing current to be lost at sea.

  Despite the warmth of the day, I shivered. Goodness! Where had that thought come from? Lost at sea?

  I tried desperately to remember where I’d been, what I’d done before I woke up aboar
d the Done For. Was the name of the boat prophetic for me? Was I done for? Had I interfered one too many times? Was someone I’d investigated taking revenge? Had I been involved in a case and come too close to the solution, too close for someone’s comfort? But who? And why?

  My head ached, but the answers, if they were there, floated somewhere beyond my consciousness. I could almost grasp them. But they slipped away, leaving me frustrated and tired.

  I leaned back against the bulkhead and closed my eyes. It would be so easy to sleep, so easy to fade into blankness and escape the frightening reality of my situation. My eyes popped open.

  “That is not an option, Jessica,” I said out loud, my voice hoarse to my ears. My lips were dry and chapped.

  I pushed out of my seat. There was a bit more of this boat to explore, but first I had to ensure my safety. I removed my stockings. Bare feet would hold better on the slippery deck. I tucked up the skirt of my dress into my belt so it wouldn’t trip me, opened the box again, and picked out the fishing cap. It was dirty but it would shield my face from the glare of the sun. Bending over and holding on to the rail, I inched my way to the back of the boat. On the top of the washboard was a series of strips spaced eight inches apart.

  I could hear Spencer’s voice in my head. “Gotta have somethin’ to keep the pots from sliding all over the washboard. Makes a nice seat, too, if you don’t mind the ridges.”

  I knelt on the hot deck, pushed the lobster traps aside, and peered beneath the shelf, reaching a hand under to feel for what I couldn’t see. I pulled out a red metal can shaped like a muffin with a spout on top. I shook it and heard some fluid slap against the side. I unscrewed the spout and inhaled the distinct odor of gasoline. But there wasn’t a bait barrel or a bin to hold lobsters, nothing to catch water if I was aboard long enough for it to rain. I stood and took some ungainly steps back toward the wheelhouse. I don’t have my sea legs yet, I thought, lurching a bit, but I don’t have time to wait for them to develop.