“For some reason I missed that story,” I said. “Did the sheriff look into who dumped the rotten bait on Spencer’s deck?”
She shook her head. “Durkee wouldn’t file a complaint. I told Mort Metzger what happened and he asked around. I know that for a fact. But no one was talking. He told me to keep him informed if anything like it happened again, but those guys in there”—she cocked her head toward Nudd’s—“they’ll cover for each other, even if they don’t like what happened. Kind of a force unto themselves. Don’t let them push you around. They can be very demanding about what appears in print.”
“I’m not a journalist,” I said, beginning to wonder what I’d gotten myself into. “I hope you don’t expect investigative reporting.”
“It would be interesting to read your take on the lobstermen’s issues—which, by the way, they refuse to discuss with me.” The click of the knitting needles accompanied Evelyn’s voice. “But this is the festival edition, and Mrs. Watson wants to present a spit-shined Cabot Cove, all cozy and picturesque, the tourists’-eye view of a Maine village.”
“It’s not as if we’re so far from that image,” I said, feeling the need to defend my hometown. “I was planning a nice colorful piece on the lobstermen and what they do for a living. People eat lobsters and never think of where they come from. Oh, they know they’re from Maine, but they have no idea what hard work goes into putting that elegant meal on their plate.”
Evelyn paused in her knitting, tipped her chin down, and peered at me over her half-glasses. “That’s exactly what I had in mind,” she said.
I smiled at her. “I knew you did,” I said. But what I didn’t know was that writing a story on the lobstermen would land me in the same place as their prized catch—in hot water.
Chapter Four
The door to Nudd’s was flung open, and Levi stepped outside, shutting it firmly behind him. He started when he caught sight of Evelyn, and his face reddened. Quickly he schooled his features into a bland expression, but he had no control over the flush in his cheeks. “Didn’t know you were bringing the press,” he said to me.
“Well, actually, Levi—” I began.
“Invited myself,” Evelyn interrupted. She looked up at Levi, but her fingers continued to work on the stitches. “Mrs. Fletcher didn’t know I was coming. She’s as much a victim of my stealthy approach as you.”
“I hardly consider myself a victim,” I said. “Besides”—I turned my gaze on Levi—“the reason I’m asking a favor of the lobstermen is so that I can write an article for Mrs. Phillips and the Gazette. I hope the association understands that.”
He nodded. “For the festival,” he said. “We know.”
“Well, then, why not invite me in, too?” Evelyn said.
“This is not a public meeting,” he said stiffly.
“I’m aware,” she replied. “But if a controversial decision the lobstermen make is going to affect the whole town, we have a right to know what it is, don’t we?”
Levi cleared his throat. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said. “An article in the paper is not a controversial decision.” He turned to me. “Jessica, we’re ready for you now.”
My eyes darted back and forth between Levi and Evelyn, neither of whom was looking at the other. There was an undercurrent here, another message they were exchanging that I didn’t understand. “It was nice to meet you,” I said as I stood. “I’ll be in touch.”
“I’ll look forward to reading your piece,” she said, returning her focus to the knitting needles.
Levi escorted me inside, indicated a seat in the front row, which I took, and positioned himself by the door, leaning back against the wall.
Nudd’s Bait & Tackle was a barn of a building, although all the activity took place on one floor. Tim Nudd had used the extra airspace to hang mounted fish, huge ones, from the rafters. He even had a small whale arched over one door and a fierce-looking shark on the opposite wall. By far the oddest hanging on display was an ocean sunfish, a behemoth weighing over a ton, and perhaps eleven feet from fin to fin. It was more round than long; in fact, it looked as if it were missing a body and was merely a giant swimming head. It was a sight the locals had long since grown used to, but awe-inspiring to the tourists, especially those under ten.
I leaned back in my seat and turned my attention to the speaker. Apparently one piece of business wasn’t finished, and I was witness to the end of it.
Lincoln Williams was standing at the front of the room, his arm draped over a stack of lobster pots. He held a gavel in his left hand. His face was set in a stern expression. Another man stood slightly ahead of him and nervously played with his car keys, using his thumb to flip the remote door opener off his hand and then swinging it back up to his palm. The movement was almost hypnotic.
“Now, this is allst I can say. I can’t get you a better price unless the market goes that way, but right now, it’s still tight.” The speaker was a small, wiry man. Although the evening was warm enough for a shirt alone, he wore a leather jacket with the sleeves pushed up, revealing tattoos on both forearms. There was a sharp crease in his trousers and a high shine on his intricately patterned cowboy boots. His carefully coiffed wavy hair was more pepper than salt. And a flat gold disk with markings on it glinted from one earlobe. I gauged him to be mid-forties. Some might have considered him good-looking, but there was something in his expression that stopped short of handsome.
“They got twenty-five cents more a pound today over in Boothbay Harbor, Pettie,” said a man in the audience, confirming my suspicion that the guest speaker was Henry Pettie, the broker.
“And Hull’s Cove,” another voice said.
“Boothbay is quite a hike from here,” Pettie said. “And I wouldn’t want to have to hustle to Hull’s Cove and back either. Much easier to stay close to home after such a long day on the water, don’t ya think? See your family, sit down for a nice dinner together, don’t have to break your back to put a few extra pennies in your pocket.”
“Twenty-five cents a pound would put some few pennies in my pocket, thank you. If the other men’re getting more, why aren’t we?”
“You know the prices fluctuate, Ike, some days better than others. Plus, Boothbay, for one, has a much bigger market, bigger distribution system. Cabot Cove is small potatoes by comparison. More costly to get the lobsters to market from here. That’s reflected in your price. But believe me, I’m always working for you, looking for ways to shave my expenses so I can give you more.”
“So you can keep more,” muttered someone in back of me, but I doubt anyone else heard.
“We made a deal in March,” Pettie continued, “and I’m keeping to my end of it. I been good to you guys for years. Right, Carver? Paynter? Not a man here I haven’t helped out. And you owe me. Any man doesn’t trust me, thinks he knows my business better than I do, doesn’t want to work with me, well, he knows where he can go. He can sell his catch somewhere else. I’ll never stop him. But I might not take him back either.” Pettie let that threat sink in a moment. Then he pocketed his keys and straightened. “Now, gentlemen, I’ll let you get back to the business at hand. You take care of the fishing—we’re still a little low for the festival’s needs—and I’ll take care of the market. That way, we’ll both come out on top.”
“Any more questions for Henry?” Linc asked. “There being none, we’ll move along.” He swung his gavel against a woodblock set atop the traps, and it made a satisfying bang.
Henry Pettie nodded at Linc and slipped quietly toward the door. Levi reached out his hand and opened it, closing it softly behind him.
“That should satisfy,” Linc said.
“Only if you swallow that bucket of fish guts.” It was the lobsterman who’d argued with Pettie. “You stand to lose money, too, Linc,” he said, pointing his finger at Williams. “Why are you defending Pettie?”
“I’m not defending him. I simply said, we signed a deal, we keep it. We’re men of our word, aren’t we?”
“Even if it keeps food from our tables?”
“Your family’s not going to starve, Ike.”
“Not everyone lives high like you, Linc.”
Linc came away from the pile of traps he was leaning against. “I work hard for that money,” he said. “No man better say otherwise.”
“Not sayin’ you don’t. But I work hard, too. Either he pays me the going price or I’ll sail up the coast and sell my catch in the next harbor that’s not his.”
“And the festival?”
“Let the festival buy its lobsters from the market and pay market price like everyone else.”
A rumble of voices filled the room, but I couldn’t tell if the majority were in agreement or not. I tried not to look too interested in the proceedings, and stole a glance at Levi. His aggravated expression suggested he was uncomfortable that this argument was taking place in front of an outsider—me.
Linc raised the gavel and banged it on the woodblock until the voices died down. “All right. Give us a day or two. I’ll talk to Henry again.”
“You can talk to him longer than a hard winter and it ain’t gonna do any good,” Ike said, his voice rising. “We want action. And if you won’t do it, we can do it ourselves. There are plenty of men here ready to make a move. We don’t need the association if you’re not goin’ to stand up for us.” He looked around for support, but the room had grown very quiet.
There was venom in Linc’s eyes. “This association has represented Cabot Cove lobstermen for generations, Bower,” he said. “Don’t tell me we don’t have the best interests of our men at heart. You want to go off and form your own group, go. Anyone else here want to leave with him?”
Not a soul moved. It was clear no one else would side with Ike Bower against Linc Williams. Bower sat down, breathing heavily and shaking his head. “Can’t believe you guys,” he muttered.
There was a long pause. Linc’s voice broke the silence. “Now let’s move on.” He tilted his head in my direction. “You all know who Mrs. Fletcher is,” he said. “She wants to do an article on us for the Gazette. The question on the floor is: Assuming we want an article on the lobstermen to appear in that rag, who’s going to be the one to put her right? Carver, you have something to add?”
Levi straightened. “You said it right, Linc,” he said.
A man of few words, I thought. I’d hoped Levi would champion my cause. Obviously, I’d been wrong. I raised my hand. “I’d like to add something, if I may,” I said.
“That’s not necessary,” Linc said. “We know what you want.”
“Nevertheless,” I said, standing and turning to face the audience, hoping I could move them past the grim mood that had taken hold, “I’d like to make a statement.” Without waiting for Linc to interrupt me, and without glancing at the scowl I knew was on his face, I went on. “Cabot Cove is my hometown, and I’m very proud of it, as I’m sure you are. We have an opportunity with the upcoming festival to let visitors see what a charming and welcoming village we live in. What’s more important is that we’ll be helping the Main Street merchants in their quest to draw more customers.”
“What’s that got to do with us?” a voice said from the back of the room.
“I’m glad you asked,” I replied, looking from face to face, trying to see who had asked the question. “The merchants are as much a part of Cabot Cove as you and I are.” I ignored the snorts that greeted this remark. “They live here, pay taxes, and contribute to our community’s life.”
As I spoke, I scanned the faces looking back at me. There were about thirty people in the store. Chairs had been set between rows of display cases, some of which had been haphazardly shoved to the side of the room. A potbelly stove, the only source of heat in three seasons, sat to one side. There was no fire in it, the weather being too warm to justify wasting wood, but a group of older men, their faces weathered from years of challenging the sea for a livelihood, gathered around it in seats they probably claimed all winter long. Spencer was among them.
Most of the lobstermen were family men, like Ike Bower and Levi Carver; a few had children standing between their knees or sitting next to them. There may have been some women who accompanied them to sea, perhaps even one or two who piloted their own boats, but they obviously didn’t feel the need to attend the association’s meeting. I recognized fathers of students I’d taught years before, and many whose names I didn’t know but whose familiar faces I’d seen around town. In the back of the room was a row of young men, who were obviously uninterested in my speech, and who began whispering to each other while I spoke. I recognized Levi’s son, Evan, whose photograph I’d seen in his mother’s kitchen. And another boy who might be Linc’s son, he looked so much like the association president.
“The success of our business district has a direct effect on the prosperity of the town as a whole, on all of our lives,” I continued, hoping to recapture their interest. “If the merchants fail, you and I will have to travel out of town to purchase goods and services that are conveniently nearby right now. But if they do well, Cabot Cove as a community will have greater means to help safeguard, perhaps even improve, our quality of life, our schools, parks, libraries, and cultural and recreation services.”
I saw I wasn’t convincing them. They were getting restless, looking away, tapping their feet impatiently. What would persuade them? I tried another point of view.
“We’re so used to seeing lobsters,” I said, “we don’t think of them as anything exotic. But they’re a delicacy the world over. The article I’m hoping to write will show how Cabot Cove’s lobstermen work to provide the meal that Maine is famous for. You’re the heroes of the coming festivities. It’s the lobster festival, after all.”
One of the young men, who wore a red plaid shirt under a brown leather vest, gave a loud yawn and stretched his arms over his head. I was grateful to see several of the fathers turn around to glare at his rudeness. Evan, who sat at the end of the row, reached over to poke the heckler on the knee.
“What?” he said, poking back. “I’m tired. I’ve been up since dawn. And this is a waste of time. I got places to be.”
“I won’t take up more of your time,” I said, “but I imagine your families would be very proud to see your work profiled in the newspaper for everyone to see, neighbors and visitors alike.”
“Okay, Mrs. Fletcher, we get the point,” Linc said from behind me. “We don’t care what’s in the paper—well, most of the time—but the real question is, who’s willing to take Mrs. Fletcher aboard for a day so she can get the facts straight for her story?”
Silence greeted Linc’s question.
I was afraid my petition was going to be tabled. I’d had enough experience in local organizations to know that if that happened, it would mean the request would never get voted on in time to do the Gazette and the festival any good. I don’t know why the article had become important to me. True, I didn’t want to disappoint Gwen—or Evelyn Phillips, for that matter. And it wasn’t just a matter of pride in dealing with a less than enthusiastic response to my little speech. But as I’d mustered my arguments, I began to see the validity of them. If the lobstermen declined to participate, even in so small an undertaking as cooperating with the local newspaper, our town would be the less for it. Of course, if they sold their lobsters ahead of the festival and we didn’t have enough to feed our visitors, that would be a lot worse.
“We’re all in this together,” I said. “We’re a community, putting on a community event.”
I looked at Spencer Durkee. He was bent forward, his elbows on his knees, rolling and unrolling the unknotted twine. I was sure Spencer would agree to host me if I appealed to him. But if I did, the malicious people who’d victimized him already would torture him again. I couldn’t take the chance of making his life more difficult than it already was.
I pointed to the rude young man in the back. “Perhaps you’d like to volunteer?” I said. My remark succeeded in evoking a laugh and break
ing the tension that pervaded the meeting. Cries of “Yeah, Holland, you do it,” echoed in the room.
Holland colored but wasn’t cowed. “Me? Not in this life. Anyway, we don’t need any more stupid stories in the Gazette.”
“Pipe down, Holland,” Levi said. “This is a senior decision.”
“Brady just don’t want no one to find out why his other slicker stinks from rotten bait,” called out one of Holland’s companions. He pushed Holland in the shoulder, then giggled, elbowing another young man in the ribs.
“Shut up, Maynard,” Holland said. “Or you’ll step in it tomorrow.”
Spencer frowned, but said nothing.
“Benjamin Press, what about you?” Levi said to a fisherman sitting next to the ten year old I’d seen outside.
“Nah, Levi. Women’s bad luck on board.”
“Who’re you kidding, Ben?” Levi said. “Didn’t your wife use to fish with you?”
“Yeah, and I never had any luck,” Press replied, setting off another wave of laughter. The atmosphere in the room was relaxed now, but still, I had no takers.
“Alex Paynter. Can you do it?” Levi asked.
“I would, Levi, but my motor catched up on me. Gotta get me a new part tomorrow.”
“Okay, we don’t have all night for this,” Linc said.
My heart sank. I glanced at Levi, hoping he’d say something. But he was looking at Linc. I saw his shoulders rise and fall.
“Sorry, Levi, you’re stuck with her,” Linc said, and my heart soared.
A couple of the men snickered. I thought I knew who they were. I gave Levi a grateful smile, but he didn’t respond.
“There’s not a lot of room on my boat, Linc. Plus I’ve got Evan as sternman.”
The Maine Mutiny Page 5