The song on the radio ended. I sat up straight. What was that noise? It sounded like a moan. It’s your imagination, Jessica, I told myself. You think about the possibility of violence and your brain supplies the sound effects. I strained to hear the noise again, but couldn’t make out anything when the music resumed.
Time seemed to move slowly. The clouds obscured what little light might come from the sky. The buzz of a mosquito broke my concentration and had me batting the air. I stood up. Maybe Barnaby wasn’t coming. Perhaps he’d had a change of heart. He’d been reluctant to talk to me in the luncheonette. Had someone convinced him not to come, arguing that whatever he told me might wind up in the pages of the Gazette? Not true, but how was he to know that?
Wait a minute! Hadn’t he said that he’d wanted to meet me behind Mara’s? Could he be waiting out back, while I’m sitting out front? He must be wondering what happened to that crazy lady who insisted upon speaking with him and then never showed up.
Certain I’d solved the mystery, I zipped open my bag and took out my flashlight. Enough of this flailing around in the dark. I switched it on, picked up my sweater, shouldered my bag, and walked to the corner of the building. A narrow, pitch-black passage separated it from the neighboring shop. I aimed the beam down the alley, and jumped when the light caught a pair of eyes. A rat? They’re a common plague where land and water converge. But the creature turned tail, revealing itself to be a cat, for which I was thankful, and disappeared into the gloom. Tentatively I moved into the tight space. If I reached out my arms to the sides, I could touch the cedar siding of both buildings. The slender ray of the flashlight bounced up and down with each step in the soft, damp earth. It was impossible to see clearly. Fighting an encroaching sensation of claustrophobia, I picked up my pace, feeling the walls lean in on me, the sky disappear overhead; the alley’s end seemed to move farther away as I approached it.
Moments later I was in the backyard of Mara’s luncheonette and heaved a sigh of relief despite the dank air, redolent with the odor of refuse coming from the overflowing Dumpster. My relief was short-lived. The night, which had been so silent at the tables in front of the building, was abuzz in the back. Flies and mosquitoes and other winged insects drawn by the lure of rotting garbage now discovered other enticements, banging against the flashlight, circling my head, and diving at my face and arms. I swatted at the swarm and quickly put on my sweater, but I knew I couldn’t escape them. I flicked the flashlight over the back door and the concrete block at its base. No Barnaby. Should I leave?
I was about to go when a soft groan reached my ears. I hadn’t mistaken that. It was not a figment of my imagination. I knew a human sound when I heard it. I trained the flashlight on the ground and swept it back and forth in wide arcs, trying to ignore the cloud of insects reflected in its glow. At the base of the Dumpster were the vermin I’d feared to meet in the alley; two rats fought over scraps of waste that had fallen from the too-full bin. And not ten feet away from their sharp teeth and claws lay a human form, his face bloodied and covered with flies.
“Barnaby!” I raced over to him, my sudden scream and movement startling the rats, which scurried into the shadows under the Dumpster. I whisked the flies away and shook Barnaby’s shoulder. “Can you hear me, Barnaby?” I fumbled in my bag for my cell phone and pressed 911.
I knelt by his side, waiting for the emergency crew to arrive, and took a packet of tissues and a bottle of water from my bag to wipe away some of his blood. He’d been beaten severely. His right eye was swollen shut, and his nose was broken. A gash had been opened on his cheek beneath the damaged eye, where a fist had connected, and there was a cut on his lip. I pressed the tissues against it to stanch the bleeding, and waved away the flies that kept landing on his skin.
“Barnaby, it’s Jessica Fletcher,” I said. “You’re safe now. Help will be arriving any moment. Just hold on.” I doubted he understood me, but hoped the sound of my voice would give him reassurance, even if he couldn’t grasp the words.
The ground was damp and chilly. Barnaby’s skin was clammy and pale. I removed my sweater and tucked the folded garment under his head.
With my right hand, I aimed the flashlight on the ground surrounding us to see if a weapon had been discarded, but all I caught in its beam was the red reflection of beady eyes—eyes that were watching me.
Not knowing the extent of Barnaby’s injuries, I couldn’t take a chance on dragging him away from the Dumpster. We had no choice but to wait. And while we waited the rats crawled out again. Emboldened by my stillness, the pair crept out from under the garbage bin, keeping wary eyes on me as they moved in to graze on the scraps. They were large rodents with greasy brown fur and long, black, scaly tails. A scuffle broke out over a chicken bone. I shouted and waved my arms; the combatants jumped apart, took a few steps back, but then settled down again, no longer afraid of me. One began angling forward, skirting the rubbish on the ground, taking a circuitous path in our direction. I couldn’t leave Barnaby alone with them, but was unsure what to do. My experience with rats was limited. Were they rabid? Would they attack? What could I do to protect us?
I reached into my bag and groped around, feeling for anything that might be helpful. My fingers curled around a firm object, and I pulled out the green folding umbrella Seth had given me. I’d forgotten I’d left it in my bag. I slid off the green sleeve, released the tab that held the fabric tight, aimed the point at the rat, and pushed the button. The umbrella snapped open with a whoosh, and the startled rats retreated out of sight. Relieved, I closed the umbrella, keeping it in my hand in case I needed to repeat my defensive tactic.
Trying not to breathe in the fetid odors, I cradled Barnaby’s head and listened for the faint wail of a siren in the distance that would mean help was arriving. There it was: first one siren, then two. That would be the ambulance and the police.
“Barnaby,” I shouted into his ear. “The ambulance is almost here. Can you hear the siren?”
His response was a weak whimper. He lifted one hand, begrimed with dirt and blood, and dropped it down again.
“Stay awake, Barnaby. Who did this to you? Can you tell me?”
But he sank into unconsciousness again.
The sound of the sirens grew louder. I heard feet running on the boardwalk out front, then down the alley. Two uniformed Cabot Cove officers, led by Sheriff Mort Metzger, burst onto the scene, followed closely by a couple of EMTs from the fire department. To my surprise, Seth Hazlitt was with them. This was his usual night to conduct a medical class for EMTs at the firehouse, and after it to settle in for a friendly game of poker. One of the police officers gently pulled me away from Barnaby, and Seth led me to the side.
“You all right, Jessica?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m fine, Seth. A little shaken, perhaps, but fine.”
“Good,” he said, leaving me to take a close look at Barnaby, and to assist the EMTs as they placed the battered man on a stretcher and carried him away to the waiting ambulance.
Mort came over to me. “I’ll be setting this up as a crime scene,” he said. “Then we can talk.”
“I’ll be here, Mort,” I said.
The officers brought in two huge, self-powered floodlights and set them up to illuminate the entire area behind Mara’s, their brilliant light flooding the scene. They stretched yellow crime tape from the shed, across the yard, and back to the building, photographed the ground where Barnaby had lain, and combed the area, dropping possible bits of evidence into plastic bags. Seth rejoined me, and we moved out of the way and watched the proceedings. The rats were gone, having fled at the sight of lights and people. Now the back of Mara’s looked as it did in daylight—messy and muddy, but not threatening. I shivered, thinking about what had occurred there. Thank goodness the wait was over. Thank goodness help had arrived.
Mort brushed dirt from my sweater as he brought it to me. “This yours, Mrs. F?”
“Yes. Thank you.” I examined the sweater in the harsh l
ight of the floods. It was soiled from the muddy ground, but there didn’t seem to be any blood on it.
“Will Barnaby be all right?” I asked Seth.
“Not sure yet, Jess. Got himself beat up pretty bad, but that kind of damage will heal. Can’t tell yet if he suffered any internal injuries. I’ll head over to the hospital when I leave here.”
“How did you happen to find him, Mrs. F?” Mort asked.
“I didn’t just happen to find him. Actually, I was looking for him.”
“You were?”
“Yes. We were supposed to meet here at Mara’s. When he didn’t show up, I thought I might have gotten it wrong.”
“You don’t get things wrong, Mrs. F.”
“That’s nice of you to say, but hardly true. Anyway, I came back here, looking for him, and found him lying on the ground.”
“Sounds like someone didn’t want him talking to you.”
“I think you’re right.”
“Any idea who that might be?”
I shook my head. “I don’t. But whoever it was is probably left-handed.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Barnaby has a bruise on his right cheek, and his right eye is swollen. Assuming his attacker confronted him, the person who took a swing at Barnaby would have to be left-handed to connect with the right side of his face.”
Mort drew a narrow leather-covered notebook from his pocket and scribbled on one of the pages. “I’ll need to get a full statement, Mrs. F.” He looked up at me. “But if you’d rather not talk right now, I can get one of the deputies to take you home and we can get together tomorrow. That’ll be okay.”
“That could have been you lying there,” Seth said to me.
“I’d rather not think about that,” I said.
“Listen to Mort. Go home and rest.”
“No, no. I don’t need to rest,” I said. I turned to Mort. “Besides, I’d rather tell you everything I know while it’s fresh in my memory.”
“That suits me fine,” Mort said. “Mind if we go out front where we can sit down? Got a new pair of shoes, and my feet are killing me.”
Seth left for the hospital, and Mort and I sat down at the same table where I’d waited for Barnaby. I was grateful to get away from the smell of rotting garbage, and Mort was relieved to slip off his new shoes while I recounted what had happened earlier, and he took notes.
“Rats, huh?” he said, when I’d finished telling him my tale.
“Um-hmm. Big ones.”
“Whew! Glad I missed them. When I worked in New York City we would see them all the time, especially down at the waterfront.”
“This is the waterfront, too,” I said. “I remember when we had a rat problem—what was that, five or six years ago? But the mayor launched a project to get rid of them, and it seemed to work.”
“It’s the garbage that draws them, not the water,” said Mort. “I’d hate to see Mara get a citation, but she needs to close up that Dumpster and call in an exterminator.”
“I’m sure Mara wasn’t aware of the problem,” I said, “but we certainly don’t want our visitors seeing rats in Cabot Cove. We’ll have a lot of people down here during the festival, and a lot of food, too. I think we’d better let the mayor know what’s going on.”
“I’ll talk to Jimmy first thing in the morning,” Mort said.
Harold Jenkins, one of Mort’s deputies, stopped by the table. “We’re finished back there, Sheriff. Do you want to leave somebody on duty here tonight?”
“Nah. I don’t see the sense in it. You can go along back to the office. Make sure you don’t leave any of the floods here. Those things cost a fortune. I don’t need some kids deciding they’d make good lights for their driveway basketball court.”
“Okay. See you later, Sheriff. Night, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Good night, Harold.”
“By the way, Sheriff,” Harold said, walking backward as he spoke, a smile playing on his lips. “There’s someone here to see you.”
“Who?” Mort said.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’re still here,” Evelyn Phillips said, stepping around Harold and hastening to where we sat.
Mort clapped his hands on his head. “How did you know where to find us?” he asked.
“Police scanner,” Evelyn said, smiling triumphantly. She turned to me, surprised at my presence. “Were you involved in this?” she asked.
“No, of course not,” I said, suppressing a smile.
“So,” Evelyn said to Mort, “I heard we had an assault tonight. Any suspects?”
“The case is under investigation.”
“No suspects,” she said, making a note on her pad.
“I didn’t say that,” Mort said.
“Saying the case is under investigation is just a fancy way of avoiding the question,” Evelyn said. “Care to change your answer?”
“No! And if I had a suspect, I wouldn’t be telling you about it. People are innocent until proved guilty. I don’t want you trying anyone in the press.”
“Do you think tonight’s assault is related to the attack on Ike Bower’s boat this morning?”
“We don’t have any evidence linking the two incidents,” Mort said carefully. “And I’d like to remind you that Mr. Bower claims the damage to his boat was the result of an accident.”
Evelyn released a puff of air. “Sure. You can say that, but we both know it was no accident.”
“I can only go by what the man says.”
“Have you spoken with tonight’s victim yet?”
“He was unconscious when Mrs. F found him.”
“He was? You found him, Jessica?”
“Think I’m going to follow the doc over to the hospital,” Mort said, grimacing as he slid his feet into the new shoes.
“I’ll be joining you there shortly,” she said. “But I’d like to ask Jessica a few questions, if she’s willing.”
Mort looked at me and shrugged. “Whatever Mrs. F wants to do or say, it’s okay by me. It’ll all be in the police report anyway.”
“I don’t mind,” I told Evelyn, “but only for a few minutes. It’s getting late and I’m tired.”
“Five minutes,” she said, “ten at the top.”
“You’ll be all right, Mrs. F?”
“Of course.”
Mort hobbled up the dock toward his cruiser, and Evelyn took his chair.
“What’s he worried about?” she asked with a laugh. “Does he think I’ll worm something important out of you?”
I smiled. “I doubt it,” I said.
I gave Evelyn an abbreviated version of what I’d told Mort, omitting the swarming insects, the stench of the garbage, and the rats.
“So you didn’t hear the assault take place?”
“No. As I said, I was sitting right here. The only sound I heard was a radio on one of the boats.” I looked out over the harbor. The radio had been turned off. A slight breeze blew the day’s heat away, and the clouds had parted. The sliver of moon cast murky shadows on the boats at their slips. Was that Spencer tottering down his dock? He seemed to be bent under a heavy burden. What’s he doing up so late? I wondered. And what on earth is he carrying? It’s a crazy time of night to bring supplies to the boat. He really needs to take better care. One of these days he’ll fall off the dock into the water when no one’s around.
Evelyn interrupted my reverie. “Any ideas who’d want to beat up Barnaby Longshoot?”
“No idea at all,” I replied.
A short series of beeps sounded from her pocket. She pulled out a pager and looked at the message. “I’ve got to run,” she said. “I asked a nurse at the hospital to alert me when Barnaby regains consciousness. Want to come along? Course, it could be a couple of hours till they let us see him.”
“No, thanks,” I said. “I’ll visit him tomorrow.”
“Well, appreciate the interview. I’m really glad we’re having the opportunity to work together.”
She stuffed her notepad
in her pocket, shook my hand, and strode toward the parking lot.
I waited till I heard her start her car and drive away. Luckily she didn’t know I don’t drive, or she’d have been suspicious of why I wanted to stay at the harbor instead of hitching a ride with her.
I picked up my sweater. There wasn’t room to stuff it in my bag, so I put it over my shoulders, tying the sleeves in front. It would need a good washing when I got home. I walked up Mara’s dock, across the boardwalk, and down to the second of the piers that thrust out into the water, where Spencer’s boat was tied.
I’d been tired when the ambulance arrived. The tension of worrying about Barnaby’s injuries and keeping the rats at a distance had taken its toll. But now I had a second wind and felt alert and energized. The heels of my shoes made sharp clicks as I walked along the wooden planks. I’m certainly not sneaking up on anyone, I thought.
I saw Spencer moving around on the Done For.
“Good evening, Spencer,” I called. “You’re up late this evening.”
I couldn’t see his face, but he nodded at me and turned away.
The Maine Mutiny Page 12