“Seth’s gone to get the car,” I said.
“Mrs. F,” Mort said, “this is Special Agent Frank Lazzara, FBI, and Bob Dailey, Maine Special Investigation Unit.”
“Hello,” I said.
“We’ve got some questions for you, Mrs. Fletcher,” Agent Lazzara said.
“Questions? About what happened?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Now?” I asked.
“Best to get it over with,” said Mort. “Recollections are better the closer to the event.”
Seth came through the door; I could see his car running outside. “What’s going on?” he asked Mort.
Mort introduced Seth to the men, and said they were there to take a statement from me.
“Can’t it wait?” Seth asked. “You can see that Mrs. Fletcher has been through a terrible ordeal.”
“Yes, sir, we realize that,” said Investigator Dailey, “but two serious crimes have been committed; a murder, and the deliberate sinking of a boat to cover up the murder.”
“I’m sorry,” Seth said, “but as Mrs. Fletcher’s physician, I’m afraid I have to insist that any questioning of her wait until she’s had sufficient time to recover.”
“I really don’t mind,” I said.
“Excuse us, gentlemen,” Seth said, grabbing the handles of the wheelchair and turning me in the direction of the doors.
“Tomorrow?” Lazzara asked.
“That will be fine,” I said. “I’m sure I’ll be feeling up to it by then.”
“How about at my office?” Mort said. “Say, ten o’clock?”
I agreed, and Seth took me to the car.
Although I’d said I wouldn’t mind being questioned, I was glad Seth had insisted on delaying the interview. I was feeling exhausted, and crankier than Seth had ever been, which was saying a lot. But once I was sitting in my favorite armchair in the familiar and dear confines of my own living room, with a cozy fire in the hearth even though it was August, I began to feel myself again. Seth refused to leave, trotting back and forth to the kitchen, making tea and attempting to cook dinner, although all he had to do was heat up the casserole my neighbor, Tina Treyz, had left on the doorstep. A succession of dishes had arrived, and my refrigerator and freezer were full to bursting. I wouldn’t have to cook for a month, maybe more.
We’d just finished the lobster pie left by Tina when Mort arrived bearing Maureen’s specialty, blueberry apple pie. He happily accepted a slice, and the three of us sat down at the kitchen table. My two friends looked at me, heads cocked, eyebrows raised in question marks. I hadn’t offered anything about my tribulations, how I’d ended up on Spencer Durkee’s boat, the blow to the head, discovering Henry Pettie’s body, the sinking of the boat, and my Rube Gold-berg attempt to stay afloat until help arrived. The doctors at the hospital had asked how I’d injured my head, but I said only that someone had hit me, and offered no further details, explaining that it really was a police matter.
Now, in the security of my kitchen, hunger satisfied, my body again warm, I knew it was time to lay it all out, which I did in as much detail as I could muster. It took me twenty minutes to unfold the entire tale. Mort’s and Seth’s interruptions were few. Mort took notes; Seth was content to nod, grunt, and utter expressions of dismay or shock at appropriate times.
“Well, that’s about it,” I said. “That’s the whole story as best I can remember it.”
“Horrific,” Seth said.
“You’re one lucky lady to be alive,” said Mort.
“I’m well aware of that,” I said. “I’m curious. How did you learn I was missing?”
“Evelyn Phillips turned up at the hospital last night, around one in the morning, said she knew Barnaby Longshoot had regained consciousness,” Mort said.
“I’d like to find out who in the hospital tipped her off,” Seth said. “They’re supposed to protect patient confidentiality, not call the press.”
“Anyway, I wouldn’t let her talk to him,” Mort said.
“How is Barnaby?” I asked. “Is he all right?”
“Ayuh. He’s a tough bird,” Seth said. “No internal injuries, luckily, but he’s pretty bruised up. The hospital discharged him today. He’ll be in fine fettle soon enough.”
“Thank goodness for that.”
Mort cleared his throat.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mort,” I said. “I interrupted your story. You were talking about Evelyn Phillips.”
“So she asked to interview Barnaby, and I said no. And then I asked her where you were, and she said she didn’t know. ‘How can you not know?’ I said. ‘You were together when I left.’ And she said she’d left you at Mara’s and assumed you were going home. And the doc, here, said—”
“I can tell this part,” Seth put in. “I asked her, Didn’t she know you don’t drive? And she said, How was she supposed to know that? And I said, ‘Everyone knows that.’ And she said she didn’t, and didn’t I know she was new to Cabot Cove?”
“So Doc and I hopped in the patrol car and raced around town—”
“With the siren on and the light goin’ ’round. Must’ve woken up half of Cabot Cove.”
“Anyway, we came here first, expecting you might have walked home. But we didn’t catch sight of you along the way.”
“And you didn’t answer your door.”
“And I said you were probably waiting for someone to come to their senses and realize you’d been stranded down at the harbor without a ride,” Mort said. “So we drove over there and looked for you around Mara’s and went up and down the dock till we found your purse.”
“Very clever of you to leave it there for us to find,” Seth said, “or we’d’ve had no idea where to begin to look for you.”
“We figured you’d left us a clue,” Mort added. “And when we saw that the Done For was gone, that was another clue.”
“I wish I could take credit for anticipating that I would be assaulted and kidnapped,” I said, “but the truth of it is that I needed both hands to climb down onto the Done For’s deck. I simply put my shoulder bag down on the dock so it wouldn’t get in the way.”
“Whatever,” Mort said. “That’s what launched the search.”
“And not a moment too soon,” Seth said. “According to Jed, when he found you you were near to driftin’ out to sea. The current where you were flows due east.”
“I forgot to ask Jed how he found me,” I said. “When I first saw his plane on the horizon, he wasn’t close enough to signal.”
“He told me he was about to fly back to the harbor when he took one more look around and noticed smoke in the air,” Mort said, “and thought he’d better check it out.”
“He’s thorough, Jed is,” Seth added.
“Lucky for me he is,” I said. “The fire didn’t last long.”
I shivered, thinking how close I’d come to losing my life, how, if Jed Richardson weren’t thorough—how, if he hadn’t looked around one last time—I might still be suspended from a life ring in the bitterly cold water holding on to a dead man tied to a cushion.
“What’s happened to Henry Pettie’s body?” I asked.
“Down at the medical examiner’s office,” Mort replied. “We should have a preliminary report on the cause of death by tomorrow.”
“I didn’t examine him carefully, but I thought he might have taken a hit on the head, just like me,” I said.
“So you’re assuming the same person who hit you killed Pettie.”
“Makes sense,” Seth said.
“It’s possible,” I said, “but I have no proof.”
“Then you didn’t see who hit you, Mrs. F?”
“There was someone on the deck, but I never saw his face. My back was to him when I climbed down onto the boat, and when I looked around he’d disappeared.”
“But you thought it was Spencer?”
“I did, but only because it was his boat. When I peered into the cabin, I saw someone lying on the berth. At the time I’d assum
ed it was Spencer. It was only when I woke up out on the ocean that I discovered it was Henry Pettie.”
“Hmm,” Mort said, closing his notepad. “I’d say Mr. Spencer Durkee has got some serious explaining to do.”
“That was my first reaction, too,” I said, “but on reflection, I can’t imagine he had anything to do with it.”
“The way I see it, Mrs. F, old Spencer might have made his mind up that Mr. Henry Pettie was responsible for what’s been happening recently, decided to get rid of him, and drove his boat out into the ocean to dump the body. You were a witness, so you had to go, too.”
“Doesn’t hold up for me, Mort,” Seth said. “Spencer would never sink his own boat. The Done For’s been his livelihood all his life.”
“Not much of a living for him lately,” Mort offered. “He’s getting old. From what I hear, he’s not catching much these days, could barely afford to replace the traps those delinquents cut free.”
I chimed in. “Let’s say you’re right, Mort. Let’s say it was Spencer who killed Henry and decided to send him down with the boat. There had to be someone else involved, an accomplice who followed him out and took him back to shore.”
“I know that, Mrs. F,” Mort said, “and I’m hoping Spencer will tell us who that was.”
“Have you spoken with him?” I asked.
“I have. Got him under protective custody, but he’s not talking.”
“You arrested him?” Seth asked.
“Not the same thing, but I’ve got him. Came busting into my office this morning claiming somebody stole his boat. Acted like a crazy man, ranting and raving that he’d get even with whoever did it. I won’t repeat some of the words he used, not in front of you, Mrs. F. I told him you were missing along with the boat, and that if he had an alibi, he’d better come out with it right away. Said he was drinking down at the beach, and he didn’t see anyone and no one saw him. I told him that wasn’t good enough.”
“So you locked him up,” I said.
“Yep. And this afternoon, when I told him we’d found you and Pettie and that he’d better say who he was in cahoots with, he wouldn’t talk. Clammed up right away.”
“So he knows Pettie is dead?” I asked.
“He does.” Mort stood and stretched. “I’d best be going. Afraid you’re going to have to repeat your story tomorrow morning for the others. Coast guard will have an investigator present, too.”
“I’ll be happy to help in any way I can,” I said.
Seth was reluctant to leave—“You gonna be all right by yourself tonight?”—but I shooed him out the door, promising to call if I needed a comforting voice in the wee hours, if I suffered from nightmares or an attack of nerves should what I’d just been through revisit me in the middle of the night. They left together, but not until Seth gave me final instructions: “You get yourself to bed right away, Jessica.”
He didn’t have to tell me that. Within minutes of their departure, I was in pajamas, under the covers, and out like a light.
Chapter Fifteen
It was wonderful to wake up in my own bed, in my own room, in my own house.
I’d slept soundly, although I was vaguely aware of distressing dreams that floated just below the surface of my slumber. Too soon, I awakened as the sun’s rays squeezed through the slim gap between my shades and the window’s frame, painting two broken stripes of light on my bedroom wall. I stretched, appreciating the smooth mattress and sheets, and fresh-smelling air. My excursion on the Done For had tapped muscles long unused, but even my sore shoulders, back, and legs were a reason to celebrate. All the aches and pains simply confirmed the joyous fact that I was alive.
There’s nothing like a brush with death to bring your everyday blessings into sharp relief. I savored each morning task as I went about my household chores, took pleasure in the flavors of my breakfast, and breathed in deeply when I opened the front door to retrieve the morning paper. I left the paper unread as I took a leisurely hot shower, reveling in the soothing effect of the hot water. I wrapped myself in a terry-cloth robe and went into my study, where a flashing red light on the answering machine indicated that I’d received seven calls while showering. The recorded messages from friends prompted me to go where I’d dropped the paper on the kitchen counter. There it was, a banner headline in huge letters that Evelyn Phillips had put across the top of the front page: MURDER IN CABOT COVE, and beneath it, LOBSTERMAN HELD FOR QUESTIONING. Next to the story was a photo of the deceased that must have been taken years ago, when there was no gray in his hair and no meanness in his eyes. At the bottom of the page in smaller type was: MYSTERY WRITER FOUND, accompanied by a photograph of me being assisted into the ambulance. I could make out in the background the empty harbor and the crowd of people on the dock. Evelyn had chosen her position well from which to take the shot to illustrate the story.
I had just sat down with the paper and my second cup of tea when the phone rang. It was the editor herself.
“I’m calling to apologize,” she said. “I feel terribly guilty.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“I’ve been hearing from some of your friends that they consider me responsible for your having been kidnapped and nearly killed because . . . I ‘deserted you,’ is how they put it, at Mara’s the night you were kidnapped.”
“I certainly don’t feel that way, and no apologies are necessary,” I said. “You couldn’t have known that I don’t drive. Besides, I deliberately didn’t ask you for a ride home because I wanted to investigate something I’d seen on the dock. You assumed I had a car there. So you see, Evelyn, you’re not in any way responsible. You can stop feeling guilty.”
“Thank you,” she said with an exaggerated sigh. “I just wish those sending me vituperative e-mails and leaving nasty messages on my answering machine would see things the same way.”
“If it helps, I’ll write a letter to the editor exonerating you.”
“You wouldn’t mind doing that?”
“I made the offer. You didn’t even ask. I don’t mind at all. It will give me an opportunity to thank all the people who helped look for me. I’ll drop it off later today, along with my article for the festival edition.”
“It’s nice not to have to feel guilty. But I do feel like a fool for not having picked up a fact that everyone in Cabot Cove but me seems to know—that you don’t drive.”
“Considering your short tenure as editor,” I said, “I think you’ve learned a remarkable amount about our town. It takes years and years to get into the heart and soul of a community, and some never do. I think you’re doing a fine job.”
“Thank you, Jessica Fletcher. You’re a very kind lady. I owe you. And I always honor my obligations.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I was planning to pick your brain to find out what you know about Henry Pettie, and the people who didn’t hold him in especially high regard.”
“You can probably include the names of every member of the lobstermen’s association, with the possible exception of Linc Williams, and maybe him, too. The men hated him. But am I reading you correctly that you don’t think Spencer killed Pettie? I spoke with Sheriff Metzger earlier this morning. He seems pretty confident he’s got the right man.”
“He may have,” I said. I realized I was talking to the press, and didn’t want Evelyn to write in the paper that Jessica Fletcher was questioning the competence of our sheriff, and my dear friend. “I’m not giving an interview here,” I said. “I don’t want to see myself quoted in the paper.”
“In other words, this is off the record. I understand. I’ll make a deal with you.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ll tell you everything I know and everything I find out, if you’ll write up your experience on the Done For and let me publish it in the Gazette.”
I had no intention of satisfying her readers’ morbid curiosity by reliving that harrowing experience in print, but I didn’t say that. As it was, people would be pressing me for the det
ails. I knew that. But I’d already given the details to the two people who needed to know, Seth and Mort, and who were genuinely concerned for my welfare, not merely eager to hear the lurid story. Perhaps there would come a time when I’d want to write about it, when it might form the centerpiece of one of my stories, altered, of course, with events purposely made more dramatic for a fictitious heroine. But that was for another time. I wasn’t about to make a spectacle of myself in the newspaper. Furthermore, I had more important things to do.
“No deal,” I said.
“Too upsetting, huh? I’m sorry I asked. I’ll tell you what you want to know anyway.”
“You could put something in the paper for me.”
“What’s that?”
“According to Mort Metzger, Spencer claims he spent the night down at the beach. It’s August and it wasn’t raining. There’s a good chance there may have been other people there, someone who might have seen him and can come forward to verify his alibi.”
“That’s a good point, Jessica. I’ll write something up right away. Maybe Matilda Watkins would be willing to post a reward for information. She likes the idea of investigative reporting, except, of course, when it comes to her. Oh, the stories I could tell you.”
“Another time,” I said. “But you might want to check with Mort before posting any rewards. He might not be pleased with any interference on the paper’s part. You don’t want to get in the way of his investigation.”
“I’ll call him right away. When do you want to talk about Pettie?”
“Why don’t I stop by your office later today, say around three?”
“I’ll be here. See you then.” Just before I hung up she added, “And Jessica, I am so relieved you’re home safe. It must have been a nightmare.”
Chapter Sixteen
The hot shower had felt wonderful on my aching body, but after I’d been talking with Evelyn, my muscles began to stiffen up again, and my joyous mood began to fade. Nevertheless, I wrote the letter to the editor I’d promised, and put the final touches on my article on the lobstermen for the festival edition of the Gazette, finishing just in time to head downtown for my meeting with the authorities.
The Maine Mutiny Page 15