“Yeah?” Mort said. “I didn’t know that.”
“Ayuh. You just take a picture of the fish and put it back in the water. Everyone turns in their photos at the end of two days and the winners are announced. Isn’t that right, Jessica?”
“Yes, Seth.”
“Then it’s settled,” he said, sitting back with a smile. “You sign up for the derby, Maureen, and the sheriff here can drop both of you off at the mayor’s cabin on Moon Lake.”
“Wait a minute, Doc. I’m not sure Mrs. F. even wants company at the lake, and Maureen’s never been fishing before. There’s a lot to learn before you enter a competition. Besides, what about my—?”
“Oh, you,” his wife interrupted. “You can manage being a bachelor again for a few days. Half the town will be out fishing, so you shouldn’t have too much to do. Mara will be happy to cook up some dishes for you to take home.”
“Did I hear my name being taken in vain?” Mara said, bearing two plates bound for our table.
“If I sign up for the Cabot Cove fishing derby, you’ll make sure Mort won’t starve in my absence, won’t you, Mara?” Maureen asked.
“Was kinda thinking of entering the contest myself,” she said, setting down the dishes.
Seth guffawed. “You weren’t!”
“What’s so funny about that, Seth Hazlitt? I know how to fish.”
“So you’re going to close this place for the weekend?” he asked.
“Bite your tongue! It’s summer, my busiest season. I’m not about to miss out on all the tourists looking to eat.” She eyed Seth’s half-eaten pancakes. “You finished with that?”
“Keep your hands off that plate, woman!”
“Thought so,” she said, walking away.
Maureen picked up her fork. “I saw the cutest fishing vest in Charles’s window. It’s got all these little pockets. I could put my lipstick in one, my wallet in another, and there was even a pocket for my cell phone. It was really reasonable and I probably wouldn’t even need to carry a handbag if I had that vest.”
“Just how ‘reasonable’ was this vest?”
“Now, Sheriff, your wife has to have the proper equipment if she’s entering the derby,” Seth said, slicing the last of his pancakes into small pieces. “She can rent a fly-fishing rod if they’re not all spoken for, but she’ll need her own waders.”
“I already bought the waders,” Maureen said, focusing on dabbing a bit of asparagus in the hollandaise sauce.
“Is that the big box I saw in the back of the hall closet?” her husband asked. “I wondered what you were hiding there.”
“I wasn’t hiding anything.” She addressed Seth. “The man at Nudd’s Bait & Tackle said he’d put aside a fishing rod for me, but what do I put on the hook for bait?”
“You have to use dry flies—not real flies,” Seth said. “You need the kind made with feathers and thread. I’m sure I have a couple I can give you, and Jessica can lend you whatever else you need, or your husband can spring for an assortment.”
“Thanks for offering to spend my money, Doc.”
“Well, you want your wife to fish like a pro, don’t you?”
There was a moment of silence as food was consumed.
I used my napkin to wipe my lips. “Is anyone interested in what I have to say?”
Two sets of eyes turned my way, but I noticed that Seth continued swirling around the remains of his pancakes in the leftover syrup.
“I’ve actually rented Mayor Shevlin’s cabin for a full week, but”—I looked at Maureen—“if you would like to stay with me just for the weekend of the fishing derby, you would be welcome.”
“Oh, Jessica, thank you so much.”
“Don’t thank me yet. It’s pretty rustic up there. There’s barely any electricity, no phone, no running water. I don’t want you to get up there and be disappointed by the lack of amenities.”
A small smile played over Maureen’s lips. “You probably don’t know it, but I went to Girl Scout camp. I can start a fire and build a wickiup. I actually won an adventurer patch. I’m pretty sure I can handle whatever’s there. And I’m so excited to learn how to fish. I know some great trout recipes, but I know the derby is—”
“Catch and release,” three voices said in unison.
“All right, all right,” she said. “I’ll pack a picnic basket.”
Back home, I paused in reviewing the manuscript for my latest mystery and the notes my editor had sent to ponder how my good friend Seth Hazlitt, Cabot Cove’s favorite physician, had maneuvered me into agreeing to have Maureen Metzger along for the derby days portion of my vacation. If I wasn’t careful, he’d find a way to have someone else drop in to check up on me the rest of the week, and there would go my plans to escape to a cabin in the woods. While I appreciated his concern for my safety, I was as much looking forward to private time relaxing by the lake and catching up with my reading as I was to catching a fish to enter in the competition.
What I eventually ended up catching, however, was something else altogether.
Chapter Two
From the Cabot Cove Gazette
GROCERY KILLER STILL AT LARGE
HUNT FOCUSED ON UPSTATE BORDER
THIS YEAR’S DERBY DAY NUMBERS TAKE A HIT
Sheriff Mort Metzger encouraged a nervous citizenry today to go on with their regular routines and not to worry about a convicted murder who recently escaped from the state prison in Warren, assuring the local population that the fugitive is thought to be hours away, somewhere along the state’s 611-mile border with Canada.
“I’ve been in touch with state police every day and the troopers assure me that they’re closing in on their man,” Sheriff Metzger told the Gazette at a hastily assembled press conference at Town Hall. “All twenty-four land border crossings are under surveillance, and federal and state agents are fielding myriad calls about sightings and are concentrating their manpower in the northern part of the state. Cabot Cove is not within the search environs.”
Mayor James Shevlin called for the public announcement after learning that registrations for the upcoming Cabot Cove Derby Days were off by a wide margin over last year’s numbers. The mayor said he didn’t know if the jailbreak was the reason there seemed to be less interest in the annual fishing competition, but just in case it was, he asked the sheriff to restore public confidence in the security of the town’s outdoor recreation.
Metzger declined to answer questions about Darryl Jepson, who lived in Cabot Cove before being incarcerated for the knife killing of Stanley Olberman, who operated the mini-mart on North Main. Instead the sheriff ended the press conference on a light note.
“Not only will you be perfectly safe going up to Moon Lake for the fishing derby,” the sheriff stated, “you’re liable to have one of my deputies in the next boat. A couple of my men have asked for time off so they can participate, too.”
Mayor Shevlin said that the recreation office in Town Hall would remain open after hours to accommodate any late entrants in the derby.
Metzger closed the discussion by thanking Shevlin for the use of one of the mayor’s Moon Lake cabins and issued a jocular warning to local fly-fishing enthusiasts. “If you decide not to sign up for the competition, that’ll mean a better chance for my wife, Maureen. She’s fishing in her first derby and promises to haul in the biggest rainbow trout. So, all you other fishermen, you’re being put on notice.”
The Gazette’s coverage of the press conference, and the conference itself, was intended to ease the concerns of Cabot Cove’s citizenry. Whether it did depended on each individual’s outlook and level of apprehension. Everyone, of course, was concerned to a greater or lesser degree about having an escaped murderer roaming loose in Maine, ostensibly far north of us according to our sheriff. For me, and for Maureen Metzger, it was something to think about but not to the extent that we
would even consider postponing our fishing plans on Moon Lake. “Fish on!” was our operative philosophy as we arrived at the cabin that would be our home for the next few days.
* * *
Maureen clumped up the front steps of the cabin in her chest-high waders and lurched through the door. The floppy hat she wore and the size of the ice chest she was carrying made it difficult for her to see where she placed her feet, and I was amazed that she managed to stay balanced.
I hurried over to relieve her of the load and hauled the cooler up onto the wooden picnic table. “Why are you wearing your waders?” I asked. “The derby doesn’t start until tomorrow, and we’ll be spending most of our time in a boat.”
“They didn’t fit in my suitcases.” She collapsed on the bench next to the table, let out a big sigh, and fanned her face with the hat.
“Suitcases?”
“They’re halfway down the path. Mort got a call on the way up here. I told him he could just drop me at the bottom of the hill. He did and took off.”
“What was the call about?”
“Oh, the deputy said something about somebody on a boat. Anyway, Mort didn’t wait around to help me up the hill. I don’t think he’s happy with my being away for the weekend.” She sighed again.
“I’m sure he’ll muddle through,” I said. “You rest. I’ll go get your luggage.” I walked outside and trotted down the steps. The day was cloudless and warm, the hum of insects the only sound apart from the rustle of leaves in the trees when a brief breeze blew by. Ahead on the grassy path down to the dirt road—the only access to the cabin’s location unless you came by water—were matching red roller bags, one larger than the other. I grabbed both handles and hauled them behind me up the hill.
I had arrived an hour earlier—delivered by Dimitri’s Taxi Service, Cabot Cove’s trusty cab company—with my only luggage a well-worn duffel bag, as well as my fishing gear, bicycle, and two paper bags’ worth of groceries. I knew Jim Shevlin usually stocked his shelves with an assortment of canned goods and fresh water for guests in addition to a selection of silverware, plates, and pots. A magnetic rack held a knife, spatula, and serving spoon.
The cabin was a two-room affair—a main section with a picnic table, woodstove, and a kitchen cabinet for the sink, hand-operated water pump, and hot plate; and a bunk room off which was a minuscule bathroom. Shelves and pegs on the log walls accommodated whatever equipment and supplies were brought in, while a pair of wooden rocking chairs on the porch could be pulled inside when it got dark or the weather was bad.
Moon Lake was about thirty miles northwest of Cabot Cove on the fringe of the town limits. Mayor Shevlin often invited visiting dignitaries from Augusta to come up to one of his cabins for the day, claiming that the relaxing atmosphere enabled him to negotiate better deals from our representatives in the state capital. Regardless of whether they were male or female, fishing fans or landlubbers, the smell of the pines and the view of the sun striking sparks off the shimmering water worked magic on bureaucratic minds, and our town reaped the benefits.
Maureen came out of the cabin and met me halfway. “Oh, I didn’t mean for you to get stuck with both my bags. Let me get one of those.”
She grabbed the handle of the larger suitcase, lifted it up the steps, and rolled it across the porch and into the front room. I followed with the other bag and deposited it in the cabin’s small bunk room, which held two cots—my duffel bag sat on one—separated by a single nightstand. A socket holding a bare bulb was affixed to a rafter. It was the bunk room’s only illumination, and its match hung above the sink in the main room.
Maureen peered through the door at the spartan accommodations. “Don’t make fun of me, Jessica. I know I overpacked.”
“Perhaps,” I said. “We don’t usually dress for dinner.”
She giggled. “And you don’t have to worry. I’m not planning to spend the week. I wasn’t sure what I’d need, so I took it all. After this weekend I’ll have a better idea what to bring next time.”
Next time. Selfishly I hoped Maureen wasn’t planning for this weekend to be repeated. Even though I enjoyed her company, I wasn’t ready to commit to an annual derby date. “Why don’t you get settled and then we can take a walk down to the lake and talk fish,” I said.
“Talk fish! Ooh! I’m excited already.”
There was a knock on the screen door and a voice called out, “Halloo. Anybody there?”
Maureen gasped, her eyes wide. “Who is that?” she whispered.
“It’s probably our guide,” I said, squeezing around her. “Is that you, Brian?”
“Yup.” A slim man in his early thirties, wearing a white T-shirt, cargo shorts, and a ball cap, waved at me through the screen door. “Hi there, Mrs. Fletcher. Nice to see you again. Have a good trip up?”
“I did. Come on in, Brian. How’s Alice? And your little girl? She must be a big girl by now.”
“Emma’s nearly four. Pretty as her mother.” Brian wiped the rubber soles of his ankle boots on the mat outside and opened the screen door.
“Please say hello for me when you see them.”
“Happy to,” he said pulling the cap from his head as he entered.
“I’d like to introduce you to my friend.” I looked around. “Maureen? Where did you go?”
“I’m right here.” Maureen exited the bunk room, red-faced. “I wasn’t expecting anyone else to see me in these rubber overalls,” she said, plucking at the vinyl leg of her waders.
“Those look like a great pair of waders,” Brian said, extending his hand. “I’m Brian Kinney.”
“I’m Maureen Metzger,” she said, shaking his hand.
“The sheriff’s wife?”
“Yes. Do you know Mort?”
“Sort of.” There was an awkward pause, and then Brian cocked his head at Maureen’s waders and asked, “You have a belt for those?”
“Do I need a belt?”
“Yes, you do,” I said. “If you wade into the water to fish, the rocks can be slippery.”
“A belt keeps the water out in case you accidentally fall in,” Brian added. “We don’t want you to drown. But you won’t need waders or a belt tomorrow. I’m going to be guiding you ladies on the water. I have an electric motor rowboat. Nice and stable. You’ll still need a PFD; that’s a personal flotation device.”
“In other words, a life jacket,” I inserted.
“That’s right, but you can leave your rubber overalls at home.”
“So I don’t get to wear these?” Maureen asked.
“Not tomorrow,” Brian replied, “unless you want to stand in the lake to fish, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“Why not?”
“The water near the shoreline is warmer. The advantage of a boat is that we can find the cold spots the fish like best.”
“The trout like cold water?” Maureen asked, forgetting her initial embarrassment.
“Yes, ma’am. Trout are cold-water fish. If the water gets too warm, they huddle in the coolest spot they can find. Harder to catch, then. But not to worry, I know where they hide.”
“If I’m not wearing these, what should I wear?” Maureen asked me a little uncertainly.
“We can review your wardrobe choices after dinner tonight,” I said. “I’m dying to see what you packed in those bags. I’m sure you’ll be the best-dressed fisherwoman on the lake.”
“What time would you ladies like to start?” Brian asked.
“We’ll follow your recommendation,” I said.
“The best time is just before dawn, so I’m wondering if you want to go out as early as five.”
“A.M.?” Maureen asked, horrified.
Brian scratched the back of his neck. “Guess not, huh? Okay, how about we fish from seven to nine or ten. Take a break, and get back on the water at three—that’s when the bugs
come out and they’re biting.”
“Who’s getting bitten?” Maureen asked. “Not us, I hope.”
Brian laughed. “Nope. The trout are the ones biting the bugs, so it’s a good time to confuse them with an artificial one.”
“And we have repellent to keep the bugs off us,” I said.
Maureen was quiet for a long time after Brian left. I had busied myself seeing what we could rustle up for dinner from our joint grocery contributions when I realized my guest was not with me. I found her sitting on her cot, paging through a book.
I sat on the bunk opposite her. “Is it all too overwhelming?” I asked.
Maureen sighed. “I hope I haven’t made a mistake, Jessica. I don’t want to mess up your vacation.”
“Why would you think you’ve made a mistake? You haven’t even tried fishing yet. And don’t worry about my vacation, I have all week. You’re only here for two and a half days.”
“I know, but this book made it sound all so romantic and thrilling, and then Brian came in and talked about drowning and getting bitten by bugs, not to mention dragging myself out of bed before the sun comes up. I don’t even know how to tie on a fly.” She ended on a groan.
“Maureen,” I said, taking her hand, “you are not a delicate flower. You are a strong, capable woman, one who braves the unknown and takes on new challenges.”
“I am?”
“What did you know about cooking before you decided to become a great chef?”
“Nothing.”
“And how did you go about it?”
“I’m not really a great chef.”
“We’ll leave that aside for now. What did you do to learn the culinary arts?”
“Well, I studied all the cooking shows and read all the cookbooks I could find and experimented in the kitchen.” She blushed. “You know that. You got to sample my disasters.”
“And your triumphs,” I said. “You are going to love fishing. I guarantee it. Don’t worry about the parts you don’t know. Like cooking, it takes time to learn. We can practice tying knots if you want, but if we leave it to Brian, it will go a lot faster and we’ll lose fewer flies.”
Murder, She Wrote Page 2