The Maine Mutiny

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Authors: Jessica Fletcher
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said. “Never did see such macho types as these lobstermen.”
    “I’m learning that,” I said. “But at least you’ll have your story. I got permission to go on a lobster boat tomorrow.”
    “Good for you,” she said. “You must have been very convincing.”
    “I don’t know,” I said. “I got the feeling this was merely a formality.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “They’d already decided to accommodate me before I got up to speak. I’m not sure why they put me through the motions, unless it was just for show.” And what was it they wanted to show me? I wondered.
    “Well, you get to ride on a lobster boat for a day,” she said. “That’s exciting. I’m jealous. I’d love to do it myself, but they’d never agree to let anyone from away peek into their world. But I know you’ll give me a good story.”
    “I’ll do my best,” I said. Now that I had permission to spend the day on a lobster boat, I began to prepare mentally for the task. It would be a long day at sea, hours upon hours in the company of men who were less than enthusiastic about my presence. But it had been a while since I’d sailed out of Cabot Cove’s harbor, and I was eager to feel the roll of the waves underfoot and the stroke of salty air on my cheeks.

Chapter Five
    “Will your waders do the trick?” Seth asked, stirring some sugar into his tea.
    “They’re waterproof, cover me up past the waist, and have built-in boots. I think they’ll serve the purpose,” I said, taking down another cup and saucer. “Thanks for the ride home. Your arrival was very timely.”
    “No trouble. I’d finished up at the hospital.”
    “I didn’t expect to see you at the dock.”
    “It’s on the way home, for the most part.”
    “Did you have long to wait?”
    “Now don’t start giving me the third degree. You weren’t swimmin’ in offers of a ride, were you? You gave your thanks, and I said you’re welcome. Enough said.”
    I covered up a smile. “Actually you said ‘no trouble. ’ But you’re right: I wasn’t swimming in offers.”
    I poured myself a cup of chamomile tea. If I had to be at the docks by five, I didn’t want caffeine keeping me awake at night. I opened the freezer and removed a coffee cake, one of three from the last time I’d baked. I sliced off a hunk, put it in the toaster oven to heat, and sat down at my kitchen table with Cabot Cove’s favorite physician.
    “How’s your patient?” I asked.
    “Twenty stitches and a sizable bandage, but she’ll live. Imagine she’ll have quite a shiner to go along with it. Won’t keep her out of the garden, however.”
    “Maybe it’ll make her a little more careful where she leaves her tools.”
    “One would hope so.”
    “Spencer Durkee is one of your patients, isn’t he?” I asked.
    “Ayuh.”
    “How long have you known him?”
    “Must be nigh on forty years if it’s a day. Why? Was he lookin’ peaked?”
    “Not at all. He looks quite fit for a man his age.”
    “Spencer said good-bye to eighty some years back.”
    “Have you spoken with him recently?”
    “Only to say hello. What are you fussing about? Get to the point, Jess.”
    I smiled at Seth’s impatience. He was often brusque and occasionally cranky, but his gruff demeanor hid the kindest of hearts. He was also loyal, thoughtful, caring, and my dearest friend. We’d been through many adventures together. I relied on his discretion, good judgment, and thorough analysis and, he, bless him, put up with my inquisitiveness and tenacity, even when they put me in the way of danger, which, he was quick to point out, was not all that unusual.
    “Spencer seems to have disturbed some of his fellow lobstermen,” I said, trying to ease into the topic.
    “That incident with the bait? Read about that in the Gazette . Bunch of hooligans, picking on an old man.”
    “Yes, and—”
    “Mort says he knows who did it, but Spencer won’t press charges.”
    I sat back. “Well, I’m certainly behind in the

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