The Maine Mutiny by Jessica Fletcher Read Free Book Online

had any questions? she’d asked. Grateful to have my petition given a hearing so quickly, I agreed to stay outside until I was called, or rather on the chance I might be called.
    I didn’t mind waiting. It was a balmy evening. The sun had peeked between the clouds to cheer the town’s spirits. It had another hour to go before it set. I took a deep breath, enjoying the briny air. The water was chockablock with boats at anchor, lines flapping against masts, setting off melodious, if dissonant, notes. Tourists wandered on the dock, admiring the boats and ogling the occasional yacht that sat at anchor in the bay. A high-pitched squeak floated across the wharf from where Mara stood cranking up the awning in front of her luncheonette. The children’s voices competed with the cries of the gulls, echoing back from the far end of the dock, where a pelican with a gullet full of fish launched himself into the air, hoping to evade them both—the gulls and the children. The sounds of the harbor were music to me. They represented home, as much as my treasured house on Candlewood Lane. Although my fishing days were limited by my busy travel and work schedule, my affection for the waterfront was undiminished. No matter where in the world I roamed, nothing could touch my heart more than the beauty of Cabot Cove’s bay, the charm of the village, the friendship of the colorful and generous people who drew their living from the sea and from the industries that sprang up to serve the fishing community.
    I closed my eyes and sighed, enjoying my private concert, only to have a voice intrude on my reverie.
    “They meetin’ yet?”
    I glanced up to see a sturdy woman about my age with short-cropped gray hair; perched on her nose were half-glasses attached to a gold cord. She wore a flowered green housedress and a loose linen jacket with patch pockets of the same fabric as the dress. A large, heavy-looking tote bag pressed down on one shoulder, making her tilt to the right.
    “Yes,” I said. “I believe they’ve just started. You probably haven’t missed much.”
    “Oh, they’d never let me in,” she said, grinning. “Guess you’re not a lobsterman, either.”
    “No, I’m not,” I said, returning her smile.
    “I’ll wait,” she said. “Name’s Evelyn Phillips.” She stuck out her hand.
    “Oh, yes, the new editor of the Gazette ,” I said, taking her hand. “I’m Jessica Fletcher. I’m sorry there’s not another chair.”
    “That’s no problem.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a bundle of short black bars tied up with a bungee cord. She released the hooks, snapped the bars together to form a tripod, set a small padded leather disk on top to create a stool, and settled herself on the tiny seat.
    “I certainly know your name,” she said, setting the considerably lightened tote bag on the dock. “You’re probably Cabot Cove’s most famous citizen.”
    “I don’t know about that,” I said, embarrassed.
    “Read one of your mysteries last winter. Liked it a lot.”
    “That’s very kind of you to say.”
    “Not kind. Just true.”
    “Well, welcome to town. I heard you’re originally from Bangor; is that so?”
    “Right in one,” she replied. “Guess that makes me a city girl. In any case, like all Matilda Watson’s editors, I’m from away. She must’ve run out of local applicants a long time ago.”
    “She does seem to go through editors at a rapid clip,” I agreed. “I hope you break the pattern.”
    “Thanks very much. I hope so, too. I have a chance at a longer run, since she’s so wrapped up in the pageant for the festival.”
    “Miss Lobsterfest? I hadn’t heard that.”
    “Just happened today. I’m hoping it’s because she thinks the paper is in competent hands. Named herself pageant coordinator and is already poking her fingers into all parts of the pie. Gwen Anissina, bless her heart, is so grateful for help, she’ll take it wherever it comes from.”
    I shook my head.