The Maine Mutiny by Jessica Fletcher Read Free Book Online Page A

“It’s hard to believe that Matilda would involve herself with a beauty contest,” I said, thinking of the publisher who was often described as an aggressive, hard-nosed businesswoman.
    “It’s a stretch,” Evelyn said. “Must be living vicariously; maybe she wanted to enter a pageant when she was young and never had the chance, although she doesn’t seem the pageant type.”
    “My view precisely,” I said.
    “By the by, why are you hanging out outside the lobstermen’s association?”
    “I believe I’m here for you,” I said.
    “For me?” Her eyes twinkled. “Well, that’s news I haven’t heard.”
    “Gwen asked me to substitute for her on the day-in-the-life-of-a-lobsterman article. She said you wanted it for the festival edition. I assumed she’d informed you. I hope you don’t mind the switch in authors.”
    “Mind? I’m absolutely tickled. And so will our readers be. Not every day they get to read a piece by a celebrity on the pages of the Gazette . Not only that, for the first time they’ll get you for free. We’re giving away that issue. Of course, I’m not counting the books of yours they take from the library. They don’t pay for those, either. But still, what a coup for the Gazette . Matilda will be ecstatic. Have you told her?”
    “No, I haven’t seen her recently,” I said, amused at her enthusiastic response.
    “Well, don’t tell her Gwen set it up. I’d like her to think it was my idea. Another feather in my cap. No need to frown. Gwen won’t mind a bit. She’s a great kid. Actually, I’m a little annoyed I didn’t think of it myself. A byline by Jessica Fletcher. That’s terrific. I’d better put your story on the front page.”
    “I think you’d better wait till I’ve gotten permission to do the story in the first place. That’s why I’m here.”
    “You’ll convince them, I’m sure,” Evelyn said, reaching into her bag and pulling out a skein of yellow yarn and two knitting needles. One held the beginnings of a project, and she settled in to knit, casting on a series of stitches.
    “What are you making?” I asked.
    She chuckled. “Someone accused me of ‘trafficking in yellow journalism,’ ” she said, tugging on the wool to loosen a strand. “I figured I’d live up to the insult and make myself a yellow scarf, just to thumb my nose at him. I don’t think of the stories in the Gazette as being sensational, do you?” She didn’t wait for my reply and added, “I try to be ‘fair and balanced,’ as the fellow says. But you can’t please everybody.”
    The sound of angry voices inside Nudd’s drew our attention to the door. I couldn’t make out what was being said, but it was obvious from the shouts that some people weren’t happy with one of the topics on the agenda. I hoped it wasn’t mine.
    “I wonder if it was wise to make this request so soon after the article appeared on the troubles Spencer had,” I said, half to myself. “I understand the lobstermen were quite upset.”
    “They’ll get over it. Or if they don’t, they’ll want you to put their side in the paper. Everybody wants ‘happy news,’ leastwise when it comes to themselves. They don’t mind if you trash their neighbor. Makes for good reading, in fact. You wouldn’t believe how many letters I get, telling me to check out what so-and-so did. But they don’t have the guts to sign their names. Drives me nuts. I won’t publish anonymous letters. And I wish I could say I won’t follow up on anonymous leads. But it wouldn’t be true. It was a tip that put me on to what happened to Spencer’s boat. Of course, if you were anywhere near the docks, you wouldn’t need anyone pointing it out. That thing did reek.”
    “For some reason I missed that story,” I said. “Did the sheriff look into who dumped the rotten bait on Spencer’s deck?”
    She shook her head. “Durkee wouldn’t file a complaint. I told Mort Metzger what happened and he asked around. I know that for a