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Summary
Summary
Jessica Fletcher is pitching in to help Cabot Cove's first Lobster Festival by writing an article about the lifestyle of the local lobstermen. But instead of getting the story, she becomes tangled in a net of intrigue and murder. And she better sink her claws into this puzzling case-or she may find herself becoming the next catch of the day.
Author Notes
Jessica Fletcher was born Jessica Beatrice Macgill and writes under the initialed J.B. Fletcher. She is a fictional character portrayed by actress Angela Lansbury on the television series Murder She Wrote. She is a best selling author of mystery novels as well as an amateur detective. Within the sereis she holds the occupation of English teacher and novelist. She lives in a fictional town of Cabot Cove Maine. This town seems to have a high murder ratio based on the number of murders that occur in any one season of the show. She traveled a great deal as an author which took her to places around much of the English speaking world. This allowed her writers to stretch her character and her situations further than rural New England. In one episode she went to Hawaii and shared a case with Thomas Magnum of Magnum PI. Mrs. Fletcher was widowed from her husband Frank with no children but en endless supply of nephews, nieces, cousins and in-laws who are in need of her help. She began her career writing on an old Royal typewriter but as she progressed she purchased an Intel 80386 clsss computer. Her friends included both millionaires and homeless people. The format of the show usually had Jessica solving the mystery within 5 minutes of the end of the show. The show ran from 1985-1996. After the weekly series concluded Jessica Fletcher did appear in some made for TV movies based on Murder She Wrote.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Excerpts
Excerpts
Table of Contents Title Page Copyright Page Dedication Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-one Chapter Twenty-two Chapter Twenty-three Teaser chapter A SHOCKING DISCOVERY I stepped down the stairs and pushed on the door. Why did this feel familiar? I put my shoulder to the wood, pressed as hard as I could, and managed to gain a few inches more, but not enough for easy access. Could I squeeze through the narrow opening? I pushed my arm and shoulder through first, forced my knee in, then my hips. My head was last, and there was a panicky moment when I thought I might get stuck there permanently, with my body half in the cabin and my head wedged between the frame and the door. Once inside, I groped along the wall for a light switch but found none. After the brilliant sunshine of the deck above, it took more than a moment before my eyes became accustomed to the dim light in the small, fusty cabin. But once they had, I was not happy with what I saw. The long, dark shape I'd made out peering through the cabin portholes from above was now discernible. A man was lying diagonally across the berth that filled the triangular space of the small cabin. His head was thrown back, and his mouth gaped open; a trickle of blood had dribbled from the corner of his mouth down his cheek and pooled in the creases of his neck. He was dead. OTHER BOOKS IN THE Murder, She Wrote SERIES Manhattans & Murder Rum & Razors Brandy & Bullets Martinis & Mayhem A Deadly Judgment A Palette for Murder The Highland Fling Murders Murder on the QE2 Murder in Moscow A Little Yuletide Murder Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch Knock 'Em Dead Gin & Daggers Trick or Treachery Blood on the Vine Murder in a Minor Key Provence--To Die For You Bet Your Life Majoring in Murder Destination Murder Dying to Retire A Vote for Murder SIGNET Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA Penguin Group (Canada), 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario M4V 3B2, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen's Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), cnr Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. First Printing, April 2005 Copyright © 2005 Universal Studios Licensing LLLP. Murder, She Wrote is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. eISBN : 978-1-101-01070-9 All rights reserved REGISTERED TRADEMARK--MARCA REGISTRADA Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. PUBLISHER'S NOTE This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated. To all the honest and hardworking men and women of Maine who bring in the lobsters, with admiration and fondness. Prologue I think it was the smell that woke me. I've lived near the ocean my entire life, not counting the time I moved to Indiana for a semester to teach at Schoolman College, nor the time I lived in New York City as a part-time professor at Manhattan University. Even then, I'd come home to Cabot Cove on the weekends. And I don't mind the smell of fish. If you live in a coastal village in Maine, you get used to it. When Ethan Cragg and I used to go fishing, his boat was pretty aromatic, especially when he was cleaning our catch at the end of the day. So I know the smell of a working boat, and a lobster boat definitely falls into that category. But this was different. I cracked my eyes open. The sun was beating down on my head. I love the mornings when its rays slant through my east-facing windows. I like to pause, turn my back to the panes, close my eyes, and luxuriate in the sun's warm embrace, just for a moment, before the day's work pulls me away. Had I left the shades open last night? I didn't remember. I'd been dreaming about a lobster boat on the water. I shut my eyes again and tried to recapture the vision. It had to do with the upcoming lobster festival. And Spencer Durkee was there. He's something of a town eccentric, when he isn't cuddling up to a bottle down at the beach. A lobsterman for sixty-five of his more than eighty years, he regales youngsters and oldsters alike with his colorful accounts of rumrunners during Prohibition. I suspect he's spinning tales he's heard but never really experienced. All the same, everyone loves to hear him tell the stories. Yes, Spencer was in my dream. What was he doing there? We were on a boat, weren't we? I struggled to remember, but the details were fading away, the sun bleaching them out of my consciousness. Even so, I could still hear the quiet lapping of the sea on the hull, and feel the gentle rocking when the boat bobbed in the water. What a vivid dream, I thought. Sometime during the night I must have kicked off my covers. A breeze was fluttering fabric against my legs. I felt it move across my body. I tried to turn over to escape the blinding light, but my bed was all lumpy and hard. This isn't my bed! The shock of recognition made me bolt up quickly. I cringed at the pain and reached out to steady myself, my hand pressing against a hard surface. My heart was sounding a tattoo in my chest. I tried, but couldn't take a deep breath, settling instead for shallow panting. Dizzy. Why was I so dizzy? And where was I? I held perfectly still and squinted against the brilliant light. Gradually, my surroundings came into focus. Outside. I was outside; that's why the sun was so intense. I shaded my eyes with a trembling hand and looked down. I was sitting on a pile of rope. My lumpy bed, I thought, grasping a coil of the line and holding on as if it would keep me from tumbling overboard. Overboard! You're on a boat, a lobster boat. Across the beam of the boat, a white buoy painted in stripes of yellow and purple--Spencer Durkee's colors--leaned against the corner where the rail meets the washboard, a ledge that runs along the back of the boat. Two wire-and-wood lobster traps sat nearby, empty except for the three bricks in the bottom that kept them from floating along the ocean floor when the current was strong. Above me dangled the pulley of the hydraulic pot hauler, a winch used to pull lobster traps up to the surface. It was attached to the purple roof of the wheelhouse, a Spencer Durkee trademark. "Never have no trouble pickin' out my boat in the float." I'm on Spencer's boat, the Done For . How did I get here? My head ached, and I squeezed my eyes closed against the throbbing. Maintaining a hold on the rope with my right hand, I gingerly probed the left side of my head, discovering a good-sized egg that was tender to the touch. I opened my eyes again and looked up. Had I hit my head against the pulley? You'd better find out what's going on, Jessica, I told myself. It doesn't matter if you're in pain. Something is terribly wrong. Get moving. Every muscle in my body complained as I tried to pull myself up to a standing position. I rolled over onto my knees, but was unable to balance on the uneven surface of the rope. I crawled off the coils to the smoother planks of the platform, and slipped off my shoes. They were not appropriate for standing on a deck. And a dress. I'd never have worn a dress if I'd known I would be on a boat. Slowly I raised myself till I was standing, legs apart, knees flexed, and bent forward, the only way I could maintain my equilibrium. I took a few breaths and straightened up. Carefully I moved to the middle of the deck, sliding in my stocking feet. I untied the sleeves of a cotton sweater that was looped around my shoulders--how did it get so dirty? I pulled it over my head and pushed my arms through. I wasn't cold. But the sun was high and would burn my skin to a crisp, if it hadn't already. Now upright, I gazed around. Like all lobster boats, Spencer's sat low in the water, the rail not much more than knee height. Heavy seas would slap easily over the transom and the sides. Fortunately it was relatively calm, with a breeze raising only a slight chop, the small waves and delicate whitecaps extending as far as I could see. Alone. No land in sight, not even the slim dark blue silhouette on the horizon that indicated a terrestrial body. No. Only a straight line of water stretching away to where it met the sky. I staggered to the rail and looked toward the bow of the boat. The seascape was the same. Water. No land. But a bank of dark clouds was heading my way. Well, Jessica. You've been in fixes before. What do we do now? My mind raced. I'd never piloted a boat of any size other than a rowboat. Could I serve as master of this vessel? Could I find my way home? That was assuming, of course, that I could get the boat started. Had we run out of gas? The events leading up to my presence on the boat were lost in the fog of memory. I'd heard a bump on the head could cause amnesia. Was I one of its victims? I knew who I was. But I had no recollection of how I'd gotten here. I swallowed convulsively and realized my throat was parched. What I'd give for a glass of water. How ironic, I thought. The lines from The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge sprang immediately to mind. How many times had I taught that poem? Water, water, everywhere, And all the boards did shrink; Water, water, everywhere, Nor any drop to drink. I took a deep breath and straightened my shoulders. The first thing to do was to look around and see what was available. Lobster boats had radios, didn't they? That would be a place to start. Having a purpose gave me some energy. Perhaps there was some water on board. Maybe even something to eat. I sighed. Well, the day wasn't lost altogether. Spencer practically lived on his boat. There must be some supplies or emergency gear, like a flare. And if I could figure out how to operate the radio, help might be just a call away. The first thing to do is to get out of the sun, I told myself. Then everything will fall into place. Excerpted from The Maine Mutiny by Jessica Fletcher, Donald Bain All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.