when I said you’ll get and not a minute earlier.” He dropped his feet to the floor and raised his index finger at Levi to indicate he knew he was there. “Sam, if I put you at the top of the list, I got to charge you more. My men are suffering down here because no one wants to pay more, you understand. That’s what I thought. Don’t you worry. I’ll take care of you.”
He hung up the phone and pulled his checkbook toward him, reaching a hand out to take Levi’s receipt. “It’s tough this year,” he said, selecting a pen from a mug filled with them. “No one wants to pay more than last year even though the hauls are smaller. I know the men are angry. But what can I do?”
He sounded as if he were talking to himself, not us. But Levi was listening and wasn’t happy with what he was hearing.
“Last year we were swimming in lobsters,” Levi said. “When they’re plentiful, I expect I’m not goin’ get much per pound, but I’ll make it up in volume. But this year they’re scarce and you’re paying the same price. It don’t fly with me. I want to know why.”
Pettie tore the check from his checkbook and waved it around as if to dry the ink, although he’d used a ballpoint pen to write it. “You heard what I told Sam. No one wants to pay more than they paid last year. That’s the market. When Boston pays less, we all get it in the neck.” He opened his desk drawer and took a piece of paper from a pad, scribbled something on it, and gave it to Levi along with his check.
“I don’t want you mad at me, Carver,” Pettie said. “You’re one of my highliners. No better fisherman around, not even down the coast. I rely on you guys, but I can’t control the market. You know that. Give that note to Nudd. He’ll give you a discount on the bait for tomorrow. It’s not much, I know, but it’s the best I can do right now. Things’ll turn around soon, I’m sure.”
Levi glanced at the amount of the check, stuffed the papers in his shirt pocket, turned, and left without saying another word to Pettie.
The broker shrugged at me. “He’ll get over it,” he said. “I’m the only game in town.” He pulled a small black notebook from his hip pocket and made notations in it. Then he picked up the phone and dialed a number.
I followed Levi back to the dock. Evan had moved the boat to where the gasoline pumps were located and was filling the tanks.
“That man’s cheating us. I just know it,” Levi said.
“He told me you’ll get over it,” I said, “because he’s the only game in town.”
“He said that?” Levi looked back toward the shack, his mouth in a tight line. “Not for long, he ain’t. Not for long.”
Chapter Seven
“How’s the coffee, Mrs. F?”
“Just fine, Mort. Do you like the doughnuts?”
“What cop doesn’t like doughnuts?”
I had stopped at Charlene Sassi’s bakery on the way to see Cabot Cove’s sheriff and my friend, Mort Metzger. Charlene had just taken a tray of plain doughnuts out of the oven and iced them with her special recipe for vanilla glaze. I’d bought half a dozen, and while she boxed them up I perused notices taped to her front window. Next to a plea for help finding a missing cat and an announcement of yoga classes forming at the hospital was a photo of Katherine Corr, the young lady Sassi’s Bakery was sponsoring in the Lobsterfest pageant.
“Is that Jim Corr’s daughter?” I asked. Jim was the high school choirmaster.
“That’s her,” Charlene said, handing me the box tied up with several strands of string.
“They grow up so fast. I think I had her in one of my classes, years back. Tiny girl with an elfin face. Very bright and very shy.”
“She’s not so shy anymore. All grown up and gorgeous now. Wait till you get a load of her.”
“I’m planning to stop by the pageant rehearsals this afternoon,” I said. “I’ll look forward to seeing her again.”
Mort had a weakness for Charlene’s doughnuts, and I allowed myself
He hung up the phone and pulled his checkbook toward him, reaching a hand out to take Levi’s receipt. “It’s tough this year,” he said, selecting a pen from a mug filled with them. “No one wants to pay more than last year even though the hauls are smaller. I know the men are angry. But what can I do?”
He sounded as if he were talking to himself, not us. But Levi was listening and wasn’t happy with what he was hearing.
“Last year we were swimming in lobsters,” Levi said. “When they’re plentiful, I expect I’m not goin’ get much per pound, but I’ll make it up in volume. But this year they’re scarce and you’re paying the same price. It don’t fly with me. I want to know why.”
Pettie tore the check from his checkbook and waved it around as if to dry the ink, although he’d used a ballpoint pen to write it. “You heard what I told Sam. No one wants to pay more than they paid last year. That’s the market. When Boston pays less, we all get it in the neck.” He opened his desk drawer and took a piece of paper from a pad, scribbled something on it, and gave it to Levi along with his check.
“I don’t want you mad at me, Carver,” Pettie said. “You’re one of my highliners. No better fisherman around, not even down the coast. I rely on you guys, but I can’t control the market. You know that. Give that note to Nudd. He’ll give you a discount on the bait for tomorrow. It’s not much, I know, but it’s the best I can do right now. Things’ll turn around soon, I’m sure.”
Levi glanced at the amount of the check, stuffed the papers in his shirt pocket, turned, and left without saying another word to Pettie.
The broker shrugged at me. “He’ll get over it,” he said. “I’m the only game in town.” He pulled a small black notebook from his hip pocket and made notations in it. Then he picked up the phone and dialed a number.
I followed Levi back to the dock. Evan had moved the boat to where the gasoline pumps were located and was filling the tanks.
“That man’s cheating us. I just know it,” Levi said.
“He told me you’ll get over it,” I said, “because he’s the only game in town.”
“He said that?” Levi looked back toward the shack, his mouth in a tight line. “Not for long, he ain’t. Not for long.”
Chapter Seven
“How’s the coffee, Mrs. F?”
“Just fine, Mort. Do you like the doughnuts?”
“What cop doesn’t like doughnuts?”
I had stopped at Charlene Sassi’s bakery on the way to see Cabot Cove’s sheriff and my friend, Mort Metzger. Charlene had just taken a tray of plain doughnuts out of the oven and iced them with her special recipe for vanilla glaze. I’d bought half a dozen, and while she boxed them up I perused notices taped to her front window. Next to a plea for help finding a missing cat and an announcement of yoga classes forming at the hospital was a photo of Katherine Corr, the young lady Sassi’s Bakery was sponsoring in the Lobsterfest pageant.
“Is that Jim Corr’s daughter?” I asked. Jim was the high school choirmaster.
“That’s her,” Charlene said, handing me the box tied up with several strands of string.
“They grow up so fast. I think I had her in one of my classes, years back. Tiny girl with an elfin face. Very bright and very shy.”
“She’s not so shy anymore. All grown up and gorgeous now. Wait till you get a load of her.”
“I’m planning to stop by the pageant rehearsals this afternoon,” I said. “I’ll look forward to seeing her again.”
Mort had a weakness for Charlene’s doughnuts, and I allowed myself
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