The Maine Mutiny by Jessica Fletcher Page B

one while we shared the latest news over a cup of his jailhouse coffee. Mort had worked in New York City before coming up to Cabot Cove to take over as sheriff after Amos Tucker retired. He was a bit of a coffee snob, claiming our local brew was not up to his standards, and sending to the city for special blends from a secret source he wouldn’t reveal. I suspected his secret source had moved closer to home when a Starbucks opened out near the new mall. But Mort wasn’t saying and I wasn’t pressing. The coffee was good and the company even better.
    “Heard you went out with Levi Carver and his son. How did that go?”
    “Who told you about that?”
    “I met the doc in the emergency room yesterday. Said you were writing a piece for the Gazette .”
    “What were you doing in the ER?”
    “We had a fender bender over by the high school.”
    “Any serious injuries?”
    “Nah. One of his patients. She already had a bandage on her head. I figure it may have distracted her while she was driving. The other guy was fine.”
    “Oh, dear. That must have been the lady who stepped on a hoe.”
    “That sounds right.”
    “She’s not having a good week. Was she okay?”
    “I think so. Maybe a little whiplash, but that’s all. So how’d the lobstering go?”
    “Pretty well, I thought. We brought in over four hundred pounds,” I said. “Will you listen to me? ‘ We brought in.’ They brought in over four hundred pounds. I just watched.”
    “Did you take notes?”
    “No. I’m relying on my memory. There’s just no way to write on a rocking boat. I knew if I tried, the salt spray would smear the ink and curl the pages, assuming I could even read my handwriting once I’d gotten home. I typed up a first draft last night, but I was too tired to work on it in earnest.”
    “Think you’ll remember everything you need?”
    “Enough to finish the article, I’m sure. And Levi isn’t moving away, so if I have any questions, I can call him up and ask.”
    “Tough business, lobstering,” Mort said, reaching into the box for his third doughnut. “Those guys work long hours for not a lot.”
    “Maureen is not going to be happy with me if you finish that whole box,” I said. Maureen, Mort’s second wife, was always putting him on a diet. “Why don’t you save some for tomorrow?”
    “The deputies will finish whatever I don’t eat right now. Are you sure you don’t want another?”
    “I’m fine,” I said. “One’s my limit.”
    “I’ve been thinking about joining a gym or taking an exercise class,” Mort said, licking the sugar off his fingers and wiping them on a napkin. He closed the box, carried it across the room, and put it on the top of a file cabinet. “Out of reach, out of mind,” he said. “For now anyway.”
    “Where are your shoes?” I asked, noticing he was in socks.
    “Under the desk. They’re new. Don’t want to scuff them up.”
    “If you’re interested in exercise, they’re starting yoga classes at the hospital,” I said. “I just saw the flyer hanging up in Sassi’s.”
    “Can you see me standing on one foot and humming?”
    “I’m sure there’s more to it than that.”
    “Maybe, but I want something more active, like weight lifting.”
    “I like to jog myself. I’ve gotten out of the habit with all the traveling I’ve done recently. But yesterday convinced me to start again.”
    “Yesterday? What happened?”
    “Nothing, really. I spent the day sitting on a stool and holding on to keep from falling off. But even with a long bath last night, I woke up pretty sore today. It’s too easy to get out of shape and hard to get back into it. Those men did all the work, and I got the charley horse.”
    “Maybe you should look into the yoga classes.”
    “Maybe I should,” I said, thinking that wasn’t a bad idea. “But tell me, what’s new? Any more cases of rotten bait being spilled on a boat?”
    “You’re talking about the Done For. I know who did it, but Durkee