Free The Maine Mutiny by Jessica Fletcher

news,” I said.
    “Do I smell something burning?”
    “Oh, my heavens, the cake!” I jumped up and opened the toaster. A corner of the coffee cake was singed. I grabbed an oven mitt and pulled the tray out. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”
    Seth peered over my shoulder. “Doesn’t look too bad,” he said. “You can cut off that corner.”
    “Are you sure you still want it?”
    “It’ll be fine,” he said, taking his seat again.
    I sliced off the burned corner and served the well-done coffee cake, although my recipe didn’t benefit from the overheating. What would normally be flaky simply fell apart when speared with a fork. Seth consumed it anyway, scooping up the crumbs with his teaspoon. While he ate, I filled him in on my talk with Mary and on the part of the lobstermen’s meeting I’d attended.
    “Do you know Henry Pettie?” I asked.
    “Heard of ’im. Never met the man.”
    “What do you hear?”
    “Well, he locked up this part of the coast. He handles the harbors to the north and south of Cabot Cove. Makes it tough for a man to sell his catch anywhere else nearby unless he’s supplyin’ the local residents. The shore restaurants won’t deal with an individual lobsterman. If they do, Pettie will lock ’em out when supplies are short. That’s how he controls the market.”
    “Does he control the prices as well?”
    “Not entirely. The lobstermen have ways finding out the going price elsewhere in the state. Pettie’d better not stray too far from that number, or he’ll lose even more of his credibility and influence with the men. He’s not exactly a popular fellow, I hear.”
    “If they don’t trust him, why do they keep selling to him? Seems to me they could find another dealer.”
    “Might be more trouble than it’s worth,” Seth said, brushing crumbs from the front of his shirt. “The system works fine as it is.”
    “Well, couldn’t they form a cooperative?” I said. “They do that elsewhere in the state. That way they’d work for themselves. They could do that, couldn’t they?”
    “Mebbe.”
    “Sounds logical to me,” I said, sipping my tea. “Why do you suppose they haven’t done it so far?”
    “Inertia, probably,” Seth said. “You know the old saying: ‘If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.’ ”
    “The men don’t trust Pettie,” I said. “Sounds to me as if it’s broke.”
    “Well, there’s broke and there’s broke. They’d have to have a powerful motivation to kick the man out after so many years.”
    “I hope the lobstermen’s difficulty with him doesn’t have an impact on the upcoming festival.”
    “Now, Jess, don’t go borrowing trouble.”
    “There’s borrowing and there’s borrowing,” I said. “Mary Carver hinted that the dispute between the men and their broker might mean fewer lobsters available for the festival’s shore dinner. And one of the men at the meeting threatened to sell his catch up coast.”
    “Idle talk,” Seth said. “If a man has to sail up the coast to sell his catch, he’s adding hours to an already long day. He might be willin’ to do it once or twice to make a point, but beyond that, I don’t see it happening.”
    “I agree,” I said, feeling comforted that the festival dinner was seemingly secure. “Would you like more tea?”
    “Not for me, thanks. And if you’ve got to meet Levi Carver at the crack of dawn, I’d better let you get some sleep.” He rose and pulled his jacket from the back of the chair. “By the way, I’ve got something here for you.”
    “What is it?” I asked as I gathered up our cups and saucers and took them to the sink.
    “It’s here somewhere,” he said, reaching into first one and then the other jacket pocket.
    I turned on the water, quickly washed up our tea things, and left them in the dish drainer to dry. “Did I tell you that Matilda Watson is helping Gwen out with the beauty pageant?” I said, drying my hands on a towel. “I heard it from Evelyn Phillips