{"product_id":"murder-she-wrote-the-maine-mutiny-isbn-9780451214683","title":"Murder, She Wrote: the Maine Mutiny","description":"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.Jessica Fletcher is a bestselling mystery writer who has a knack for stumbling upon real-life mysteries in her various travels. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003eDonald Bain, Jessica Fletcher’s longtime collaborator, is the writer of over eighty books, many of them bestsellers.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTable of Contents\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTitle Page\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCopyright Page\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDedication\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter One\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter Two\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter Three\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter Four\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter Five\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter Six\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter Seven\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter Eight\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter Nine\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter Ten\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter Eleven\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter Twelve\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter Thirteen\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter Fourteen\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter Fifteen\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter Sixteen\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter Seventeen\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter Eighteen\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter Nineteen\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter Twenty\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter Twenty-one\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter Twenty-two\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter Twenty-three\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTeaser chapter\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eA SHOCKING DISCOVERY\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOnce 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOTHER BOOKS IN THE \u003ci\u003eMurder, She Wrote\u003c\/i\u003e SERIES\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eManhattans \u0026amp; Murder\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eRum \u0026amp; Razors\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eBrandy \u0026amp; Bullets\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eMartinis \u0026amp; Mayhem\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eA Deadly Judgment\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eA Palette for Murder\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Highland Fling Murders\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eMurder on the QE2\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eMurder in Moscow\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eA Little Yuletide Murder\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eMurder at the Powderhorn Ranch\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eKnock ’Em Dead\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eGin \u0026amp; Daggers\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eTrick or Treachery\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eBlood on the Vine\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eMurder in a Minor Key\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eProvence—To Die For\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eYou Bet Your Life\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eMajoring in Murder\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eDestination Murder\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eDying to Retire\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eA Vote for Murder\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSIGNET \u003cbr\u003ePublished by New American Library, a division of \u003cbr\u003ePenguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, \u003cbr\u003eNew York, New York 10014, USA \u003cbr\u003ePenguin Group (Canada), 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, \u003cbr\u003eOntario M4V 3B2, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) \u003cbr\u003ePenguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England \u003cbr\u003ePenguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, \u003cbr\u003eIreland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) \u003cbr\u003ePenguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, \u003cbr\u003eAustralia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) \u003cbr\u003ePenguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, \u003cbr\u003eNew Delhi - 110 017, India \u003cbr\u003ePenguin Group (NZ), cnr Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, \u003cbr\u003eAuckland 1310, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) \u003cbr\u003ePenguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, \u003cbr\u003eRosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa \u003cbr\u003ePenguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: \u003cbr\u003e80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England \u003cbr\u003eFirst published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, \u003cbr\u003ea division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. \u003cbr\u003eFirst Printing, April 2005 \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCopyright © 2005 Universal Studios Licensing LLLP. Murder, She Wrote is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eeISBN : 978-1-101-01070-9\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAll rights reserved\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eREGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWithout 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePUBLISHER’S NOTE\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThis 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTo all the honest and hardworking men and women of Maine who bring in the lobsters, with admiration and fondness.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e Prologue\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI think it was the smell that woke me.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI’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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut this was different.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI’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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eWhat a vivid dream,\u003c\/i\u003e I thought.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSometime 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eThis isn’t my bed!\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe 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?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI 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. \u003ci\u003eMy lumpy bed,\u003c\/i\u003e I thought, grasping a coil of the line and  holding on as if it would keep me from tumbling overboard.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eOverboard! You’re on a boat, a lobster boat.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAcross 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.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eI’m on Spencer’s boat, the\u003c\/i\u003e Done For\u003ci\u003e. How did I get here?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy 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?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eYou’d better find out what’s going on, Jessica,\u003c\/i\u003e I told myself. \u003ci\u003eIt doesn’t matter if you’re in pain. Something is terribly wrong. Get moving.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEvery 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. \u003ci\u003eAnd a dress. I’d never have worn a dress if I’d known I would be on a boat.\u003c\/i\u003e 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNow 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eWell, Jessica. You’ve been in fixes before. What do we do now?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI swallowed convulsively and realized my throat was parched. \u003ci\u003eWhat I’d give for a glass of water. How ironic,\u003c\/i\u003e  I thought. The lines from \u003ci\u003eThe Rime of the Ancient Mariner\u003c\/i\u003e by Samuel Taylor Coleridge sprang immediately to mind. How many times had I taught that poem?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eWater, water, everywhere,\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eAnd all the boards did shrink;\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eWater, water, everywhere,\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eNor any drop to drink.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHaving 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. \u003ci\u003eThe first thing to do is to get out of the sun,\u003c\/i\u003e I told myself. \u003ci\u003eThen everything will fall into place.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303750062309,"sku":"NP9780451214683","price":9.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780451214683.jpg?v=1767733170","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/murder-she-wrote-the-maine-mutiny-isbn-9780451214683","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}