Death and a Pot of Chowder

by Cornelia Kidd

  “Homicide?” I asked, the word slipping out of my mouth before I could stop it. “Carl was murdered?” My whole world had gone out of focus. Carl’s death had been nightmarish enough. But … murder?

  “Afraid so,” said Preston. He turned to Burt. “Sorry to bother you on a Sunday morning, but you may have been the last person to speak to your brother.”

  Burt opened our door, and showed the trooper in. “Are you working with Carmela Heedles? She usually handles police matters around here.”

  “Officer Heedles is with the County Sheriff’s Office,” explained Detective Preston. “Homicides are handled by the state police.”

  “I’d like my wife to stay with me.” Burt reached for my hand. “Anna and I don’t have secrets from each other.”

  Detective Preston hesitated a minute. “I’ll need to talk with both of you again, separately. But for now, she can stay.” He glanced at me dismissively.

  “Would you like coffee? I can heat some I brewed earlier this morning,” I suggested.

  No matter his mission, the detective was our guest.

  Izzie wasn’t home, but she’d done some cooking before she left. A plate of fresh warm muffins was on the kitchen table.

  “Thank you. Coffee would be good,” Detective Preston agreed.

  Burt took off his jacket, and he and Preston sat at the kitchen table. They helped themselves to muffins as I began heating coffee. Their muffins disappeared before the coffee was hot. “Hope you don’t mind my recording our talk, Mr. Winslow.” Preston placed a small recorder in the center of the table. “For the record.”

  I took a muffin myself. It was lemony and nutty and had a sweet glaze, but I could hardly swallow.

  “I have nothing to hide,” Burt answered. “You can record. But why are you here from the homicide division? My brother drowned yesterday. Drowning isn’t homicide. You can’t arrest the North Atlantic.” He smiled nervously.

  Preston switched on his recorder as I put three mugs of coffee on the table and slipped into the chair next to Burt so our knees touched. He needed to know I was with him, no matter what. As always, for always.

  The detective’s voice was calm, but straightforward, and probably for the recorder. “We heard from Augusta this morning. The state medical examiner’s ruled Carl Winslow’s death a homicide. He didn’t drown.”

  “But—how?” Burt ran his fingers through his thinning hair, the way he always did when he was confused. “Who?”

  “We’re trying to find out,” said the detective. “For the record, Carl Winslow was your brother. Correct?”

  “Yes,” Burt answered. He broke off a piece of muffin and crumbled it on his napkin. “Younger brother. Three years younger.”

  This wasn’t Burt’s first experience with the police. Before we were married, he and Dolan had borrowed another friend’s boat and taken it to a fisherman’s festival down the coast. An overzealous harbor patrolman there had stopped them later that night after they’d left the festival and were headed back for the boat.

  After checking the boat’s registration, he’d arrested them for theft. He hadn’t bothered to listen to their protests, to check with the boat’s owner, or to call their frantic parents. The officer had assumed they’d stolen the boat. After all, the boys were young and islanders.

  They’d spent the night in jail.

  On Quarry Island, even as a boy, Burt had been respected and trusted. That night he’d been treated as though he had no value.

  It all got straightened out, but it had been the worst night of his life. Since then Burt had never felt comfortable with the police. But, fairly or unfairly, I knew from television programs that when someone had been murdered, families and close friends were always the first suspects.

  Burt shouldn’t be defensive. He needed to stay cool, collected. I put my hand on his knee, hoping he’d take it as a calming familiar gesture.

  “When did you last see your brother, Mr. Winslow? And where?”

  Burt frowned. “Yesterday morning. Early. About seven thirty, on the town wharf. I thought he’d be sterning for me. He’s been doing that since the engine on his boat died, a month ago.”

  “Did he go with you?”

  “You know the answer to that!”

  Keep calm, I told him mentally. Stay in control.

  “I know this is tough. But I need to hear your story,” Preston said.

  “No, Carl didn’t go with me. He told me he’d stayed up late the night before, tinkering with his boat’s engine, and he’d finally fixed it that morning. He wanted to take her out.”

  “Did you argue?”

  Burt glanced at me. “I’d counted on his help. Without him the day’s work would take twice as long, and I didn’t have time to find anyone else to stern.”

  Preston let that go by. Had Carl and Burt had a major argument? He hadn’t told me. But it wouldn’t have been the first time the brothers had disagreed. Loudly.

  “What did you do then?”

  Blue came out from behind the couch, where he’d been hiding, and jumped onto my lap. Maybe he sensed I needed comforting.

  “I don’t like fishing by myself; it’s harder and it isn’t safe. But I had to check my traps and set some. So, I took off.”

  “You went out in your boat.”

  “Right.”

  “What was Carl doing when you left?”

  “Standing on the wharf. I assumed he was going to work his traps in his Fair Winds.”

  “And that was the last time you saw him?”

  Burt swallowed deeply, and picked up his coffee cup with both hands. “Yes.”

  Preston didn’t speak for what seemed like minutes. Was he waiting for Burt or me to say something? Then, “Burt, did your brother have any enemies?”

  “Enemies? No! I mean, he wasn’t a perfect person. But everyone loved Carl.” He looked at the trooper. “How was he killed?”

  Jonas Preston shook his head. “I’m not going to say right now. I wanted to talk with you first, since you saw him yesterday morning. I’m also going to talk with the rest of your family and with his friends. With everyone who knew him well. I’m hoping that will lead to finding out who killed him, and why.”

  “He didn’t deserve to die.”

  “We all have to die sometime, Mr. Winslow,” said Preston, standing up. “But no one deserves to be murdered. I’ll stay in touch. I’ll have more questions to ask both of you as soon as I know more.”

  He was going to question me. My chest tightened. Would he want to talk with Jake, too? Jake was just a boy. He wouldn’t know anything.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” said Burt, standing. “When can we bring Carl back to Quarry Island?”

  Preston shook his head. “That’s up to the medical examiner. I’ll be in touch.” He pulled a card out of his pocket and handed it to Burt. “If you think of anything that might help us find out who killed your brother, let me know.” Then, he looked at me. “Mind if I take another muffin? Those were wicked good.”

  I passed him the plate. Like a little boy grabbing cookies without permission, he took two. “I hope you find whoever killed Carl, quickly.” And that you leave us alone.

  “I do, too,” said Preston, leaving, and shutting the front door.

  Burt was silent for a few seconds. Then, he turned to me. “Was what I said all right, Anna?”

  “It was fine,” I assured him. “Remember, when Preston questions you again, he isn’t accusing you of anything. He doesn’t know you or Carl. He’s gathering information.

  “Sure,” Burt said facetiously. “Cops are always fair.”

  “We don’t know Preston. He may be.” I hoped so, at least.

  “Carl wasn’t perfect. I told him that.”

  “You did.” I agreed, putting my arms around Burt. Through the soft, brown wool sweater I’d knit for him last year, I could hear his heart beating faster than usual. “He said he was going to talk to others on the island. Let them be the ones who tell him about Carl.
There aren’t any secrets on Quarry Island.” Yesterday I’d said that to Izzie.

  Yesterday could have been years ago.

  “But there are, Anna,” Burt said, burying his face in my hair. “Everyone has secrets.”

  Chapter Ten

  “How to make essence of bitter almonds: Mix one dram essential oil of bitter almonds with seven drams proof spirit. Use for flavoring custards, but must be employed with great caution, as about ten or twelve drops are poisonous.”

  —Old Doctor Carlin’s Recipes: A Complete Collection of Recipes on Every Known Subject by Doctor William Carlin. Boston, Massachusetts: The Locker Publishing Company, 1881

  We’d only had a few minutes alone to digest the news when Rob Erickson—still dressed in the jacket and slacks he’d worn to church—arrived at our door, looking over his shoulder at Detective Preston, who’d headed his car down Island Road.

  “Sorry to bother you on a day like this,” he said, closing our door behind him. “But I saw Jonas Preston leave here.”

  “Do you know him?” Burt asked, sitting on the edge of his favorite chair.

  “I sometimes ran into him when I was a detective. In Portland we did our own murder investigations, same as they do in Bangor. But state police have responsibility for homicides in the rest of the state. We worked with them.” He paused. “That’s why he was here, wasn’t it? They’ve ruled Carl’s death a homicide.”

  “Yes,” I said softly.

  “I’m retired. I don’t have any law enforcement authority. But I know what happens in murder investigations. If I can help in any way, I’m here for you.”

  “Thanks, Rob. Appreciated,” said Burt, pointing at the couch. “I should feel angry, or sad, but right now I’m numb.”

  Rob nodded, sitting. “I’m not surprised. Preston questioned you?”

  “He asked where I’d seen Carl last, and what we’d talked about.” Burt shook his head. “He actually asked me whether Carl had any enemies.”

  “That’s by the book,” Rob assured us. “First he’ll talk to the family and call for a crime scene unit to look at Carl’s boat and apartment. Those guys will check Carl’s computer and bank records, and whatever else he may have left that might help lead them to his killer.”

  “But … a crime scene? I don’t know how Carl was killed,” I shuddered as I said the words, “but he must have been on the Fair Winds. What could they find in his apartment that would help?”

  “They’ll look for names of friends. Appointment calendars. His computer. Anything that would tell them who he was close to, or who he had problems with.”

  “What can we do, Rob?” Burt asked. “Of course, we want to know whoever killed Carl, but we’re still coping with his death. We’re in over our heads. What should we be thinking about?”

  “Murder is messy,” Rob agreed. “And, bluntly, investigating it can be complicated. The detectives will ask a lot of questions and dredge up history. They may find out things you don’t want to know, or that you don’t want anyone else to know. And after they find whoever killed Carl, the trial could take months or even years. You need to stay calm and cooperate with whatever you’re asked. That won’t be easy.” He turned to me. “Has he questioned you yet, Anna? Or Jake?”

  “Does he have to question Jake, too?” I blurted. “Jake’s a child!”

  “Jake has the right to have one of you with him during the interview. But, yes, I’m sure he’ll want to question Jake.”

  I wanted chocolate. A whole box of it. A homicide detective was going to interview my son?

  Izzie bounced in the front door at just that moment. She wasn’t wearing makeup, but her cheeks were pink from the early April morning chill. She was wearing jeans and a green CIA sweatshirt, her dark cropped hair was windblown, and her arms were full of old books. She might have been a student heading for the campus coffee shop between classes.

  She didn’t know Carl had been murdered.

  “You’re home! Sorry I didn’t get back sooner. I walked to the wharf, and then I decided to visit that used bookstore where you told me Jake worked—the Maine Chance?”

  Rob stood up.

  “Hi, Rob!” Izzie dumped her books onto the table where I usually piled our mail and turned from one of us to another. “I love that Luc Burnham! What a dear old man. And he has the most fantastic collection of cookbooks. I couldn’t resist buying a few really old ones, like from the eighteen hundreds.” She turned to look at each of us. “I’m sorry. I got carried away. The day is so beautiful, and I was so happy. I didn’t think. You’re all in mourning, and I came in here and emoted all over the place.”

  “Come and join us, Izzie.” She’d have to know what was happening. “Thank you for baking the muffins. They were delicious. And, yes, we were talking about Carl. When you were at Maine Chance did you happen to ask Jake how long he’d be working this afternoon?”

  “Jake? I didn’t see Jake.” Izzie plopped down in one of our armchairs, and Rob sat again. “I assumed he was in church with you. Luc was the only one at the bookstore.”

  Izzie was already on a first name basis with Jake’s boss. I felt awkward calling him anything but Mr. Burnham, the name I’d called him since I was a child.

  “Jake said he was going to Maine Chance to work today. I excused him from church so he could do that.” I looked over at Burt. “Where do you think he is?”

  “Probably somewhere with Matt Martin, as usual. Matt wasn’t in church this morning either.”

  “You’re right,” I agreed. “But I don’t like Jake telling us he’ll be in one place, and then going to another. Especially with everything that’s happening. I want to talk to him before the police do.”

  “The police? Why would the police want to talk to Jake?” Izzie asked. “Is he in trouble?”

  “They’re talking to everyone in the family,” Burt explained quietly. “They’ve declared Carl’s death a homicide.”

  “No! And here I came in here chattering about some old books,” Izzie looked at each of us in horror. “What are we going to do?”

  We. I appreciated that.

  “Rob, do we need a lawyer?” Burt asked.

  Rob hesitated. “Calling in a lawyer right now might look as though you were trying to hide something. That you didn’t want to cooperate.” He looked from Burt to me and back again. “But if either of you do have anything to hide, I’d advise you to find someone who could represent you. Soon.”

  “So, unless Preston or one of the others comes to arrest me, I don’t need a lawyer. But if I should, do you know any good ones that don’t cost a fortune?”

  Burt was serious; he must have been remembering that day he’d been accused and arrested without proof. He needed to relax. No one had accused him of anything, but I knew him. He was already thinking he was a suspect.

  “Burt, you don’t have to worry. You didn’t do anything wrong. You don’t need a lawyer,” I assured him.

  “Anna’s right. Don’t worry about lawyering up. There’s no cause now,” Rob agreed.

  “But what if the police find out something that they think gives me a motive to hurt Carl? I want to be ready for anything.”

  Did Burt know something he wasn’t telling us? He’d always been nervous about police.

  But his only problem with them had been when he was a teenager. He was thirty-two now.

  “Let’s hope you don’t have to worry about that,” said Rob. “But I’ll check around and get back to you. I should be able to come up with a name or two.”

  “Thank you. That would mean a lot. Rob, I’m sure you were a good detective. But even you know cops sometimes get carried away. I want to be prepared, no matter what happens.” Burt seemed to have shrunk. His strong body was now melded with his chair, and his voice kept getting weaker.

  “Burt, I know this is awful, but you have to relax. You’re acting as though you’re a suspect. Rob said the police always question the family of the victim first. That’s all that’s happened,” I remi
nded him.

  “Wicked straight.” Those words were a little stronger. Burt was pulling himself together. He turned to me. “I didn’t do anything wrong, Anna. But I don’t know what the police think. If they take me away, ask Dolan to see about my traps. I haven’t set all of them yet, but he knows where they are. He can find someone to help him. Tell him, though, if I’m gone more than a week, to just pull them. No way he can handle both of ours.”

  “Burt! Stop it! They’re not going to arrest you.” I said. “You’re not a teenager away from home. There’s no reason to think you’ll be accused of anything.” Was Burt overreacting because he hadn’t accepted Carl’s death? Or … could he know something he hadn’t told the police or me?

  “Better to be prepared for the worst.” Burt moved to the edge of his chair. “I want Jake to stay in school. I don’t want him taking on my traps until at least summer vacation.”

  I wanted to kick Burt under the table and tell him to shut up. The more he talked, the guiltier he sounded. I was sure he hadn’t hurt Carl; his defenses were just up because of that long-ago night he’d spent in jail. Then I thought of something the detective had said.

  “Detective Preston asked Burt about his arguing with Carl yesterday,” I said to Rob. “How do you think he knew they’d argued?”

  Rob paused, and then answered. “I told one of the Marine Patrol officers yesterday that I’d heard them yelling at each other down at the wharf.”

  “What? You told them? You said you wanted to help us!” Burt’s words were like daggers.

  “I do,” said Rob. “But I won’t lie. I was out jogging earlier than usual yesterday morning. Dad had a bad night. Neither of us were sleeping, so I went out to get fresh air. I overhead the two of you. I didn’t know what it was about, but sounds carry over water. When the officer asked if anyone had seen or heard from Carl yesterday, I told him.”

  “No wonder they came to see me first,” said Burt, his face contorted. “They do suspect I killed Carl!”

  “Did you, Burt?” Rob asked calmly. “Did you kill your brother?”

  My whole body tightened, waiting for Burt’s answer.