Death and a Pot of Chowder

by Cornelia Kidd

  “And I’d want to charge prices families could afford.”

  I shook my head. “Sounds perfect. But impossible.”

  “Nothing is impossible,” Izzie declared. “Dreams come true.”

  I looked at her doubtfully. “Maybe some dreams.” Izzie was so excited about possibilities in her life. Had I ever felt that way?

  “Of course, you have to work hard to make them happen,” Izzie said, drinking the last of her coffee. Her face lit up when she talked. Her excitement was contagious.

  “I’ll cheer you on! So where is this dream restaurant going to be?”

  “I’m still working that out. Not in a big city like New York, at least not at first. Rents are too high, and pressure’s too great. I know I’m young. I can cook, and I’ve taken classes in restaurant management, but I’ve never organized a staff or run a business. I have a lot to learn. And I don’t want to go back to Connecticut. It’s time for me to start over in a new place. That’s why I was thinking of looking for a job at one of the restaurants in Portland. Get some experience, build up my bank account, and then decide.”

  “Does it cost a lot to open a restaurant?” I asked. Izzie and I were going to inherit money. Maybe that would help her.

  “It varies a lot. Where the place is, renting or buying, equipping the place, having enough cash to open and carry the expenses of staff and food and liquor until you’re in the black.”

  “It sounds complicated. And running your restaurant wouldn’t be as creative as the cooking you’re talking about. I know—I took care of the accounts for that roofing business. It wasn’t exactly like a restaurant, but we did have to please customers, keep inventory records, and balance the books.” I sat back, remembering. I’d liked being in charge, and Seth had let me manage everything in the office while he supervised the outside jobs. I missed working.

  Izzie smiled. “I’ll have to learn all that.” She picked up our empty plates and went to the sink to rinse them off.

  “What about a family? Don’t you want to get married and have children?” I called after her.

  “I’d like to have a man in my life, of course. Maybe even children someday. But families—even one man—take a lot of time. Right now, I want to concentrate on my dreams before I start trying to fit someone else and their dreams into mine.”

  Izzie’d already figured out what she wanted to do with her life. I’d never thought far beyond what I had now. What would the rest of my life be like? Suddenly the years stretched ahead of me.

  “I envy you, though,” Izzie said, looking around. “You have a husband who loves you, a son who seems like a normal teenager, family nearby, and you live in a beautiful place. Not many people have all that.” She paused. “Dad was busy with business and with his own friends, but he was my family: someone to call when I broke up with a boyfriend or aced an exam. I had a home to go to for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Now I have friends, of course, but they’re busy with their own lives and families.”

  The way Izzie saw her world fascinated me. “We have very different lives, but I’m glad we found each other.”

  “Me, too,” said Izzie, putting her hand on top of mine. “But you already have a full life. We don’t know yet if our lives will fit together.”

  “True. But I’m hopeful,” I agreed. Living in a close-knit community meant you had support—like from those who’d brought food and condolences yesterday. My life was centered around the people I loved. I’d never thought of doing anything independently. Would I ever find something I loved doing as much as Izzie loved cooking? It was a new question, but I sensed the answer was important.

  As Izzie put our dishes in the dishwasher, I noted that no one had called or stopped in this morning, which was unusual for after a death.

  “Do you have to stay here this morning? Is that detective coming back?”

  “He may, but he has both my cell and my home telephone numbers. Other people do, too. Some may stop in today to pay condolence visits. But,” I admitted, “I’m not looking forward to that. They’re being kind, but with all the questions about Carl’s death, I know they’ll be pumping me for answers I don’t have. Or don’t want to talk about.”

  “Last night you said you wanted to solve Carl’s murder,” she reminded me.

  “I still do. But I haven’t figured out how,” I admitted.

  “I’ll help! It’ll be like putting a complicated recipe together,” she suggested.

  “You’re right,” I said, smiling. Izzie could connect anything to food. “But I need a little more time. Distance.”

  “Then let’s get out. Go for a walk,” she said. “Or a drive. I’d like to see more of the island. And we wouldn’t be too far away, if someone needed you.”

  No matter where you were on the island, you were never far away. “A good idea,” I said. “But I’d like to stop at the Martins’ house first to see if Lucy knows what Jake was up to this morning. Or why he and Matt fought yesterday.”

  “They’re next door. Right?”

  “Right. Between our house and the Ericksons.’”

  “Rob Erickson is the retired detective who’s taking care of his father? He seemed nice. And good-looking. For someone his age,” she added. “I mean—he must be in his forties, right?”

  Rob was good-looking. Our island had only a few unmarried residents. Carl had been one. Rose and Cynthia Snowe weren’t married. But nearly everyone else on the island who wasn’t married was either under eighteen or over sixty-five. Maine had the oldest population in the union. Quarry Island was no exception.

  “His house is the one with the buoy tree, right? Does Rob collect buoys?”

  I shook my head. “Those are his dad’s. They’re all red and yellow striped: Gus’ colors. He hung them there when he gave up lobstering.”

  “Would you mind if I went with you to the Martins’?” Izzie asked.

  “Of course not. Come on,” I said, getting up. “We’ve been friends since we were kids.”

  Izzie shook her head in amazement. “I’m not in touch with anyone I went to elementary school with. Here it sounds as though friends really are forever.”

  “Womb to tomb,” I agreed soberly as we headed out the door.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Cookie Recipe: Mix together one pound of powdered loaf-sugar, one pound of flour, and a half-teaspoonful of carbonate of soda; rub in a quarter pound of butter; make into a soft paste, with three eggs, a dessertspoonful of cream or milk, and essence of almond to taste; roll out an inch thick, and cut into biscuits with a wineglass. Bake ten minutes in a moderate oven. They must be kept in a dry place, and will continue good for three months.”

  —Peterson’s Magazine, January 1886

  Early April was way too soon to garden, but the ground was beginning to warm. It used to be traditional in Maine to plant gardens over Memorial Day weekend, but weather had changed since then. Many islanders now put crops, like peas that could stand cooler nights, in earlier.

  Below winter debris and mud, mint and chives and early tulips were sprouting in my garden. Tiny spikes that in a month would be dandelions were beneath the withered grasses of our lawn. Soon I’d be pulling weeds and planting lettuce and zucchini and parsley seeds and tomato and pepper seedlings. Today, a pair of robins pushed aside brown leaves and lunched on early worms. Life and death, everywhere.

  “In New York, trees are budding, and others are in bloom,” said Izzie, as we walked toward the Martins’ house, stopping to watch chipmunks skittering in and out of the low stone wall that separated our homes.

  “Trees here won’t be really green for about six more weeks. We still have crocuses blooming. Daffodils are just starting to flower.” Several naturalized clumps flourished next to our mailbox, which Jake had painted red as a Mother’s Day gift to me three years ago. “Let’s take the path to avoid the mud.”

  When the boys had been small, racing between our houses, Dolan and Burt had dug out the path they’d worn in the grass, opened a sp
ace in the stone wall, and designed a walkway intended to keep mud out of both our homes. They’d poured cement and then, when it was still wet, covered the path with tumbled sea stones from the beach near Heron Point. The path was well constructed and attractive, but treacherous for anyone in high heels. Lucy’d broken more than one pair on it. My heels were only for weddings and funerals.

  Funerals. When could we have Carl’s funeral? How long would the medical examiner need his body? I shuddered, thinking of what was happening to it. To him.

  Izzie hugged herself. “It’s chilly,” she admitted. “But I like smelling the salt air.”

  “I do, too,” I agreed.

  I dropped the brass pineapple knocker on the Martins’ door, and walked in. “Lucy!” I called from the living room. “It’s me. Izzie’s with me.”

  Lucy didn’t answer. She might be in the shower or on the telephone, but I was almost as at home here as I was in my own house. I led Izzie through Lucy’s tidy living room decorated in blues and grays. She’d commissioned Mom to make the quilt thrown over the back of the couch in shades to match the room. Lucy studied Elle Décor and Maine Home and Design the way Izzie read gourmet cookbooks. She’d saved and done without until she could afford exactly what she’d wanted.

  I wasn’t as patient with my home. I’d been happy with furniture friends had discarded, or we’d inherited from Burt’s parents, or we’d found at auctions or flea markets. My house was cozy and lived-in. Lucy’s was lovely and immaculate. A Hollywood movie could have been shot in her living room.

  Izzie was looking at the framed sketches above the couch.

  “An artist visiting the island a few years back did those. He donated them to a library fundraiser before he left, and Lucy convinced Dolan to buy them for her.”

  “I recognize the bridge and the church. What are the other scenes?”

  “The quarry—there is a quarry on Quarry Island, and a gravel pit,” I assured her. “Granite Point Lighthouse,” I pointed. “And the beach below it.”

  “I’m looking forward to seeing all of the island,” said Izzie. “And that painting?”

  Above the Martins’ fireplace was an oil painting of what Lucy had told me was a giant wave. I couldn’t tell. The swirls of blue and gray and green and white dominated the room. “Willis Tarbox, who lives across the street, did that one. Dolan bartered a pair of lobsters every Sunday for six months for it.”

  “Interesting,” said Izzie, staring at it. “Willis is the man who brought the sketch of Carl to you yesterday, right?

  “Right. Let me find Lucy.”

  I left Izzie looking at the painting and then glancing at the titles in the Martins’ bookcase.

  “Lucy?” I called upstairs. “It’s Anna.”

  “Just a minute, Anna,” she called back. A few minutes later she appeared, wearing a white nightgown embroidered with blue flowers and a blue silk robe, its sash knotted around her thin waist. Not exactly like the flannel granny gowns I wore most of the year. “Afraid I slept in. How’re you doing? Izzie, good to see you again. Coffee, anyone? I need coffee.”

  “Are you feeling all right?” I asked. Usually Lucy was perky and organized. Not this morning.

  “I’m fine. Fine,” she said, heading for her kitchen. Dirty dishes were piled on the counter. She poured water into her coffee maker. “Didn’t sleep last night, that’s all. I kept remembering all the happy times with Carl. He and I playing George and Martha Washington in the third grade play. The year the school baseball team lost every game. Taking Jake and Matt to see the Sea Dogs in Portland. I can’t believe he’s gone. Why was he out in that boat when the engine wasn’t working right? He had all that sweepstakes money. Why didn’t he stop tinkering and just buy a new engine?”

  Didn’t Lucy know Carl was broke? Engines cost as much as a car. She must have forgotten he’d spent that money he’d won.

  It didn’t matter now.

  She stood, looking out her kitchen window. Then she turned toward Izzie and me. “Coffee? And how’s Burt doing?”

  “We don’t need coffee; we had a couple of cups at my house,” I answered. “Burt’s coping. He’s out on the Anna this morning. Dolan’s going to help him pull some of Carl’s traps this afternoon.” Since Lucy had been asleep, I suspected Dolan hadn’t told her he was helping out. “Thanks for the tuna casserole. We’ll have it for dinner tonight. I wondered if you knew what the boys were up to.”

  Lucy’s eyes were puffy. “The boys? Aren’t they in school?”

  “I saw Jake get on the bus this morning. But he and Matt had a fight yesterday, and Jake went out very early this morning, or maybe even late last night. I thought he might be with Matt.”

  “Sorry, Anna. When I couldn’t sleep, I took a couple of over-the-counter sleeping pills. They knocked me out. Matt must have gotten himself off to school, thank goodness.” She poured coffee beans into her grinder and turned it on.

  I waited until the noise stopped. I hated being the one to tell her, but Lucy was a close friend. She was grieving. And Detective Preston might show up on her doorstep any time. “Lucy, yesterday the police gave us more information about Carl.”

  She turned around. “What about Carl?”

  “He didn’t drown.”

  “What?” Lucy’s face froze. “Then what happened to him?”

  “The medical examiner said he was killed. The state police plan to talk to people on the island who knew him. You and he were close friends, so I wanted to warn you. Detective Preston may stop in to see you sometime today.”

  “To question me?” Lucy looked stunned. She grabbed onto the back of one of her kitchen chairs and held on. “Carl, murdered? Who would do such a thing?”

  I shook my head. “Whoever it was, I hope Preston and the other detectives figure it out soon.”

  “When I saw Carl on Friday he seemed good. Getting his act together. He was happy. Optimistic. It’s so awful,” said Lucy, her eyes filling with tears. She grabbed a tissue from a box on the table and blew her nose loudly. “Ever since we heard he was missing, I haven’t been able to think of anything else. And now—murdered!”

  She pulled her robe tighter around her and sat at her kitchen table.

  “It’s rough for all of us,” I agreed. “His death hasn’t fully sunk in yet. I’ve just been doing what needs to be done. One hour at a time.”

  “And you have Izzie with you,” Lucy pointed out. “That’s good. Enjoying your visit, Izzie?”

  Izzie had been hanging back, letting Lucy and I talk. She hesitated. “Maine’s a beautiful place. But I’m sorry I came at such a difficult time for all of you.”

  “I’m going to take Izzie for a drive around the island,” I said. “I’m sorry to have woken you. But I wanted to warn you about Detective Preston, and check in about Jake.” That part had been a bust. If she knew more about what was going on with the boys, she hadn’t told me.

  “What will he ask? What would I know that would help?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “He thinks one of us may know something that will help him piece it all together.” I didn’t mention that Izzie and I were going to do some sleuthing of our own. That was our secret. “He’ll be back to question Jake and me later, too. Until we know what happened to Carl, I suspect we’ll be seeing a lot of Detective Preston.”

  Izzie moved toward the door.

  “We’ll take off. Thank you again for the food you brought yesterday,” I said.

  Lucy nodded, but didn’t stand.

  “Nice to see you again, Lucy,” said Izzie. “You have a lovely home.”

  “Thank you,” said Lucy. “Enjoy your drive.”

  “She seemed really upset,” Izzie pointed out on our way back to my house. “You said she was a good friend of Carl’s?”

  “They were in the same class at school. They even dated for a short time early in high school. They still did things together that they both enjoyed and Dolan hated, like going to concerts in Portland. Carl was close to Matt,
too. He’d take Matt and Jake to movies on the mainland, or we’d all barbecue together.” I glanced at my phone. “No one’s called yet. Shall we drive around the island now?” Maybe if I kept talking to Izzie, nothing bad would happen.

  “I’d love that,” said Izzie, and we headed toward the barn, where our truck was parked.

  Before we got there, Detective Preston pulled his car into our drive, blocking the barn door.

  Jake was in his back seat.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Have a bottle full of brandy, with as large a mouth as any bottle you have, into which cut your lemon and orange peel when they are fresh and sweet. This brandy gives a delicious flavor to all sorts of pies, puddings, and cake.”

  —The Frugal Housewife: Dedicated to Those Who Are Not Ashamed of Economy by Lydia Maria Child. Boston: Marsh & Capen, 1829

  “Mrs. Winslow?” Detective Preston got out of his car, and gestured that Jake should too. “I picked Jake up at school. I’d like you to be with him when I question him. Then I’d like to talk with you, alone.”

  “Mom, he had the principal call me down to the office,” Jake complained. “Everyone at school’s going to think I did something awful. He pulled me out of Math!” Jake sent an “I can’t tell you how much I hate you” glance at Detective Preston.

  “Sorry I embarrassed you, Jake. But I know you want us to find out what happened to your uncle Carl,” Preston replied. I suspected he’d heard worse from others he’d questioned.

  “That’s your job. I don’t know anything about it!”

  “You might know something you don’t think is important, but that would help the investigation.”

  “Why don’t we all go inside?” I suggested.