Death and a Pot of Chowder

by Cornelia Kidd

  “Thank you, Mrs. Winslow.”

  They all followed me into the house. Anyone driving by would think I’d just invited friends in for morning coffee.

  We ended up in the kitchen. Guests spent more time in my kitchen than in the living room.

  “Miss Jordan? Would you excuse us?” said Detective Preston, looking at Izzie.

  She knocked on the table as she went by, wishing me luck. “I’ll be in my room, after you’ve finished talking.”

  “Coffee?” I offered the detective. “Or, Jake, cocoa?”

  Jake was staring at the tablet I’d left on the counter. Then he looked at me. He was clearly angry. But he knew this wasn’t the time to discuss it.

  Cocoa was one of his favorites. I didn’t make it often. We looked at each other. He understood it was a bribe. “Sure, Mom.”

  The two of them sat at the kitchen table while I fixed the drinks. Steady, Anna, I told myself. I’d known the detective wanted to talk with Jake, but that had been theoretical. This was real. Detective Preston was sitting in my kitchen with a tape recorder in the center of the table, about to interview my fourteen-year-old son.

  At least it was me, not Burt, here with Jake. I might not look it, but compared to how I knew Burt was feeling, I was the calm parent.

  I finally got two full mugs on the table, with napkins. I didn’t dare have another cup of coffee myself; I’d spill it. I desperately wanted something to hold, though, so my hands wouldn’t shake. I folded them, as I’d been taught in Sunday school.

  I hadn’t sat like that since I was four.

  “Jake, how well did you know your uncle Carl?”

  Jake glanced at me, but answered. “Pretty well. He’s always been around. Sometimes he’d take Matt and me places. Or he did stuff with Mom and Dad and me.”

  Detective Preston looked at his notes. “Jake, is your friend Matt, Matthew Martin?”

  Jake nodded.

  “Please answer out loud,” Preston reminded him. “For the recorder.”

  “Yeah. Matt’s my friend.” Jake’s lips were pursed, the way they always were when he was upset. “Matthew Martin.”

  “Did you have any problems with your uncle?”

  Jake glanced at me. “No. He was pretty cool.”

  “What about other people? Did your uncle ever argue with other people?”

  Jake bit his lip. “Sure. Everyone argues sometimes.”

  “What did your uncle argue about?”

  “Money, mostly. He won a lot of money in the state lottery a couple of years ago, but he didn’t want people to know he’d spent it all. The engine on his boat was messed up. He tried to borrow money to get it fixed.”

  I bit my lip. Jake was telling the truth, as I’d told him to. But Burt hadn’t told Detective Preston any of that.

  “Who did your uncle Carl ask for money?”

  “Probably a lot of people. I know he asked my dad. Matt’s dad, too.”

  Carl had asked Dolan for money? I clenched my hands. That was embarrassing. Lucy must not have known. She’d thought Carl still had his lottery winnings.

  “Did your dad loan him the money?”

  “No. Dad said Uncle Carl didn’t know how to handle money, and we didn’t have enough to squander on him.” Jake’s voice went down. “They argued about it a lot.”

  “Was anyone else angry with your uncle?”

  Jake squirmed in his seat. Then, looking at the recorder, he said quietly. “Maybe.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Detective Preston.

  “Like, he did funny things. Like he hid beer in his glove compartment.”

  “Did he ever give you beer?”

  Jake glanced at me and then looked down.

  “It’s all right,” I said, although it wasn’t all right at all. “Tell the truth, Jake.”

  “Yeah. He gave Matt and me beer once in a while. It was a secret. He knew Dad and Mom would be pissed … would be wicked angry … if they knew.”

  “Did he ever do anything else that was a secret?”

  “Like what?” Jake looked defensive.

  “Like, touching you in places he shouldn’t. Like taking drugs or giving any to you. Anything like that?”

  “No! Never!” Jake’s voice was clear. “Nothing like any of that! Sometimes he told us about his girlfriends. He used to give Matt and me advice about girls.”

  “Do you have a girlfriend, Jake?”

  “Nah. Not yet.”

  The detective smiled. “You have plenty of time for that. So, your uncle Carl had a lot of girlfriends?”

  “He used to. Not so much now. He sees Rose Snowe a lot, though. And maybe other people.”

  How much did Jake know about Carl’s girls? Carl had always been a big talker.

  Detective Preston glanced at his notes, as though he was about finished. Thank goodness.

  “One more thing, Jake. Do you have a gun?”

  Could Carl have been shot while he was on his boat? I hadn’t let myself think about exactly how he’d died.

  “I have a .22. I go hunting with my dad, and sometimes with Uncle Carl.”

  “So, your uncle and your dad also have rifles.”

  “Sure.”

  “Could you bring me your .22, Jake?”

  Jake glanced at me. I nodded, and he headed for his bedroom.

  Detective Preston smiled. “He’s doing fine, Mrs. Winslow. I don’t have many more questions for him.”

  Jake was back in a few minutes, carrying his rifle case. Detective Preston reached out, and Jake handed it to him.

  “I’m going to need to borrow your gun for a little while, Jake. I’ll get it back to you as soon as I can. Have you used it recently?”

  The detective’s tone was casual, but his question wasn’t. Could he think Jake had shot his uncle? I bit my tongue.

  “I haven’t gone hunting since deer season last fall,” said Jake. “But sometimes I practice up at the gravel pit, at the old quarry.”

  “How recently did you do that?

  “Last Wednesday, after school.” Jake shot me a glance. He’d told me he’d worked for Luc every day after school last week. “When can I have my rifle back?”

  “As soon as the lab finishes with it. Thank you for talking to me. I don’t have any more questions now, but I’d like to talk with your mother. I visited Luc Burnham earlier this morning. He said you were a big help to him at Maine Chance Books. He’s expecting you to go over there to work after we finish talking.”

  He’d talked with Mr. Burnham today? It must have been very early. What had Luc told him? Luc knew Jake well, but he didn’t know Carl as well as many others on the island did. Carl hadn’t been a reader.

  Detective Preston was being thorough.

  Jake stood up, and looked at me for confirmation. “I don’t have to go back to school today?”

  I shook my head. “Go on over and help Mr. Burnham. Be home for supper, though.”

  He hesitated, looked at me and at the tablet one more time, and left the house. I was proud of him. I’d tell him that, too. As far as I knew, he’d been honest. Honesty was more important than his taking an afternoon of shooting practice at the gravel pit when he’d told me he was working. Or even drinking a forbidden beer. He wouldn’t have been the first fourteen-year-old to do that.

  Growing up wasn’t easy for teenagers or their parents.

  “Mrs. Winslow, you heard what Jake said. Several other people also told me your brother-in-law was having financial problems. Others have said he had plenty of money. Can you explain that?”

  What did this have to do with Carl’s death? But if the detective already knew the town gossip, he might as well hear the truth from me. “Carl and Burt inherited their family home after their mother died. Carl was still living there back then, but he and Burt had to sell the property. Their parents had mortgaged it heavily; there wasn’t a lot of equity in the place. Burt and I put our share into upgrading equipment on our lobster boat. I don’t know exactly what Car
l did with his share. He’s never been good with money.” I suspected he’d spent it on beer and the women he was seeing at the time, but I didn’t know for sure and it couldn’t be important now.

  “You said Carl was living at home before that.”

  “With his mother. His father had died earlier. Since his mother’s death he’s been living in the Vandergriffs’ carriage house. Do you know them?”

  Preston shook his head.

  “Rich summer folks from Maryland. A few years back they built a big house—lots of glass and patios and a pool—over on Cormorant Cove. They call their barn a carriage house; their cars are in it in the summer, and their boats in winter. Carl lived in their caretaker’s apartment on the second floor. He looks—looked—after their house and grounds.”

  Detective Preston nodded. “Okay. And he lobstered.”

  “He bought a boat ten years ago and fixed it up. It’s had a lot of problems, and most of his income went into keeping it up. The people around here who said he was rich know he won $200,000 in the state lottery two years ago. A good percentage of that went to taxes, and he used the rest to buy a new truck and a few traps. I’m not sure what else he did with it. The money disappeared quickly, but people still think of him as the guy who won the lottery.” Like Lucy, they assumed Carl was rich. Or at least richer than they were.

  “Your son said his uncle was trying to borrow money.”

  “Carl’s engine was in bad shape. He kept trying to fix it, but it wasn’t reliable. For the past month, he’d been going out with Burt to set and check both their traps.”

  “He asked Burt to loan him money?”

  “Yes. But lobstering hasn’t been good, and I stopped working last year. We even had to drop Burt’s life insurance policy. Commercial fishing is a high-risk profession; health and life insurance cost a fortune. One of the advantages of my working for my stepfather was we’d been able to get group health insurance. Now we have to pay for it on our own.”

  Detective Preston looked at me. “Why did you stop working, if you were having financial challenges?”

  What did all this have to do with Carl’s death?

  “My stepfather died. His business closed.”

  “What about Carl? Did he have life insurance?”

  Life insurance might be a motive for some murders. But not in Carl’s case. “Not that I know of.” He probably hadn’t even bothered to make out a will.

  “So, you and your family are living on a reduced income.”

  “Right.” I paused. “To help Carl we would have had to use the savings we have for emergencies, or borrow money. Burt was afraid we wouldn’t be repaid.”

  “Rob Erickson said your husband and his brother were arguing—loudly—at the town wharf Saturday morning.”

  “I wasn’t there. I don’t know. But their relationship has been strained recently.” I hated telling this stranger our family problems, but I’d rather he heard them from me than from a helpful neighbor. We had nothing to hide. “Detective Preston, my husband loved his brother. But Carl was angry we weren’t loaning him the money he needed.”

  “Your son said Carl also asked Dolan Martin for money.”

  “I heard. I didn’t know that.” What else didn’t I know?

  “Who else would Carl have gone to for money?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. He had friends, but none of them had much cash.” I tried to explain. “Carl was twenty-nine. But he was the younger brother, and he had a long boyhood. His friends settled down, or left the island. He’d lucked out, with his small inheritance, and then with his lottery winnings. He was a good-looking guy. He could be charming. He had an active social life, especially when he was younger. But recently he seemed to be growing up. He was finally beginning to think about his future. The problem was, he wanted everything Burt and I’d worked years to put together—and he wanted it now. He was impatient with the tides, and with himself. And with us.”

  “Jake said your husband had a rifle.”

  “He’s hunted since he was a boy. Helps fill our freezer in winter.”

  “Would you get his rifle for me?”

  I didn’t move. “My husband would never have hurt his brother. Yes, they argued. Even yelled at each other. But they were family. They loved each other.”

  “It’s a technicality. You’ve probably guessed from what I asked Jake: Carl was shot. We need to rule people out.”

  “As far as I know Burt hasn’t even opened his gun case in months. It’s under our bed. I’ll get the rifle.”

  I glanced at the clock next to our bed. Almost noon. The whole morning had disappeared. Burt should be home in a few hours, thank goodness. I didn’t want to cope with any more questions. I got on my hands and knees and pulled the heavy case out from under our queen-sized bed. It wasn’t locked. People always said guns should be locked away, but Burt had never seen a need. No one went into our bedroom but us, and it wasn’t as though he had a loaded handgun in a dresser drawer. Although occasionally, he listened to the news and muttered about getting one someday.

  I opened the case.

  It was empty.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “To make Browned Cod’s Head: Boil the head of a large cod. Take off the skin; set it before a brisk fire; dredge it with flour, and baste it with butter. When it begins to froth, sprinkle fine breadcrumbs over it and continue basting until it is well frothed and a fine brown, and serve it garnished with slices of lemon and sauce to taste.”

  —Peterson’s Magazine, January 1869

  “I don’t know where his gun is,” I told Detective Preston. “But Burt must. He always cleans his rifle and puts it in that case after he uses it. I haven’t seen it in months. Jake was right. They haven’t been hunting since last fall.”

  “Are you sure you looked everywhere?”

  “Everywhere in our room. I don’t know where else to look. All the years we’ve been married, Detective—near fifteen now—he’s always treated his gun the same way. But when he comes in I’ll ask him about it.”

  Detective Preston stood up. “No need. I’m going to visit your neighbors, and I’ll be back to talk with your husband later today. I’ll ask him myself.”

  “Is there anything else I can help with?”

  “Not at the moment. But I’m sure we’ll be in touch.” He stood up. “Thanks for the coffee and your patience, Mrs. Winslow.”

  Where was Burt’s rifle?

  I called him as soon as Detective Preston left the house. Thank goodness his cell phone now worked when he wasn’t too far out on the Anna.

  “Detective Preston was here. He talked to Jake and then to me.”

  “How did Jake do?”

  “He was a trooper. Did just fine. Preston asked both Jake and me about Carl’s finances. He already knew most of it. I hadn’t known Carl had tried to borrow money from Dolan.”

  Burt was quiet. All I could hear was the sound of the Anna’s engine. “I didn’t know that, either.”

  “And, Burt? Preston told me Carl was shot.”

  “Shot? When he was out lobstering?”

  “I know. It sounds crazy. Preston took Jake’s rifle to test it. He wanted yours, too.”

  “What is he doing? Checking every rifle on the island?” Burt sighed. “So, you gave it to him?”

  “I tried. But I went to get it wasn’t in its case.”

  “Of course it is, Anna. Where else would it be?”

  “I have no idea. That’s why I’m calling. Are you sure you put it away there last fall?”

  “Where else would I put it? Cleaned it and put it away, as always.”

  “It’s not there, Burt. Maybe you left it in the barn?”

  “I’ll think, Anna.” He sounded as puzzled as I felt. “I’ll check other places when I get home. But right now I don’t know where else to look.”

  “How’re you doing otherwise? I’ve been thinking of you all day.”

  “Dolan’s with me. I’m all right.”

&nbs
p; “Are you sure?”

  “We’re pulling Carl’s traps. Every time we bring one on board I feel guilty about the arguments we’ve had recently. I can’t believe he’s gone, Anna.”

  “Me, either,” I agreed. “Take care of yourself. I’m glad Dolan’s there to help. Come in as soon as you can. If I’m not here it’s because I’ve promised to take Izzie on a tour of the island. We won’t be long. Probably we’ll be home before you are.”

  It was hard to hear Burt above the roar of his boat’s engine, screeching gulls, and the moaning of the sea. “Love you,” I said.

  “Love you, Lady,” he said back. “See you soon.”

  I wished he were home now, not leaving me to cope with Jake’s morning disappearance and the detective’s questions and the missing rifle.

  As I hung up, a text came in. Mom and Mamie were inviting Izzie and me to come over for lunch.

  I put the phone down as Izzie peeked around the staircase. “Is the detective gone?”

  “A few minutes ago. I was coming upstairs up to tell you,” I said. “Jake’s gone to work at the bookstore, and Mom and Mamie invited us to have lunch at their house. Are you okay to do that? We can take our island tour after lunch. Maybe we could stop and see if Rose is at home. She might know something about Carl.”

  “Sounds good,” said Izzie, coming downstairs. “Especially the lunch part. I’d like to know them better. They’re family, too.”

  My family. My mother and grandmother.

  But Izzie didn’t have anyone. And families stretched.

  I’d often heard people say, “When one person in a family dies, another takes their place.” They usually meant a baby was born. Carl was gone; maybe Izzie was here to expand our family in a new direction.

  Life was unpredictable. Certainly, it had been in the past week.

  “Your mom and grandmother live in the house you grew up in, right?” Izzie asked as we walked past the Martins’ house, where I suspected Detective Preston was now talking to Lucy. His car was in her driveway.

  “I lived there until I married Burt.”

  Mamie had come to Quarry Island to this house when she’d married. She’d had Mom, her husband had died, Mom had me, and then Mom married Seth. Years later, I’d married Burt and had Jake, and Seth had died. That little house had been the center of our lives all those years. The place we’d celebrated birthdays, Christmases, weddings, and births. And mourned losses.