Death and a Pot of Chowder

by Cornelia Kidd

  “I like that your home is still here. You can return to the past whenever you want to,” said Izzie as we opened the door.

  Not exactly. Every day, every year, life changed. You could never go back. Not even to last week.

  Mamie greeted us, squeezing Izzie’s hand in one of hers and mine in her other. Mamie always smelled a little of the lavender she grew in the summertime and tucked in her bureau drawers every fall. Whenever I was nervous or upset, I took a long bath scented with lavender bubble bath. Lavender made the world simpler.

  “I’m so glad you both came. These are hard days, but you being here, Izzie, gives us something positive to think about,” said Mamie as she led us into the living room.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Nolin. I appreciate that,” said Izzie. Izzie was shorter than I was, but she towered over Mamie’s withered, almost childlike figure. “It’s kind of you to welcome me.”

  Mamie nodded. “Your father and grandparents were good people, all of them. Your father was just too young to settle down when he fathered Anna.”

  “Anna told me you were born in Canada,” said Izzie. “And that you’re a fabulous cook.”

  “Fabulous, did she say?” Mamie winked at me. “Seems to me I’ve spent my life in the kitchen. Ingredients in Maine are similar to those in Quebec, but my mother put a French twist on them. I try to follow her lead. What you’ll eat in this house is a little different from what you’ll taste in other Maine homes, although a lot of us Quebecoise live here now.”

  “Where’s Mom?” I asked.

  “She went upstairs for a minute,” said Mamie. “Why don’t you both come and have a glass of wine before lunch?”

  She led us to the dining room, where she’d set the table for four people, complete with tablecloth and napkins and a bottle of chilled white wine.

  “Elegant, Mamie!” I said, impressed. We usually ate in the kitchen.

  “It’s a special occasion. The first time Izzie’s eaten here,” she explained. “I wanted it to be welcoming. Why don’t you pour us each a glass of wine? I’ll see to the food.”

  “She’s sweet,” Izzie whispered to me as I poured. Then in her normal voice she added, “Something in the kitchen smells delicious.”

  “I hope so,” Mamie called back. “We’re having a simple lunch. A salad with beets, apples, celery, and nuts, the way my mother used to make it, and salmon mousse. Nothing fancy. And I made one of Anna’s favorites for dessert: my apple cranberry pudding.”

  “Yum,” I agreed.

  “I love this,” said Izzie. “Trying new dishes. Can I help you in any way, Mrs. Nolin?”

  “You can help me put the food on the table,” said Mamie. “And you can call me Mamie. Everyone does.”

  “I’ll see what’s keeping Mom,” I said, going up the stairs to where the bedrooms were.

  Mom was in my old room. The yellow rose-patterned wallpaper I’d chosen when I was ten was still on the walls, although one winter the roof had leaked, and now there was a water stain in one corner.

  My bride doll was sitting on the bed, her legs stretched out on the pink, red, and white heart-patterned quilt Mom had made for me years before, worn thin where I’d sat, supposedly studying, while I was in junior high and high school. Now they called it middle school and high school, but Jake was sitting in the same classrooms where I’d daydreamed and paid less attention to my studies than I should have.

  This house hadn’t changed since I was a teenager. Had I changed? Izzie’s questions about what I wanted in life had made me think. I was grown now. A wife. A mother. But part of me was still that little girl who’d loved her bride doll.

  My little sister dreamed of owning her own restaurant. She planned to put off being a wife and mother until … someday. She had more than one dream.

  Dreams risked disappointment if they didn’t come true. But dreams were also exciting.

  Was it time to move beyond the bride doll I’d loved as a child? Not discard her, but maybe find something more to love?

  I shook my head. Izzie’s arrival and Carl’s death had both come so suddenly. My world had been comfortable, where I belonged. I’d been like a mussel, glued to the rocks I’d always clung to.

  Now, everything had changed. I’d been tossed into the waves to survive. Would I find a new rock to cling to? Or be found by a laughing gull and dropped onto a ledge, smashed, and devoured.

  “Anna? Are you all right?” Mom turned toward me from where she’d been sitting, in the armchair by the window. “You look as though you’re on another planet.”

  “I’m fine,” I assured her, although I wasn’t sure I was. “Why don’t you come downstairs? I poured wine, and Mamie and Izzie are serving lunch.”

  “She doesn’t look like you, does she?” Mom asked. “I thought she’d look like you.”

  “I look like you,” I said. “I have brown hair and blue eyes like yours.”

  “How are you two getting on?”

  “I like her. She’s younger than me, of course, and, Mom, she has so many dreams. She wants to have her own restaurant.”

  “Her father had big dreams, too. Has she said anything about him?”

  “Not much. That he worked hard, and traveled a lot on business. Her mother died when she was fourteen. She pretty much ran his house after that.”

  “He didn’t have enough sense to hire a housekeeper?” Mom shook her head. “Sounds like she raised herself. That must have been rough.” She paused. “Funny. Peter’s been dead to me for thirty-three years, but I always expected him to show up eventually, even out of curiosity. Now he never will. But he’s sent us his daughter.”

  I nodded. “I’m sorry I never met him. But I was lucky to have you and Mamie. And Seth. And then Burt, of course.”

  “How is Burt managing? With Carl’s death, I mean.”

  I hesitated. “Has Detective Preston been here yet?”

  “Detective? Why would a detective come here?” Mom asked, frowning.

  “Because the medical examiner ruled Carl’s death a murder.”

  “Oh, no,” Mom stood up and wrapped her arms around me. “I didn’t know. His drowning was hard enough.” She held me at arm’s length and looked at me. “How’re you coping, Anna? Carl dead, and Izzie here … you must be going mad.”

  “Some moments,” I agreed. “But Izzie’s not a problem. She’s been a help. She seems to know when I need company and when she should disappear. She’s even been doing a lot of the cooking. She seems to fit right in.”

  “I hope so, Anna. For your sake. But be careful. I thought her father fit right in, too, and then he left, and never came back.”

  “That was a long time ago. And that was him, not Izzie.”

  Mom nodded. “I just don’t want you to be hurt.”

  “Like you were?” I asked quietly.

  “Like we were,” she answered. She straightened her shoulders, as though she was a soldier preparing for duty. “Let’s have lunch. I suspect Mamie’s outdone herself, as usual.”

  “You’re right,” I answered. “And Izzie’s already asked for her recipes.”

  Mom gave me another quick hug. As we headed downstairs I asked, “Did you happen to see Jake early this morning?”

  “Early? You mean, before school?” Mom frowned. “Why? Is he all right? He looked wicked awful yesterday after that fight. I patched him up as best I could before he headed home.”

  “He’s bruised, but fine,” I assured her. “He went to school and stayed until Detective Preston brought him home to question him. But he was up very early this morning, and out of the house. He’s never done that before. I think something between him and Matt isn’t right.”

  “Sorry I can’t help you. Jake wasn’t here,” said Mom. “You’re right. Getting up early in the morning doesn’t sound like Jake.”

  “I’ll talk to him when he gets home. He’s at the bookstore now, so maybe if he has a problem he’ll talk with Luc. I think he does that sometimes.”

  “Kids his a
ge like to share with an adult who isn’t their parent,” Mom confirmed. “Remember when you used to tell all your secrets to Miss Baylor, that young teacher who was also your Girl Scout leader?”

  I winced. “I was eight then, Mom!”

  I’d confided in Miss Baylor that I wanted Santa to give me a trip to Disney World. Miss Baylor had told Mom, and I’d been humiliated when Mom explained what had happened, and that Santa couldn’t afford a trip to Florida.

  I hadn’t trusted Miss Baylor—or Santa—after that.

  If Jake had any secrets now, they were more serious than mine had been. I hoped if he told someone it would help resolve any problems between him and Matt. With Carl’s murder, Jake would need his friend.

  We all needed friends. Especially now.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “The host who has compelled a guest to ask him for anything, is almost a dishonored man.”

  —The Epicure’s Year Book and Table Companion by Blanchard Jerrold, Bradbury and Evans, 1868

  “This is fantastic,” said Izzie, after Mamie had toasted Izzie’s arrival and we’d started to eat. “I’ve never had a salad made with a cream sauce. The apples and beets work well together.”

  “I can tell you what I did,” Mamie said, flattered. “I don’t have a recipe. I remember what my mother did, and taste along the way.”

  “Well, it’s great,” said Izzie, taking another bite. “Maybe I could watch you make it. I wish I’d done that with my mother’s recipes. I didn’t pay close enough attention. After she died I read cookbooks and tried to remember what I’d seen her doing. I wish I’d been older, and written everything down while she could still advise me.”

  “Did she cook Korean food or American?” asked Mom.

  “Both,” Izzie replied, taking another helping of the salmon mousse. “This has rice wine vinegar in it, right?”

  Mamie nodded. “You have a sensitive palate.”

  “In culinary school, we had to be able to identify flavors.” Izzie turned to Mom. “Dad didn’t like Korean food, so Mom cooked lasagna and meatballs, hamburgers, and beef stew for him. When he was away, she cooked pulgogi, chop chae, and mandu. I grew up loving both cuisines.”

  “Before you leave, you’ll have to cook something Korean for us,” said Mamie. “I don’t think I’ve ever tasted any.”

  “I’d love to,” Izzie agreed.

  “How long are you staying?” asked Mom.

  Izzie hesitated.

  “Izzie’s welcome to stay as long as she wants to,” I put in. “She’s been a big help to me, and good company.”

  Izzie sent me a grateful smile. “Thank you, Anna. I haven’t seen too much of Maine, but so far I love it.”

  “Mud and all?” Mom said skeptically.

  “Mud and all,” Izzie confirmed. “It’s different from the world where I grew up. I can understand why my father and grandparents loved it.”

  No one said anything. I suspected Mom was wondering why they’d never come back to Quarry Island if they’d loved Maine so much.

  “I’m going to drive Izzie around the island after lunch,” I said. “She’s only seen Island Road from the drawbridge to the center of town.”

  “Enjoy your drive,” said Mamie, putting the apple and cranberry pudding on the table.

  Izzie looked at it, questioningly. “I’ve never seen a pudding that looked like this.”

  “A lot of dishes used to be called puddings, in Quebec and in old Maine recipes, too,” said Mamie. “Puddings could be sweet, the way people think of them today, or they could be a little spicy, with herbs. The French word for pudding is boudin, or little sausage. Maine’s Indian pudding, which some people make with beef drippings or bits of meat, is a good example.”

  “I’ve never had Indian pudding either,” said Izzie.

  “Folks used to call cornmeal Indian meal,” explained Mom. “Indian pudding has cornmeal and molasses in it. Very New Englandish. We’ll have to make it one day soon.”

  “I look forward to that! And in the meantime, I look forward to tasting this pudding,” said Izzie. We all watched as she tasted the cake and baked apple combination. Mamie had made it for me when I was growing up, especially when I’d been upset about something that happened in school, or when I had a cold. It was my idea of the perfect comfort food: soft and sweet, with the texture of the apples, the tartness of cranberries, and the crispness of the cake topping all melding together.

  “Fantastic,” said Izzie, looking at Mamie. “I’m already thinking of different combinations of fruit and cake that would work like this.”

  “My mother used to make it just with apples,” Mamie said. “But I add cranberries. Makes it zestier.”

  “I agree,” said Izzie. “Have you tried adding a little lemon?”

  “Might work,” said Mamie. “Not too much, though.”

  Izzie nodded. “It would be fun to experiment.”

  Mamie was clearly thrilled that a professional chef liked her food so much.

  And Izzie was right. We should get Mamie’s recipes written out while we could. How sad and frustrating it must have been for Izzie to try to replicate the dishes her mother had cooked.

  Lunch ended all too soon, and Izzie and I went back to my house. A blueberry pie (from Cynthia Snowe) and a plate of whoopie pies (from Rose) were waiting for us on the porch. I wished we’d been there when they’d dropped off the food. I wanted to talk to both of them. They’d known Carl as a boyfriend. A different perspective than I had on his life.

  I took the food into the kitchen and while Izzie put it away, I checked for messages on our landline. Cell phone service wasn’t dependable on Quarry Island, so most of us kept our home phones, even if we’d upgraded to the twenty-first century and also had cells.

  No messages on either. I suspected word had gotten around about Carl being murdered and no one knew what to say.

  Sympathizing over a death was relatively simple. Murder was a whole other situation.

  Where was Detective Preston now? His car was gone.

  Carl had known people all over the island and on the mainland. Investigating his death could take the detective in a variety of different directions.

  I hoped it would lead quickly to answers.

  “Let’s go for our drive now, Izzie,” I said, pulling on a light jacket. Sea breezes were coming in. “If anyone wants us, they can call. Sitting at home will drive me crazy.”

  We climbed in the truck and headed for the other side of Quarry Island.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Most white or soft fish are best bloated, which is done by salting, peppering, and drying in the sun, and in a chimney; after thirty to forty hours drying, they are best broiled and moistened with butter.”

  —American Cookery by Amelia Simmons, 1796

  Quarry Island was at the end of a coastal peninsula, surrounded on three sides by rivers or inlets and on the fourth by the ocean. On a map, Maine peninsulas look like fingers. Locals joke that those fingers point to warmer waters.

  The older, more populated part of Quarry Island was, naturally, also the closest to the mainland and to the drawbridge.

  “We’re on the east side of the island,” I explain to Izzie, who was confused. “So is the drawbridge and the town wharf. Island Road circles the island. I’ll show you the rest of my world.”

  “World?” Izzie said, smiling at me teasingly. “The world is a big place.”

  “Outside of Quarry Island, it may be. All we islanders need is right here.” Maybe that wasn’t totally true, but it felt right. We did leave the island to shop at supermarkets, hardware stores, and outlets, like the ones in Freeport. But on the island we had the school and church. Family and friends. Most people’s jobs. We could buy basics like milk and hamburger at Martha Decker’s general store. We had everything that was important.

  We passed the small group of houses and the church and bookstore and store close to my house, and headed south. “That’s the town hall, on your right,”
I pointed out. “The big Victorian house on your left is the library. They might have some of those cookbooks you were looking for. The Quarry Island Historical Society has a room there just devoted to the history of the island, the quarry, and genealogical information. They can trace what’s happened on the island and who’s lived here since the first European settlers arrived in about sixteen forty.”

  “What about Native Americans? Weren’t they here then?” Izzie asked.

  “In summer, to fish,” I agreed. “And to dry those fish for the winter. In fall, when weather turned colder, they went up river. We’ll get to the river soon.”

  I pulled into a small parking lot and pointed at Granite Point Lighthouse, above us, on a series of jagged ledges overlooking the end of the island and the ocean beyond. “Historical society docents give tours of the light and the keeper’s house during the summer months.”

  “Does anyone live there now?” Izzie asked, looking at the connected buildings at the base of the light.

  “Not in about fifty years,” I said. “Maine lighthouses are automated now, but they’re still protecting ships and boats that get too close to the rocky shore.” I hesitated. “Burt found Carl’s boat drifting off this point.”

  Izzie and I exchanged a look. Granite Point now had new significance.

  “But what a beautiful place!” Izzie said, looking up at the lighthouse then out to the sea. “And maybe because I know Dad was here, and you’re here … I almost feel as though I’ve come home. Like Anne Shirley seeing Green Gables for the first time? Being on an island is kind of magical.”

  Magical? “I’m not sure there are any Gilbert Blythes here,” I said, referring to Anne’s handsome true love, “but I’m glad you like it.” And, of course, I’d found my true love here.

  We left the parking lot and continued on Island Road. “The lighthouse marks the end of the eastern part of the island. Down there,” I pointed to a weathered wooden staircase on the left side of the road, “is the community beach. We’re on the south side of the island now. Any water you see between the trees on the left-hand side of the truck is ocean. Spain is somewhere over there.”