Death and a Pot of Chowder

by Cornelia Kidd

  “All I can see are trees and driveways,” Izzie pointed out, craning her head to look.

  “Those driveways lead to summer homes. Expensive ones. They have ocean views and ocean winds in winter. Year-round people, even when they can afford homes like those, usually choose to live on the more protected north or east sides of the island.” I pointed to a high stone wall ahead on our left. “That’s the Vandergriffs’ estate. Newest and grandest on the island. Where Carl lived in the carriage house and was the caretaker.”

  “Carriage house?”

  I slowed down so I could point it out. “What the Vandergriffs called a carriage house, anyone else would call a barn or a boat house.”

  Izzie stared at it. “Do you have a key to his apartment?”

  I pulled the truck to the side of the road. “Carl gave Burt and me each one, in case of an emergency. Or if he lost his.” I glanced down. It was still on my key ring.

  “Let’s go inside,” Izzie suggested. “We haven’t done anything to try to find his killer yet. Maybe there’ll be clues there.”

  “The police were going to check. They’ve probably found anything important.”

  “They didn’t know Carl. You did, and you know people on the island. You might notice important clues they didn’t,” Izzie pointed out.”

  I turned the truck into the Vandergriffs’ driveway. “Let’s do it. There’s paper in the glove compartment.”

  “Got the pad,” Izzie answered. “Pencils, too.”

  “Good. Because if we’re going to do this, we need to be organized. I’ll take notes.”

  Izzie didn’t know I’d always gotten As in organization at school. That’s how I’d managed to keep the books and talk to customers at Seth’s business at the same time. Multitasking was second nature to me. Seth had been a good, dependable roofer, but his invoices hadn’t gone out on time until I’d taken over his office. I’d also made sure bills were paid regularly and we always knew which of his guys would be working on what days.

  Some people were creative. Other people made lists.

  I made lists.

  We were at the carriage house within a few minutes. “I don’t see any of that yellow crime scene tape police use,” Izzie said.

  “Carl wasn’t killed here,” I pointed out. “And the police must have left.” That was good. I’d been worried we’d run into them.

  The apartment had two entrances to meet fire regulations. One was a stairway from the first floor of what looked like a high-ceilinged barn, where the Vandergriffs stored their vehicles—cars in the summer and boats in the winter. The entrance Carl used, that I had a key to, was outside, up a set of stairs to the second floor.

  Although Burt and Jake had visited Carl occasionally, I’d only been inside the apartment twice. Both times I’d wished for a pail of soapy water to scrub the floors and counters, and a large laundry basket to pile grungy clothes and towels in. Carl usually stuck his dirty clothes in a garbage bag and brought them to our house to wash while he was eating supper with us.

  Today, after the police search, I expected even more than the usual mess. But I could hardly tell they’d been there.

  “Nice place,” Izzie commented.

  She was right. Six months ago, Carl’s only furnishings outside his bedroom had been two recliners, a large-screen television, and posters of Celtics and Red Sox players. Now his living room also contained a couch, several tables, a bookcase, and a large rug. Framed seascapes and hunting scenes were on the walls. Paperback mysteries were arranged in a small bookcase. All I ever remembered Carl reading was sports magazines and repair manuals.

  Curtains hung at the windows.

  While Izzie looked around, I walked into the bedroom. Carl’s king-sized bed was still there, with the comforter he’d bought to substitute for other bedding. Today, though, the bed was made, with sheets and a bedspread. His comforter was folded at the foot. The bureau was new, more pictures were on the walls, and the usual piles of dirty clothes were missing.

  I was pretty sure the police hadn’t taken his laundry.

  Where had all this stuff come from? Burt and I’d chosen a few pieces of furniture from their parents’ home after they’d died, but Carl hadn’t wanted even one chair. And he’d been broke. These furnishings weren’t expensive, but they hadn’t been free.

  His clothing was hung up neatly in the closet. The bathroom now even sported a toilet seat cover. Carl had a toilet seat cover?

  “Did Carl do a lot of cooking?” Izzie called from the kitchen.

  “Once in a while he’d grill hamburgers with Burt,” I answered. “He was a typical bachelor. He usually managed to find himself at friends’ homes at mealtimes, or ate takeout, or filled up on cereal or ice cream.” I headed back into the living room.

  “Really?” Izzie asked. “Because he has a fully equipped kitchen. He even has heavy copper and stainless steel pans. And the cookie jar is full of homemade molasses cookies.”

  Homemade? That was pretty much impossible. Maybe he’d bought them at a bakery.

  “Are those pans good?” I asked.

  “Very good.” Izzie looked around. “The owners won’t have to look far for a new caretaker. A lot of men or young couples would like this place, furnished the way it is.”

  I sat down on the new couch. “The apartment didn’t come with these furnishings. Carl must have had the place decorated.”

  Izzie plopped onto one of the recliners. “You think he hired a decorator?”

  “No. But I can’t imagine Carl hanging curtains or buying pots and pans.” Or making cookies.

  “Maybe he was tired of living like a sloppy bachelor,” Izzie suggested. “Or he was trying to impress some woman. Maybe that Rose I met down on the wharf Saturday?”

  “I suppose that’s possible,” I said. “Or, some woman was trying to impress him.”

  “Did Rose live here, too?”

  “No women’s clothes are in the bedroom, and no cosmetics in the bathroom.” I kept looking at the furnishings. “All this stuff had to cost more than Carl had. Or, at least, more than Carl said he had.”

  Had Carl told us the truth about having spent all his lottery winnings? What else hadn’t Burt and I known about Carl?

  “I can’t imagine buying a guy furniture unless you planned to live with him,” Izzie said.

  “I agree.” Had Carl been a lot more serious about Rose than he’d let on? Possibly. But surprising.

  Izzie walked over to a series of framed photographs on the wall. “Is this you, Burt, and Carl?”

  I joined her. “And Lucy and Dolan. The whole crew.” We were all wearing swimsuits, down at the beach. “That was before Burt and I were married, so we must have been about sixteen. Carl and Lucy were the babies—they would have been about twelve or thirteen then.” I smiled, remembering how young we’d been. Three years later, Burt and I were married and I had Jake, and fifteen-year-old Lucy was pregnant. We’d all grown up so fast. “I don’t remember that picture.”

  “You all look so happy,” said Izzie.

  “We were.” I kept looking at the photo. “It was a long time ago.”

  “And who’re these people?” she asked, moving to another picture. “Wait—that’s Lucy, right?”

  The photo was of Carl and three girls. Typical. “Yes; that’s Lucy. And Carl, of course. The other two are Rose and Cynthia Snowe.”

  “I wonder when that one was taken?” Izzie said.

  “Must be from several years ago. Cynthia’s hair was shorter then, and Rose has lost weight.”

  “I wonder why he has that picture up?”

  “No clue,” I said. “Or maybe to remind him of his girlfriends, past and present.”

  “If I’d were Rose I’d have wanted him to hang a picture of me. Just me. Not me with other girls. Especially other girls he’d dated.”

  I didn’t disagree.

  Izzie checked out the rest of the room. “I don’t see a computer, or any kind of electronics other than the tel
evision.”

  “I’m pretty sure he had a laptop. But Detective Preston said they’d be checking it and his phone.” Carl kept his phone in his pocket. Had the police found it on his boat? Or was it gone, beneath the waves?

  “I wonder what else they might have taken? Besides his laptop.” Izzie shrugged and plopped down on one of the chair. “There has to be something here that will help us figure out who killed him. All we know so far is that he cleaned his apartment and added some furnishings.”

  “You’re right.” I sat, too. “I thought I knew Carl well. But now I’m not as sure. And I have no idea why anyone would have killed him.”

  “He was shot, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And he went hunting, so he must have had rifles here.”

  “Preston said the police took those. If anyone else used one of his guns, the crime lab could figure it out with fingerprints and bullets.” I hoped. Didn’t that happen on crime shows?

  “Carl was on his boat when he was shot,” Izzie continued.

  She was reviewing what we knew. That was what we should do. But I still shivered when I imagined what had happened. “Blood was found on his Fair Winds, and Carl’s body was in the water.”

  “So where could the shooter have been? On his boat? On another boat? On land? Wouldn’t that be too far for someone to shoot accurately? A person isn’t a big target, especially on a moving boat.”

  I shook my head. “I’m not a hunter, but a lot of folks around here are. Both men and women have long guns with scopes.”

  “Did Burt’s have a scope?”

  I nodded. “Sure.”

  “How far away could a shooter have been? To focus on someone on a boat?”

  “Pretty far. Burt and Carl had both been setting traps close to shore. Someone on one of the ledges, say near the lighthouse, or on one of the private wharves would have been able to see the boat. With a scope, they could see a person on deck.”

  “They’d have to be a good shot, though,” Izzie pointed out.

  “Yes.” I hesitated. “They would have to be a very good shot, even with a scope. And have a steady hand.”

  “Or someone on another boat could have gotten close enough to shoot him.”

  We sat, thinking. “Let’s take the rest of our tour and go home,” I finally said. “We’re not going to discover anything more here.”

  I checked that I’d locked the door before we went down the steps to my truck. I might not lock my door at home, but Carl wouldn’t be back soon.

  “We haven’t come up with any real motives, either,” Izzie pointed out, looking at the blank pad of paper. “We don’t even know anyone Carl was arguing with except Burt.”

  I winced. “Carl wasn’t easy. I have to believe he had trouble with other people, too. But I don’t know who. He was dating Rose. Either she decorated his apartment, or he did it for her. It also means he might have had more money than we’d thought. That’s new information, but I don’t see what it has to do with his murder.”

  We headed out on Island Road.

  The cost of all that stuff in Carl’s apartment bothered me. “Jake said Carl had asked Dolan for money. I hadn’t known that.” I said, almost to myself.

  “Carl was tight with Lucy and Dolan, right?”

  “Right.”

  “So why wouldn’t he have asked them for money, since you and Burt turned him down?”

  “I suppose it makes sense. But I hate that he got them involved. Dolan controls the money in that house. Lucy’s never had a job. She once told me Dolan gives her an allowance for household expenses like groceries. She thought Carl still had his lottery earnings. She must not have known he’d asked her husband for help.”

  Izzie wrinkled her nose. “Lucy gets an allowance?”

  “That’s what she calls it.” I looked at Izzie. “Every couple has to find their own way. Burt and I keep our money in an account that both of us can use, and both of us know what it’s spent on.”

  Since I hadn’t been working, that account hadn’t been large. I hoped the inheritance Izzie and I would be getting would help that.

  “We’re almost to the west side of the island,” I pointed out, getting back to our tour. “This time of year, you can see more of the ocean than in the summer. Leaves and bushes block views then, providing privacy for those that want it. In the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, there were only a few trees on the island. I’ve seen pictures in the historical society room at the library. Quarry Island looked very different then.”

  “Why weren’t there trees?” Izzie asked as Island Road curved and we headed up the west side of the island.

  “Trees were cut to build and heat homes, and lumber was sold and traded for food in Boston and Portland. Maine islands are rocky; the land isn’t good for farming. Trees were seen as useful, not ornamental. It wasn’t until late in the nineteenth century that people began to see them as decorative.” I pointed out the window again. “We’re no longer on the ocean. That’s the Abenaki River you see through the trees. It’s tidal, and flows inland about twenty miles. A lot of the houses in this area are seasonal. Many don’t have central heating; they have fireplaces and stoves, like in the old days.”

  “Where’s the quarry?” Izzie asked.

  “In the center of the island, on the north side,” I said. “During the nineteenth century, Maine had hundreds of active quarries. The small one here mined granite. Maine granite was shipped to New York where it was used to build Grant’s Tomb, post offices, and other major buildings.” Why had a tomb come to mind? Maine granite had been used for lots of buildings.

  “What’s the quarry like now?”

  “A big, ugly hole,” I said. “It’s fenced off, although people find ways to explore it. And there’s a gravel pit, where people practice shooting.” I pointed to our left. “Used to be a big pier over there where stone was loaded into ships. The pier was falling down, and kids hung out there, so it was torn down when I was eight or nine.”

  The road made another slight turn, and the number of small houses and trailers on both sides of the car increased. “We’re now on the north side of the island. That big building on the right that looks like a barn is the Windward Theatre. Actors from New York City come every summer and perform. Some board with locals, some live in the dormitories at the back of the theater. Over there,” I pointed at a house painted bright blue with yellow shutters, “is where Burt and Carl grew up. The current owners painted it. Neighbors weren’t too pleased about that.”

  Izzie grinned. “It doesn’t quite fit in.”

  “Not really. But, of course, our end of the island has Willis’ purple house. Over there’s a small clinic for folks who want to see a doctor, but don’t want to take the time or money to go to the mainland.” I slowed down, wondering if Rose or Cynthia were working there today. Rose would probably know about Carl’s apartment, and maybe more. I’d hoped we could drop in to see her. But the clinic parking lot was empty. “The school is across the street, so Dr. Neeson, who runs the clinic, is also the school doctor.”

  “That’s the school where you and Burt went?” Classes were over for the day, and the two island school buses had left, but cars were still in the teachers’ parking lot, and the three little Johnson girls were playing jump rope on the playground. They lived down the street and didn’t take the bus.

  “Right. And where Jake goes now. It could use some upgrades, but it still works. That big house next to it? That’s the Quarry Island Inn. It was bought and fixed up a couple of years ago by two off-islanders. Nice folks. Didn’t make waves and hired local. They’ll open for the season in late May.” I glanced at Izzie, who seemed to be enjoying the ride. “We’re now back on the east side of the island. You can see the drawbridge up ahead.”

  “What’s that building?” Izzie pointed. “The one near the water with the ‘For Sale’ sign on it.”

  “That used to be a small grill. A place where people bought lobster rolls and fried cla
ms in July and August. The couple who owned it moved to Florida two or three years ago.”

  “Aren’t there any restaurants on the island?” Izzie asked.

  “The Island Inn serves breakfast to its guests,” I said. “But, no. If you want to eat out, you have to go the mainland.”

  We passed the drawbridge and the town pier and pulled into my driveway.

  “How much are they asking for that building?” Izzie asked, her eyes shining. “The one near the drawbridge?”

  “I have no idea,” I said.

  “I’m going to find out,” Izzie declared, as she climbed down from the truck. She wrote down something. “I have the number of the realtor. I’m going to call her.”

  “You’re serious?” I asked as we walked in the kitchen door.

  “Why not? Maybe there’s a reason Dad decided to tell us we were sisters. Maybe he wanted me to come to Quarry Island.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “We cannot believe that any woman truly loves her husband who leaves all domestic matters to the cook or the housekeeper. What do they know of the husband’s peculiar tastes, or, knowing, care? They do their part for hire; but a wife should do her part for love, and love is ever seeking some new mode of blessing its object.”

  —Advice to Young Ladies on Their Duties and Conduct in Life by T.S. Arthur. Philadelphia: J.W. Bradley 1860

  Blue rubbed against my ankles and sniffed my shoes. Had I been near any other animals? I bent to stroke him.

  “Anna!” Burt’s voice came from upstairs. “Is that you?”

  “Izzie and I just got in,” I called back.

  “About time!” He clumped down the steps from the second floor, still wearing his lobstering pants, although he’d left his slicker on the boat. He stopped in the door of the kitchen and ran his fingers through his hair. “You were right. My rifle’s gone. And that Detective Preston’s on his way here. I think we have a problem.”

  “Did you look everywhere?” I asked. “A gun doesn’t just disappear.”