The muddy road into the quarry curved slightly, heading up a newly wooded hill. When the quarry was active that hill had been barren. Trees had been cut so heavy galamanders, oxen-pulled wagons that hauled cut stone, had access. One road circled the top of the quarry; another road cut to the bottom, where granite was cut and loaded onto wagons and then taken to ships.
How many men and women in Philadelphia and other cities knew that when they walked their streets, they were walking on Maine granite?
In summer, the earth was packed down, hard. Today it was muddy.
And I wasn’t the only person who’d been there. Several sets of footprints were clearly visible. Most headed up the hill. Was Jake alone in the quarry, or had he met someone there? Or been followed?
I listened. People came here to practice shooting. Jake had done that just last week. Today, I didn’t hear anything. But that didn’t mean no one was here. Or that whoever was here didn’t have a gun.
Everyone who lived on the island knew the quarry. On summer days, rock climbers came here to practice. Amateur geologists prowled, hoping to find geodes or crystals or garnets. Teenagers went there for privacy. The deepest part of the quarry, now filled with water from rain and melting snow, attracted boys who swam there in July and August, challenging each other to ignore the silt and algae that filled the murky water. Despite the look of the water and the “No Trespassing” signs the town council had posted throughout the area, exploring the quarry and shucking your clothes to swim where you’ve been forbidden was part of a Quarry Island boy’s childhood.
Today, the quarry was deserted. Except for whoever left those footprints.
I stopped, listening for voices. Or branches breaking. Or shots.
Two red squirrels chased each other across the road, and a crow cawed to announce that someone was nearby. Chickadees declared “dee-dee-dee” in the trees around me, and a cardinal called in the distance. I hugged myself. I was wearing my windbreaker, but I should have put on a heavier jacket. Early April might be mating season for the birds and animals who lived in or near the quarry, but the air was still chilly.
Had Jake grabbed his jacket when he’d left school?
My thoughts swirled, but they always came back to my husband and son. “Jake!” I called. “Jake?”
His name echoed faintly.
In another month, the trees and brush that had grown up around the working parts of the quarry would hide quarry visitors from each other. Today, the only green trees were a few pines and spruces, species some vacationers thought were the only ones in Maine, despite the maples and oaks and birches and poplars that covered more than half the state.
Why had Jake taken his gun up here to the gravel pit last week? With all that had been happening, I hadn’t asked him. It probably wasn’t important.
But right now, I didn’t know what was important.
“Jake!” I called again. “Jake! Jake!” How far could he have gotten? Had he been running to get away from whatever had happened at school, or toward a place where he didn’t have to deal with people asking too many questions?
Was anyone else in the quarry? Whose footprints had I seen?
I stood on one of the high points of the road above the quarry.
“Jake!”
Then I saw him. He was alone, standing on one of the ledges above the watery center. I realized I’d been holding my breath, hoping he was alone. He was. He was all right.
He looked up at me and waved.
“Time to come home, Jake!” I called.
He dodged up a path I couldn’t see, but which he was seemed familiar with. “Meet you at the truck!” he yelled back. His voice echoed across the quarry.
“Right!” I answered, and headed back down the hill. Jake probably knew another way to the entrance. I didn’t see anyone else. I hoped Jake wouldn’t either.
Something glittered on the side of the rough, muddy road. A geode? A piece of quartz crystal? Others had found tiny garnets at the quarry. I bent over to see.
Several bullets were almost hidden under leaves.
Why here? I stuck them in the pocket of my windbreaker. Maybe they’d fit one of our rifles, and Jake or Burt could use them. Then, I remembered where those rifles were now.
I focused on positives. I had to believe Burt would be released very soon, Burt and Jake would get their rifles back, and Carl’s murder would be solved quickly.
How could I tell Jake his father had been arrested?
Maybe he’d come here to the quarry to escape. Had Izzie come to Maine to escape the realities of her father’s death? Our father’s death, I mentally corrected myself. To someone from the city or suburbs, Maine might seem like a distant place. Those of us who lived here sometimes dreamed of living in a place where no one knew you or your past.
On Quarry Island, there was no place to go where you wouldn’t be found.
I kept walking down the hill, back to my world. Back to where Jake would meet me.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“To Dress Lobsters: When the lobster is boiled, rub it over with a little salad-oil, which wipe off again; separate the body from the tail, break off the great claws, and crack them at the joints, without injuring the meat; split the tail in halves, and arrange all neatly in a dish, with the body upright in the middle, and garnish with parsley.”
—Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management by Mrs. Isabella Beeton. London: S.O. Beeton Publishing, 1861
“What happened in school?” I asked, trying to stay calm.
Jake looked out the window of the passenger seat as I drove. “Nothing.”
“Something must have happened. You’ve never left school in the middle of the day before.”
“Nothing happened. I just didn’t want to be there anymore.”
“Principal Flanagan said you and Matt were arguing.”
“So? It’s none of his business.” Jake looked over at me. “Or yours. It’s between Matt and me.”
I didn’t need this. “Jake, this has been an awful week, I know. But whatever’s wrong between you and Matt, you can’t let it mess up your whole life. Or your dad’s and mine.”
Jake sat, not saying a word. Then, finally, “You don’t know what this is about. It’s my problem, not yours. So leave me alone, okay?”
What had happened to Burt was more important than a boy’s quarrel. “I need to talk to you about something else, too.”
“I don’t want to talk about anything!”
I turned the truck into our driveway. The ignition wasn’t fully off when Jake jumped out and ran into the house.
The door to his room banged shut as I scraped the quarry mud off my shoes and walked into the living room. Jake hadn’t stopped. His footsteps led across the room.
“Anna? Jake just raced through here as if a swarm of bees was after him.” Izzie looked at the mud on the floor and then at me.
“He wouldn’t tell me what was wrong.”
“Did you tell him about his dad?”
“He ran off before I had a chance to. I’m hoping he’ll calm down. I have to talk with him.” At least Jake was home. Safe. For the moment that seemed enough, although I knew it wouldn’t be for long.
“I talked to Luc Burnham.”
“And?” I’d failed to get any information from Jake. Maybe Izzie’d heard something that might help.
“He didn’t know a lot. Jake hasn’t shown up a couple of times recently when Luc’d expected him to work, and Matt’s been hanging around the store, especially when Jake was there. Luc figured Matt was looking for racy photos or books. He’s been hiding out in the sections on families and looking through medical books.”
“Sex?”
“Luc said he didn’t mind. If Matt could find answers to his questions in books, it would be more accurate than whatever he heard from his friends or on some internet sites”
“Or maybe he just wanted to find pictures of nudes,” I said, thinking of the old Playboy centerfold inside Jake’s closet. I’
d figured kids looked up stuff like that on the internet today, not at used bookstores. But I wasn’t fourteen. “So Mr. Bouchard—Luc—didn’t know what was wrong between Matt and Jake.” I was glad Izzie’d tried to find out, but knowing the boys looked at pictures of naked women wasn’t helpful. Or even important.
Izzie shook her head. “He did hear them talking about guns one day last week. He figured most kids around here have rifles, so it was no big deal. Jake went shooting at the gravel pit last week, right?”
“That’s what he told the detective. Matt doesn’t have a rifle.” Lucy’s dad had been a hunter, and he’d taught her how to shoot. She and Cynthia Snowe had practiced together at the gravel pit. That was when they’d become good friends, I remembered. But when Lucy was about the age Jake and Matt were now, her shoulder was hit by a hunter’s stray bullet when she and her dad were out hunting. The shooting wasn’t intentional, and it was a long time ago. She’d healed. But after that her dad swore off hunting and took Lucy’s gun away. Lucy didn’t talk about what had happened then, but I suspected that was why she hadn’t wanted Matt to have a gun.
I’d overheard Jake bragging about his own gun a few times. It was something he had that his friend didn’t.
“Jake could have loaned his gun to Matt. Or they took turns shooting,” Izzie pointed out.
Jake wasn’t supposed to loan his gun to anyone, or use anyone else’s. Burt had told him that dozens—hundreds—of times. Told Jake he knew his own weapon, but he didn’t know anyone else’s. A week ago, I’d have been sure Jake hadn’t done anything he wasn’t supposed to. Now I wasn’t sure about anything.
“What else did Luc say?”
“The books in Carl’s apartment, those mysteries, might have come from Maine Chance. Carl’d been in there a few times, sometimes alone, and sometimes with Jake or Matt or with the Martins, but Luc didn’t remember whether he’d ever bought anything. For the record, Carl’s friend Rose and her sister Cynthia are regular customers, and they both read mysteries.”
“That doesn’t add much to what we know.” I scratched Blue behind his ears. He purred a “thank you” before heading for his favorite chair in the living room. Blue had no problems.
“I’m afraid not. But Luc’s a sweet old guy. I told him how much I loved the books I’d bought from him a couple of days ago, and he showed me three cartons of recipe books he’d just gotten in. When life is a little less frantic, I’ll go back and look at them.” She glanced up the stairs. “Does Jake even know the detectives found Burt’s gun?”
“I didn’t get a chance to tell him. He was in such a huff, and didn’t want to talk on the way home, and I didn’t want to blurt out the news.”
“Better for you to tell him than for him to hear it from one of his friends.”
“You’re right. Those kids do nothing but text and … oh, darn.”
“What is it?”
“I didn’t stop at the school to get Jake’s backpack. His cell phone is in it. So, he won’t be hearing from any of his friends this afternoon.”
“Want me to get it? If you call that Mr. Flanagan he’d probably let me pick it up.”
“Would you? I don’t want to leave Jake right now. I do need to talk with him.”
“No problem,” said Izzie, standing. “I’d like to stop at that building we looked at this morning and walk around it again, anyway. Going to the school first will give me an excuse to do that.”
I handed her my keys. “Thank you. I’ll call Principal Flanagan to let him know you’re on your way. So, you’re serious about that place?”
“I’m always serious,” said Izzie, grinning at me. “Can’t you tell?”
I didn’t know whether she meant that or not, but right now it didn’t matter. Only Burt and Jake mattered. They were my life.
I called the school as Izzie pulled out of the driveway.
I had to talk to Jake.
That boy has to learn responsibility. If I’m arrested, or … convicted … it’ll just be you and him here. He has to man up, and fast. That’s what Burt had said. But it wasn’t what I’d say to Jake. That was too much pressure to put on a fourteen-year-old boy.
Even when his dad had just been arrested for murder.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Bread made of wheat flour, when taken out of the oven, is unprepared for the stomach. It should go through a change, or ripen, before it is eaten. Young persons, or persons in the enjoyment of vigorous health, may eat bread immediately after being baked, without any sensible injury from it. Weakly and aged persons cannot without doing harm to the digestive organs.”
—The New England Economical Housekeeper, and Family Receipt Book by Esther A. Howland. S.A. Howland, Worcester, Massachusetts, 1844
I knocked on Jake’s door.
“I don’t want to talk to you!” he yelled back through the wall.
“I won’t ask any questions,” I promised. “I just need to tell you a couple of things.”
Silence from his room. Finally Jake came out, closing the door behind him.
“Are any of those cookies left? The ones people brought over Sunday?”
I smiled for the first time in hours. That was my Jake. No matter what the time or circumstance, he was hungry. “Let’s check,” I said, as we headed to the kitchen. “I’m pretty sure there’s a fudge cake we haven’t even cut into.” I glanced at him, aware I was offering a bribe.
“Good,” he said. “I missed lunch.”
I put the cake and three plates on the table. I might as well have a little, too, and Izzie would be back soon. Jake cut himself a piece a third the size of the cake. He glanced at me. “So, I’m hungry.”
“I didn’t say a word,” I said, cutting myself a piece considerably smaller. The chocolate layers were filled with raspberry jam, and the cake was topped with butter cream frosting.
I finished my piece and cut a second before either of us spoke.
Jake went first. “You had something to tell me?”
“Yes.”
Before I had a chance to continue, Jake interrupted. “If you’re going to tell me to call and get my homework assignments, I can’t do that. I don’t have my books or computer. I left my backpack at school,” he said defiantly.
“Your aunt Izzie has gone to pick it up for you.”
“You got her involved? Does she have to know everything?”
“She’s staying with us. She volunteered to go.”
Jake sighed. “Okay. So, what are these big things you want to tell me?”
“One, I just told you—Izzie’s gone to reclaim your backpack and bring it home. The second, Detective Preston was here again late this morning.”
“Yeah? What did he want?”
“The police found your dad’s rifle.”
Jake stopped chewing and stared at the unfinished cake on his plate.
“How? Where?”
“How? I don’t know exactly. They were looking on Granite Point, overlooking where Uncle Carl’s lobster traps were set. Near where his killer might have stood. They found the rifle on one of the ledges, near the water.”
“How could it get there?”
“That’s what the police are asking, Jake. But that’s not all.” I looked straight at Jake. “They arrested your father. They think his rifle was the one that killed Uncle Carl.”
“What?” Jake looked at me in horror. “That Preston guy thinks Dad killed Uncle Carl?”
“Carl forged your dad’s signature and stole money from us. I didn’t know, but your dad did. Of course,” I started to say, “he’s innocent, and we’re getting a lawyer, and…”
Before I could finish Jake dropped his fork and headed for the front door.
“Jake! Where are you going?” I followed him, but he was too fast for me. “Stop running away. We need to talk!”
He turned and yelled, “I don’t know where I’m going. Away from here. I don’t want to hear anything more about rifles, or about Uncle Carl! He wasn’t a saint, bu
t Dad’s not a murderer!”
I watched as Jake ran down the street, this time not toward the quarry, but toward the lighthouse. The lighthouse above where Burt’s rifle had been found. The lighthouse Jake had walked to before school. He wasn’t a saint?
Carl had stolen our money. Maybe Jake was reacting to that. Or did he know something else about Carl? Or about Burt’s rifle?
My chest felt tight.
Jake was a good boy. He couldn’t have had anything to do with his uncle’s murder. I refused to think that. But my gut told me he knew something he hadn’t told anyone. I’d assumed whatever problem he had was with Matt. That it was some boyish disagreement. But what if Jake—or he and Matt—had seen something related to Carl’s death?
No. That didn’t make sense. Jake wouldn’t keep anything secret that would free his father. I was sure of that. But Jake knew where his dad had kept his gun. It would have been easy for him to take it. Easier than for anyone else other than Burt or me.
I shivered, wishing that thought would disappear. Jake had no reason to hurt his uncle. Besides. When Carl was killed, Jake and Matt had been off-island at baseball practice.
If he knew something that would help bring his father home, then why wouldn’t he tell me? How involved was Jake?
The nightmare of Carl’s death kept getting darker.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“The man who desires to eat a good dinner every day, must be his cook’s best friend.”
—The Epicure’s Year Book and Table Companion by Blanchard Jerrold, Bradbury and Evans, 1868
“Sorry I took so long.” Izzie dropped Jake’s backpack on the floor near the stairs to the second floor. “That Principal Flanagan wanted to talk about where he could find a good Chinese restaurant in Maine. I wasn’t sure if he was flirting, or he thought that’s what you talked about with an Asian-looking person.” She rolled her eyes. “What is this thing Mainers have with Chinese restaurants? Flanagan’s not bad looking, though. Has warm eyes. Then I stopped at a couple of places on my way home. What’s happening here?”
“Jake freaked out when I told him about his father. He ran off again.”
Death and a Pot of Chowder Page 17