“(Advice to servants:) Don’t upset the cook by telling her what the family says about her cooking. Leave that for the mistress. If there is any fault to be found, it is not so apt to cause trouble if it goes directly to the cook from her mistress.”
—Mrs. Seely’s Cook-Book: A Manual of French and American Cookery, with Chapters on Domestic Servants, Their Rights and Duties, and Many Other Details of Household Management by Lida Seely. New York: 1902
“Rob, thank you. I appreciate your advice. You’ve lived through nightmares like this before, with other families.”
“Never with a close friend or neighbor,” Rob said. “Carl was my friend, too. I wish I could add to what you already know about him. Whenever I saw him, he was either on his boat, at the wharf, or on his way in or out of your house or the Martins’. And, I assume, he was often over at the Snowes’ to see Rose.”
“Izzie and I started drawing a timeline for last week, but we didn’t get very far. I’ve been trying to figure out where else Carl could have gone on a regular basis.” I glanced at Izzie. “One possibility is that he was with another woman. Not Rose Snowe. Izzie talked with her, and Carl had broken up with her. But Carl loaned Jake his tablet, and Izzie looked at his e-mails. They sounded as though he was meeting one, or maybe two, other women. His life may have been more complicated than we knew.”
“What about asking Jake?” Rob asked.
“Jake?” I asked
“He spent a lot of time with Carl, sometimes with Matt and sometimes just the two of them. Carl might have told him things he didn’t tell you and Burt. Right?” Rob pressed.
“We’re back to Jake again.” I thought for a moment. “It’s possible. I wish he and Matt would resolve whatever trouble they’re having with each other, if that’s why Jake is holding back.”
“I agree that normally it would be better for Jake and Matt to settle their own problems. But, Anna, this is a murder investigation! Burt’s been arrested! You need to know whatever Jake’s dealing with. And he may be confused or scared, but I’m sure he’d want to help us find a murder suspect other than his dad.” She looked down at the time line she’d made.
“You’re both right,” I agreed. “I was trying to protect Jake. But I was wrong. When he gets back here I’m going to have to find out what’s been happening with him.”
“Good plan,” Rob agreed. “In the meantime, let’s think about motives. Whoever killed Carl had to have a reason, but it might not be obvious, or even logical. I’ve worked cases where the motive was road rage, or a minor slight that happened years ago. What else do we know about Carl? Maybe we know something we don’t realize is important.”
“Carl was almost thirty. Single. Never married, no children. Ex-girlfriends, but none too serious. We all thought Rose Snowe was the woman in his life, but they broke up a month ago, and based on the e-mails Izzie saw, there were other women. That’s all we know about relationships. Of course, he also had money problems.”
“The women could be an issue,” Izzie pointed out, making a note. “Assuming Carl had synched up his tablet and computer, the police also saw the e-mails I read.”
“You’re right,” I agreed. “Okay. But I keep going back to his financial situation. Carl squandered his small inheritance from his mother, and then after he won the lottery a couple of years ago, spent that money, too. He was struggling financially, asking Burt and me to loan him money. According to Jake, he’d also asked Dolan Martin to help him out.” I paused. “He must have been desperate, because then he stole from Burt and me. He always said he needed money for a new engine for the Fair Winds. But he may have had other obligations. Several thousand dollars was spent on his apartment, even if the furniture and kitchen stuff came from auctions. Unless Rose bought everything.”
“Auctions?” Izzie questioned.
“Auctions are big around here. If you want secondhand, antique, or ‘vintage’ as some people call used household items, you go to auctions. Dealers buy the real antiques, the good stuff, but you can get solid twentieth century furniture pretty cheap. That’s where Burt and I got a lot of our furniture. Most of it was in pretty good shape.”
“Your house looks cozy,” said Izzie. “Do auctions sell old tables, chairs, china, and glasses, too?”
“Sure. Older folks moving into smaller places or estates being settled consign household items. Auctions sell everything. Secondhand items go cheap. If I ever decide to get a good set of dishes I’m going to check auction previews.”
“Cool,” said Izzie. “I’ll remember that.”
I suspected she was thinking of equipping her restaurant, not of anything related to Carl’s death.
I turned back to Rob. “Carl liked to hunt and fish. He liked the ladies. He couldn’t cook, but he liked to eat. I can’t believe any of those things would upset someone enough so they’d kill him. The worst thing he did was steal from Burt and me. That’s the major reason they arrested Burt.”
“Could he have borrowed money from someone else and not given it back? That could be a motive,” Izzie speculated.
“It’s possible. Someone he’d borrowed it from might be angry, might pressure him to return it. But why kill him? If Carl was dead they’d have no chance of getting their money back.”
Izzie sat back. “Rob, why do people kill other people? I mean, really. Not like on television and in the movies.”
“Crazy reasons, sometimes. Wrong time, wrong place. Those are the hardest cases to solve since there may be no connection, or no apparent connection, between the killer and the victim. I always hated those cases. More likely, people kill someone they know: often a family member or friend. They kill for love or money. They kill because they’re jealous or angry. They kill to cover something up, or to hide secrets, or to protect someone else. Or themselves.”
“Anything’s possible. But nothing fits, yet,” I agreed.
The front door banged open. In addition to Jake’s black eye and swollen face, his fist was bleeding and he was crying.
Chapter Thirty-One
“The food required by the body consists of gluten, fibrin, albumen, starch, fat, sugar, and saline matters. The first three are nutritive or flesh-forming; the last four are the heat givers. Men require daily five ounces of flesh-forming food and ten ounces of heat-giving or breath material.”
—Old Doctor Carlin’s Recipes: A Complete Collection of Recipes on Every Known Subject by Doctor William Carlin. Boston, Massachusetts: The Locker Publishing Company, 1881
I jumped up and went to Jake, reaching for his bleeding hand.
He looked from Izzie to Rob as though surprised they were there, and turned to me. “Mom? You said the police think Dad’s rifle was the one that killed Uncle Carl.”
I glanced at Rob. “Yes. What happened to your hand? Let me get it cleaned and bandaged.”
“Forget my hand, Mom. It’s okay. But nothing else is.”
Rob raised his eyebrows at me and took over. “Come sit with us, Jake. A lot has happened in the past few days. It’s important you understand what’s going on.”
“Are you helping Detective Preston?” Jake asked, sitting, but still holding his hand.
“I’m not a homicide detective anymore. I’m a friend. I’m just helping your family find out what happened.”
“The police arrested Dad. They say he killed Uncle Carl.” Tears ran down his cheeks.
Rob looked serious, but sympathetic. “What do you think, Jake? Do you believe your dad’s guilty?”
Both of Jake’s hands, even the one that was bleeding, were clenched. I wet a couple of paper towels in the kitchen and dabbed at the bleeding hand to see how bad the injury was. His knuckles were scraped and nasty-looking, but the cuts didn’t look serious, thank goodness.
Jake took the towel from me and held it against his hand.
He still hadn’t moved or said anything. But he hadn’t left. That was major.
“Of course not. Dad didn’t kill Uncle Carl,” he blurted.
/> “We don’t think so either,” I agreed.
“You knew your uncle pretty well, didn’t you, Jake,” said Rob.
“He was a good guy. At least, most of the time. Some people thought he was messed up, but I got along with him fine. He wasn’t just my uncle. He was my friend.”
“Izzie, Rob, and I are trying to figure out what happened to him. We could use your help.” I said.
Jake perched on the arm of one of our chairs. He’d joined us, but was posed to take off at any minute. “Dad didn’t kill Uncle Carl. He didn’t have his rifle on Saturday. I took it,” he said quickly, as though trying to get the words out before he regretted telling us. He glanced around quickly to see our reactions. “I borrowed it. I was going to put it back.”
Rob gave me a look that said “down, Mom.” “When did you borrow it, Jake?”
“About a week ago. Last Wednesday.”
“What happened then?”
“Matt’s been really upset and angry. He doesn’t want his mom and dad to get divorced. I was trying to do something that would make him happy again.”
Matt thought Lucy and Dolan were getting divorced? Where’d he gotten that idea? I had a dozen questions. But I let Rob take the lead. Rob wasn’t a father, but he sounded as though he’d had a lot of experience asking teenagers questions.
“You wanted to help your friend,” Rob said.
“Right. I figured Matt’d calm down if he could do something he really wanted. So, I told him I’d teach him how to shoot. His mom and dad won’t let him learn. He’s old enough, Mom. And he promised to be wicked careful.”
“With your dad’s rifle?” I asked.
“No, Mom. I’m not stupid! I figured he could use my rifle. It’s for beginners. I borrowed Dad’s to use myself.” He stood, as though to get further away from my anger, which I was having trouble containing. “Dad promised when I saved enough money I could buy my own Winchester. He thought I could handle one.”
Burt had said that. Knowing how expensive rifles were, I was also sure he hadn’t counted on Jake’s saving that money any time soon.
“So, you took both the rifles,” said Rob, sending me another “keep cool” look and continuing to question Jake.
“And Uncle Carl drove Matt and me to the gravel pit.”
“Carl! When did he get involved?” I asked.
“Matt and I couldn’t ride our bikes and carry rifles, too. Besides, someone might have seen us.”
“True,” I said, hoping my voice sounded calmer than I felt.
“They might have stopped us, or told you or Dad,” Jake explained, with teenaged logic. “Uncle Carl hung around while I showed Matt how to load and shoot. He did pretty well, too, for a first-timer.”
So, they hadn’t been alone at the gravel pit. Carl had been with them, thank goodness, in case anything had gone wrong.
“And then Carl drove you both home?”
“Yeah. Only, Dad was out front loading traps onto the truck. We couldn’t bring the rifles in, you know, because he’d see us.”
“Right,” I said. It all made perfect sense from Jake’s perspective.
“Uncle Carl told us not to worry. He’d take care of the rifles until we could get them back into the house.”
“So, your uncle took the rifles, Jake?” Rob asked.
Izzie and I exchanged glances. Where was this story heading?
“He left them in his truck and went home, to his apartment.”
“What did you and Matt do?”
Jake looked as though Rob’s question was dumb. “It was time for supper and we had homework to do. We went home.”
“When did you get your rifle back?”
“The next day. Thursday after school. No one was home—you were over at Mamie’s house, Mom, and our truck wasn’t in the drive, so I figured Dad was at the wharf. I called Uncle Carl and he brought my rifle over, and I put it away.”
“What about your dad’s rifle?” I asked.
“That’s when it got weird. Uncle Carl couldn’t find Dad’s rifle. He said he’d left our guns in his truck overnight, and Dad’s was gone in the morning. I told him I had to have it back. I was going to get in big trouble if Dad found out I’d borrowed it. If it was lost, he’d never forgive me.”
“Did Carl have any idea where it was?”
“He said he hadn’t touched the rifles. So, I asked him if the truck had been at his place all night.”
Jake dropped the bloody towel he’d been holding, but didn’t seem to notice. “He fussed around a bit, but then he told me he’d been home for a while and then had come back over this way later that night, before he went home to bed.”
I thought for a second. “I don’t remember Carl’s stopping in Wednesday night.”
“He wasn’t visiting us,” Jake mumbled.
“Who was he visiting?” Rob asked.
“Someone at the Martins’ house, probably. That’s what he usually did,” Jake muttered.
What he usually did? I knew Carl and the Martins were friends. But Jake’s tone was strange.
“So?” Rob prompted.
“So, I figured out what happened to the rifle. Whenever he was over this way at night, Uncle Carl parked behind the church. Matt knew that, and he was the only other person who knew the rifle was in the truck. I figured he had to have taken it.”
Izzie and I exchanged glances. “Did you ask Matt whether he had?”
“Sure! As soon as I figured out it must be him, I texted him. At first, he said he hadn’t done it. But then he said, yeah, he’d borrowed it in case he needed it.”
“In case he needed it?” Rob asked. “Why would he need it?”
“He wouldn’t say. He was pissed—sorry, Mom—he was wicked angry at his mom and dad. I told him I had to put the rifle back. Then he said he’d give it to me, but he wanted to keep it for a couple of days just to look at it and hold it.” Jake paused. “Matt’s a little crazy about rifles. I wish his mom and dad would let him have his own.”
“Weird,” Izzie said softly.
“It wasn’t weird! It was wicked scary!” said Jake. “Matt’s just wanting to hold the rifle? And I knew he was mad at his mom. And then Uncle Carl drowned, or we thought he’d drowned, and I forgot about Dad’s gun. Sunday, I remembered it and that’s why Matt and I had a fight then. I wanted the rifle back, and he wouldn’t give it to me. He kept saying he didn’t have it any more.”
“That’s when you got your black eye,” said Izzie.
“Yeah. Got the black eye. Didn’t get the rifle. Then, when that detective asked me about my rifle on Monday, I got scared. I thought maybe Matt lied. That he did know where Dad’s rifle was, and he’d killed Uncle Carl. And I was the one who showed him how to shoot and didn’t get Dad’s rifle back, so it was all my fault. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know for sure. And I had no proof.” Jake looked relieved. “So, that’s all I know. And now those detectives are saying Dad killed Uncle Carl. He couldn’t have! Like I said, he didn’t have his rifle on Saturday.”
Jake rubbed the tears off his face with his shirt sleeve.
“Thank you for telling us,” said Rob. “That wasn’t easy. But you’ve been a big help.”
“So, can Dad get out of jail now?”
“Not right away,” Rob assured him. “We still need answers to other questions. We need to know for sure who had that rifle Saturday morning.”
“So, that’s why you’ve been fighting with Matt?” I asked.
Jake nodded.
“When did Matt first tell you he didn’t have the rifle?” asked Rob.
“He told me on Friday, but he was lying.”
“Are you sure, Jake?” I asked him.
“I stayed over at the Martins’ house Friday night, remember, Mom? I asked him for the rifle—again. He said he didn’t have it. I figured he’d hidden it, so I wouldn’t find it and take it back. But he kept saying it had disappeared.” Jake looked at Rob, and then at me. “I’m not stupid. I know rifles d
on’t disappear. So, I didn’t believe him. I called him a liar. And worse.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
“Roasting meats: The first preparation for roasting is to take care that the spit be properly cleaned with sand and water; nothing else. When it has been well scoured with this, dry it with a clean cloth.”
—The New England Economical Housekeeper, and Family Receipt Book by Esther A. Howland. Worcester, Massachusetts: S.A. Howland, 1844
Just then, Rob’s phone rang. Jake bolted. “I’ve said enough,” he said. “I don’t know anything more. I’ve got homework to do.” He grabbed his backpack from where Izzie had left it at the bottom of the staircase and took the stairs to his room two at a time.
Rob shook his head, but answered his phone. “Yes. I’ve been trying to reach you. I have a friend on the mid-coast who needs a lawyer.” He paused. “Murder. He’s been charged with murder.”
I didn’t want to hear the rest of the call. Rob would tell us if his friend could help Burt. I gestured to Izzie to follow me into the kitchen.
“Wow. That was some story,” said Izzie. “Thank goodness Jake finally told us he’d taken the rifle, and what happened to it. That should get Burt off the hook, shouldn’t it? He didn’t have his rifle when Carl was shot.”
I hesitated. “I don’t know what the police will think. Sure, Burt said he didn’t have his rifle, and Jake’s story seemed to back that up. But we don’t have any proof Matt—or anyone else—was the killer, and no motive. Plus, Matt and Jake were on the mainland at baseball practice Saturday morning when Carl was shot. We need to find out who had it Saturday morning.”
“Jake filled in some details on our timeline, but not enough,” she agreed, as Rob joined us in the kitchen.
“I have a lawyer—a good defense attorney—who says he’ll take Burt on as a client. But he’s asking for a four thousand dollar retainer. Can you manage that, Anna?”
Four thousand dollars. Yesterday, I would have said “yes.” Yesterday, I didn’t know Carl had taken our savings.
We had some money in our checking account, and maybe Mom or Mamie could loan me a little. I had to get the best lawyer for Burt.
Death and a Pot of Chowder Page 19