Death and a Pot of Chowder Page 14

  “Don’t I know that?” he said. “I’ve practically torn the house and barn apart looking for it.”

  “Is anything else missing?” asked Izzie.

  “Nothing else,” I assured her. “Besides—what would anyone want in our house?” Robberies weren’t a problem on Quarry Island, although occasionally teenagers would break into a seasonal home to party. A few summer folks paid someone local to check their homes when they were away, although the Vandergriffs were the only ones who had a year-round caretaker.

  Although, now they didn’t.

  “Where’s Jake?” Burt asked.

  “With Luc, at Maine Chance Books,” I said. “At least, that’s where he was headed this morning after Detective Preston interviewed him.”

  “I called Luc. Jake left there two hours ago,” said Burt.

  Jake had disappeared again? Burt was upset enough. I didn’t tell him Jake had vanished for a while this morning.

  “Izzie and I had lunch with Mom and Mamie, and then I took her on a tour of the island. Maybe Jake met Matt after school.” I glanced at the clock over our stove. “It’s almost four o’clock. Matt should be home by now.”

  “I checked. Neither of them are at the Martins,” said Burt. “What’s gotten into that boy? I know he’s upset about Carl’s death. We all are. But he can’t just take off like this. Too much is happening. He’s never done it before.”

  But he had. This morning. And he’d told the detective he’d been shooting out at the quarry last week when he’d told me he was at work.

  “He might be at Mom’s house.”

  Burt shook his head. “I checked there, too. And his bicycle’s not in the barn.”

  “Maybe he needed to be on his own for a while,” I said. Jake was usually with Matt, but he and Matt had argued yesterday. Had they resolved whatever their problem had been? I wished Burt and my problems were as simple as those of fourteen-year-olds. Years ago, he loved to ride all the way around the island. Island Road was close to twenty miles long. Biking around the island was an accomplishment.

  “He’s fourteen. And someone out there killed Carl. He shouldn’t have left without telling us.”

  “You’re right,” I agreed, touching Burt’s arm. “But he’s probably fine. Have you had anything to eat besides the sandwiches I made this morning?”

  “No,” he said.

  “You must be hungry,” said Izzie. She moved toward the refrigerator.

  “I don’t need food!”

  Izzie stopped.

  Burt immediately realized his error. “It’s all right, Izzie. Sorry. I’m fine. But why don’t you make up a plate of the cookies and brownies and stuff people brought yesterday? We could offer them to Preston, when he gets here.”

  Izzie pulled out a plate and opened the boxes where she’d put the cookies.

  “He called and said he was coming?” I asked.

  “Carmela Heedles said he was. She called to give me a heads up that Preston had been at the sheriff’s office, asking questions about all of us.”

  “He wants to know more about Carl,” I said. “He told us he’d be asking questions of everyone we knew and checking Carl’s apartment.”

  “Yeah. I remember. I can understand them talking to people. They probably think someone’s going to tell them all of Carl’s deep, dark secrets. But I doubt they’ll hear anything we don’t know. And what could they find in his apartment?”

  Izzie put a plate of cookies and cake in the center of the table. Burt reached for an oatmeal raisin one.

  “Maybe there was something helpful on Carl’s computer,” I suggested. Had there been? Only the police would know. They’d already taken the computer when Izzie and I were at the apartment. I didn’t tell Burt we’d been there. “Snooping,” he’d call it. He might not understand we were investigating. We were trying to help him.

  “All Carl’s computer had on it was games, most likely,” said Burt. “Or engine schematics.”

  “I’m going upstairs to make a phone call,” said Izzie. “Excuse me.”

  I nodded as she left Burt and me alone.

  “Maybe something else was on his computer that we don’t know about. E-mails. Or social media stuff.” I suggested. “That’s what the police were looking for.”

  “He was on Facebook, he told me once. I don’t think he did that sort of thing a lot.”

  “The police are looking for people he was in contact with.”

  “The only person he’s been close to recently besides us, the Martins, and Rob, was Rose. They’ve probably talked to her already.”

  “Maybe he’d joined one of those dating sites,” I put in. “He mentioned one a couple of months ago. I thought he was kidding, but maybe he wasn’t.” Although something had changed in the past few months. Carl’s apartment certainly had.

  “Carl? Online dating? No way.” Burt took a chocolate chip cookie and chewed it without seeming to taste it. “And even if he had, what would that have to do with his murder?” He sat back on the couch. “But who knows? He lived his own life. Everyone has secrets.”

  I squeezed Burt’s shoulder lightly and went to put water on to boil for tea. That tablet Izzie had found in Jake’s room was still on the kitchen counter, near Izzie’s knife kit. If Burt had noticed it, he’d probably thought it was hers. Burt was worried about his missing rifle and his brother’s murder. He didn’t need to know how concerned I was about Jake.

  But when Jake did show up, he and I were going to have a serious talk.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “New England rum, constantly used to wash the hair, keeps it very clean and free from disease, and promotes its growth a great deal more than Macassar oil. Brandy is very strengthening to the roots of the hair, but it has a hot, drying tendency which New England rum has not.”

  —The Frugal Housewife: Dedicated to Those Who Are Not Ashamed of Economy by Lydia Maria Child. Boston, 1833

  Detective Preston arrived a few minutes later. Burt and I sat with him at the kitchen table. Preston didn’t waste any time, either helping himself to a brownie, or getting to the point of his visit.

  “Mr. Winslow, earlier today your son gave me his rifle, but your wife couldn’t find yours. Would you get it for me now?”

  Burt ran his hand through his hair. “I have no idea where it is. I’m sure I put it away in the same place I always store it, but I looked as soon as I got home. It’s not there. I don’t know what to tell you.”

  “Who else knew where you kept your rifle?” Preston asked.

  “My wife. My son. I may have mentioned it to someone else. Carl knew where it was. I’ve always kept it in my gun case, under our bed.” Burt was getting tense. “I have no idea where it could have gone.”

  “Was your gun case locked?”

  “I had no reason to lock it. My son knows how to use a rifle and has his own. My wife doesn’t shoot. Carl had his own rifles.”

  Detective Preston nodded. “We found those at his apartment. So, no one else could have taken it?”

  “I can’t imagine who would have. And I don’t know how long it’s been missing. I haven’t been hunting since last fall. I’ve had no reason to look for it since then.”

  “So, you last saw your rifle months ago.”

  “Right. But why does it matter?”

  “Your brother Carl was shot with a rifle, Mr. Winslow. You’d argued with him that morning and so, far as we can tell, you were the last person to see him alive. If your rifle were available we could test it to see if it was the one that killed Carl. If it wasn’t, you’d be cleared—or at least your gun would be cleared. We can’t test a missing rifle.”

  Burt’s face was getting redder. “You’re accusing me of killing my own brother?”

  “I’m saying we need to find the gun that killed him. You’re not the only person who knew Carl Winslow and owned a rifle. But you and he had words, and family arguments can become violent. You need to find that missing rifle of yours. In the meantime, my team and I
will be checking every rifle we find nearby, looking for the one that killed your brother.”

  “Did you find anything at Carl’s apartment that would help you figure out who might have killed him?” I asked.

  “Crime investigators are checking his computer in Augusta,” said Detective Preston. “That’s all I can say.”

  “On television crime shows they say a murderer has to have motive, opportunity, and means. Have you found anyone who has those things?”

  Detective Preston almost laughed at my question. Instead, he stuffed another brownie into his mouth. “This isn’t television. But finding the weapon that killed Carl Winslow would supply the means. It’s a place to start. I can assure you, that rifle is not all we’re checking into. I understand he was in a relationship with Rose Snowe,” he said, looking at his notes. “I haven’t been able to speak with her yet.”

  Neither had Izzie or I. But we’d only checked at the clinic. Rose was probably at work at the hospital, or at home. But, if so, why hadn’t Preston been able to find her?

  “Rose and Carl’d been together about a year,” Burt confirmed. “He didn’t tell any of us he was serious about Rose, but he’d seemed steadier recently. More focused. He was trying to be organized. Like, fixing the engine on his boat. Other years, he’d have sterned for other people until the money showed up.” Burt looked over at me. “He’d never said anything directly. But he might have been serious about Rose.”

  That might explain the changes in his apartment. And Rose had certainly been upset about his death. I definitely needed to talk with her.

  Preston nodded. “We’ll be talking with Ms Snowe. All I can say now is that we’re following several leads. All you need to worry about is that missing rifle, Mr. Winslow. Here in Maine not many rifles are registered, so we have to check any weapons that might have been used in a crime.”

  “Mine was registered!” Burt jumped up. “I have papers somewhere. I bought it at a store that sells guns across the country and requires customers to register their guns.” He started rummaging through the kitchen drawer where we tossed receipts and appliance instructions.

  “Don’t worry about those papers now,” said Detective Preston. “But I’m glad you told me. I can check that with the federal registry. If you do find your rifle, we can confirm it’s yours. In the meantime,” he stood, taking a brownie with him, “keep looking. I don’t like it when a gun is missing in a murder investigation.”

  “I understand. Of course,” said Burt. “I wish I knew where it was, too. I want it back. But I didn’t kill my brother.”

  “Whoever did, we’re going to find him,” said Preston. “Or her.”

  He turned and walked out.

  Burt collapsed into the chair he usually relaxed in at this time of day. “What am I supposed to do, Anna? Where can that rifle be? How could it have disappeared?”

  I shook my head and went over to massage his shoulders. “I have no idea, Burt. But Preston’s right. It doesn’t look good. We need to find it.”

  “Ever since you called this afternoon, I’ve been trying to think where it could be. I’ve come up with nothing,” Burt said. “I always clean the gun after I hunt, and put it away in the same place. I’ve been doing that since I was fifteen.” He paused. “The gun case is still where I always put it, under our bed. All I can think is that someone took it.”

  “Who would take your gun? Most people we know have their own.”

  Burt’s shoulders were tight. I kept massaging.

  Izzie came down the steps from the second floor and glanced around. “Is that homicide guy gone?”

  “He left a few minutes ago. No news. He’s still asking about Burt’s rifle, which seems to have disappeared.”

  Izzie shook her head in sympathy. “You guys have a lot on your minds. I’ll take care of dinner. You have so much food, anyway. I’ll heat the lasagna and make a salad.”

  “Sounds good, Izzie. Thanks for helping,” said Burt, standing and stretching. “I’m going to lie down for an hour or two before supper and try to sleep a little. I didn’t get much rest last night.”

  “Dinner will be ready whenever anyone’s hungry,” Izzie said.

  “I hadn’t even thought about food,” I answered. “Thanks for taking over that job, at least for today.”

  Izzie headed for the kitchen, as Burt walked slowly upstairs. He looked twenty years older than he had Friday, before everything fell apart.

  And Jake was still gone. Why wasn’t he with Luc, shelving books and checking inventory? Keeping busy and not thinking about what happened to his uncle? Thank goodness he hadn’t been here when Detective Preston came back. He didn’t need to know his father was a possible suspect. Or at least his father’s rifle was.

  “So, did you make your phone call?” I asked Izzie.

  She came into the living room and handed me a cup of tea. She’d even remembered I took it with a packet of sweetener and a little milk. “I did,” she said. “I called the realtor listed on the ‘For Sale’ sign outside that building. I have an appointment to see it tomorrow morning.”

  “You do? You’re serious?” I asked.

  “I am,” she smiled. “Why not look? I know you have tons on your mind, but could you tell me what that place used to look like? I love the location, right near the bridge with a view of the water, and I’m betting real estate here costs a lot less than it does in New York City.”

  “That property is on the water, but doesn’t have an ocean view,” I said. “Around here, the most expensive lots are on the ocean. Waterfront on the river is almost that pricey. Third most expensive is a view of the water, not frontage itself. The building you’re interested in has waterfront, which is good, but it’s on an inlet, not on the ocean or river.”

  “Makes sense,” said Izzie. “Anything else I should know that everyone here takes for granted?”

  “Fresh water,” I said. “Some island houses have water piped over from a reservoir on the mainland, others have their own wells. Some have both, and switch back and forth.”

  “Which is better?” she asked. She leaned forward, listening intently. “Why have both?”

  “Depends on whether you’re going to be here all year or just summers. Town water’s cut off in mid-October and pipes are drained so they won’t freeze. They’re not opened again until April. Summer folks and snowbirds heading for Florida or Arizona don’t mind that. But if you’re going to live here year-round, you have to have your own supply.”

  “That’s what you have?”

  “Absolutely. Every house in this area of the island does. Although some folks use town water in the summer, and switch to well water the rest of the year, to put less of a drain on their wells.”

  “So, I need to ask about water,” she said.

  “That place isn’t big,” I told her, trying to remember. “The couple who ran it had a take-out window for ice cream cones, lobster rolls, and such in the summer, and maybe a dozen small tables inside for those who wanted to sit.”

  “So, room for about forty people, depending on the size of the tables.” Izzie was doing math in her head. “Was there a bar area?”

  “I don’t think so. They didn’t serve liquor.”

  “Would it be hard to get a liquor license here?”

  I was still focused on Carl’s murder. But talking about restaurants was distracting, and distraction was good just now. “I guess you’d have to get approval from the town council.”

  “Will you go with me tomorrow morning to look at the place? I’d really like your opinion.”

  “I don’t know anything about restaurants,” I protested.

  “Please? I’m already nervous. I don’t want to go alone. I’m supposed to meet the realtor there at nine thirty.”

  “I’ll go with you,” I agreed. “But don’t get too excited. That place hasn’t been open in a while. It’s probably a mess. They sold a lot of the equipment and chairs and tables. I remember seeing a truck picking up the stoves and refrig
erators.”

  Izzie wasn’t listening, or didn’t want to. “I love the water view. It isn’t the ocean, but the inlet is wide, and boats go by there, right?”

  “Especially in summer. Sometimes they’re lined up, waiting for the bridge to open.”

  Blue jumped into my lap, tapped my cheek with his paw, and then curled up for a nap.

  “The parking area might have to be enlarged. And wouldn’t it be great to have outdoor seating, so in warm weather people could sit outside and watch the boats? And a fireplace inside in winter.”

  I was beginning to be intrigued. “Fire regulations might be a problem for a fireplace. Plus, you’d have to have a lined chimney.” We’d never used the fireplace in our house because it wasn’t up to code. We hoped to change that someday. “And keeping a fire going would be time consuming, would require a lot of wood, and would be messy.”

  “Good points. Then a gas or propane fireplace,” Izzie said. “One that would look real.”

  “A fire would be nice if your restaurant was open year-round,” I admitted. Izzie’s excitement was contagious.

  “Would people come all year?”

  “If prices weren’t too high,” I said. “And you were right about having a bar. A place people could stop after work or meet friends could be popular.”

  “Definitely a bar,” she agreed. “Restaurants make more money on alcohol than on food. And a short menu, at least at first. Local ingredients, from farms and the sea.” She winked. “Does anyone around here make raspberry cordial?”

  I laugh at her reference to a scene in Anne of Green Gables. “I don’t know! But there are local Maine wines, beers, and liquors.” I’d never thought much about restaurants. Never even ate out often. One reason was price, of course. But there wasn’t a convenient place to eat on Quarry Island. Maybe Izzie’s dream had substance.

  “Welcome home, Jake!” Izzie said, looking at the front door, behind me. “You’re in time for dinner. It’ll be warm soon.”

  “Okay,” said Jake.

  “Where have you been all day?” I asked.

  “At Maine Chance. This morning you and that state trooper told me to go there.”