Death and a Pot of Chowder Page 3

  “I love your sign! I’m your sister! Izzie!”

  “Izzie?” I asked, sounding stupid. Who else would it be? But—where was the Izzie I’d pictured? This woman was shorter than I was, and didn’t look at all like me.

  We both laughed nervously as she reached out and hugged me, but my sign got in the way, keeping us apart.

  Then she pulled back. “You didn’t expect me to look like this, did you?” She gestured toward her face, smiling.

  “I didn’t think…” I blurted. “I mean, I thought you’d look like me.”

  She looked at me, pretending to be critical. “I inherited big ears from Dad. You did, too. And we’ve got the same ugly nose. But my mom was Korean. I suspect yours wasn’t?” Izzie smiled, but her eyes had filled with tears when she said the word “Dad.”

  She was mourning our father. A man I’d never even met. I swallowed a flare of jealousy. “I didn’t know. About your mom, I mean.”

  She laughed again. “I should have warned you. But we agreed not to exchange pictures. I loved the expression on your face when you realized who I was! Here,” she took the sign. “Let’s ditch that. You found me!” She stuck the poster board behind a trash container. “I’ll get my bags and then we can take off. Your last e-mail promised lunch in Portland. I’m starving!”

  She headed back to the bus, where she pointed out two enormous red suitcases to the driver.

  My sister was half Korean. I couldn’t believe it. I’d imagined we’d look like twins. Instead, despite the ears and the nose Izzie had immediately noticed (she must have been imagining what I looked like, too), we didn’t look at all alike.

  How surprised Jake and Burt—and Mom—would be.

  My sister! Life, and I suspected Izzie herself, was full of surprises.

  Chapter Four

  “How to Preserve a Husband: Be careful in your selection; do not choose too young and take only such as have been reared in a good moral atmosphere. Some insist on keeping them in a pickle, while others put them in hot water. This only makes them sour, hard, and sometimes bitter.”

  —International Cooking by Federation of American Women’s Clubs Overseas (Copenhagen). Undated

  Izzie’s suitcases could have held every piece of clothing I owned, with room to spare.

  “I always travel with too much. I wasn’t sure what Maine weather would be like. And my knife kit takes up a lot of room. I never leave my knives in my apartment.”

  “Knives?” I asked dubiously. I took the handle of one of her suitcases and led Izzie and her luggage toward my old blue pickup. Burt had knives, of course—knives he used when he was lobstering, or fishing, or hunting. Even Jake had one or two. But why would this elegant young woman in her early twenties (I guessed) travel with knives? For protection?

  “I’m a chef,” she explained as we reached the parking lot. “Of course, you didn’t know. We said we’d wait to talk about our lives until we were together.”

  What else hadn’t she mentioned before today, beside her mom and her profession?

  Burt was right; my sister was from another world.

  “Then you work at a restaurant?”

  “Not yet,” she said, climbing into the passenger seat. “I just graduated. CIA.”

  “What?” I turned my key. “CIA?”

  “Culinary Institute of America. Don’t worry—I’m not a spy or anything,” she assured me. “Lots of people get those two mixed up. I’m looking for a job.” She took off her cape and folded it, revealing a tattoo of a crossed knife and fork on her right forearm.

  “I see,” I said, pulling out of the parking lot. I didn’t, actually. But at least she wasn’t a spy.

  “Getting a decent job in New York City is impossible, and finding an affordable place to live is worse. And I don’t want to go back to Connecticut. It’s a culinary wasteland. Plus—too many memories are there.” Izzie paused. “I’ve heard Maine’s a foodie state, so maybe I’ll find a job here. Thought I’d check out Portland restaurants while I’m visiting.”

  What would Izzie think of the diner where I’d planned we’d eat lunch? Should I have chosen a fancier restaurant in the Old Port section of Portland? I didn’t even know which those were, and probably couldn’t afford them.

  “Your husband’s a lobsterman, right? That’s what you wrote. How cool to be able to eat lobsters any time you want to!”

  That was one of the few details I’d given her. Married to a lobsterman, with a teenaged son. “Fourth generation,” I said, with some pride. Burt’s father, uncle, grandfather, and great-grandfather had put out traps. Burt and his brother had followed in their footsteps. I didn’t point out that we hardly ever ate lobster. They were the economic center of our life, not our favorite food. “Burt’s been lobstering since he was twelve.”

  “That young?” Izzie looked amazed.

  “He started with a skiff and a couple of traps then,” I explained. “Lots of kids start that way.”

  “Wow. When I was twelve I didn’t even wear a bra,” Izzie said. “’Course I don’t always wear one now, either.” She looked around as I drove off Route 295 into Portland. “So where are we going for lunch?”

  Izzie might be a chef, but this was my state. “I decided somewhere we could talk would be best,” I said. “I know a place where you can get breakfast all day.” I glanced at Izzie. She didn’t look thrilled. “They have seafood, too.”

  She recovered quickly. “Sounds great.”

  As I pulled into the parking lot, Izzie gasped. “You didn’t tell me it was a retro diner!”

  The Miss Portland was painted bright blue, with its name in enormous yellow letters on the side.

  “It was built in nineteen forty-nine.” I tried to remember what I’d learned the last time Burt and I’d treated ourselves to a meal in Portland.

  The Miss Portland was retro (was that good or bad?) and popular. Several police cars, a half dozen pickups older than the one I was driving, and a couple of dozen cars were in the parking lot this midafternoon.

  “Seagulls on the roof! Seagulls everywhere!” Izzie looked from one side of the pickup to the other. I hoped she’d approve of eggs and pancakes for lunch. The Miss Portland probably had crabmeat or lobster benedict too.

  My phone buzzed as I pulled my key out of the ignition.

  “Excuse me a second.” I quickly thought through a mental list of people who might call. Mom and Mamie knew I was meeting Izzie. They wouldn’t bother me. Burt was out on the Anna. Jake had eaten lunch at Mom and Mamie’s after practice and would be at Maine Chance Books, or hanging out somewhere with Matt. When you lived on an island there weren't too many places to go.

  Who would be calling?

  I pulled my phone out of the canvas bag made of used sails Burt had given me for Christmas.

  “Yes?” I said quickly.

  “Did you pick up Izzie all right?” Burt’s voice was tight.

  “No problem. Izzie’s with me right now,” I said, smiling at her.

  “Sorry about the timing. But you need to come home. Now.”

  “What’s happened?” I tried to keep my voice calm. Burt, my steady, understanding Burt, would never ask me to return early unless there was a serious problem. My world focused on his words. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” he assured me.

  “Then, Jake? Mom? Mamie?” What could have happened since I’d left Quarry Island?

  “They’re all fine.” His voice hesitated. “It’s Carl.”

  “Carl?”

  “He didn’t want to go out with me this morning. Said he’d tinkered with his engine again last night and hoped he’d fixed it. Wanted to take his Fair Winds for a test run.”

  It wasn’t safe for a lobsterman to go out without his sternman, but sometimes Burt and Carl did. They all did.

  “Yes?”

  “I found the Fair Winds adrift off Granite Point. Rolling. He wasn’t on board.”

  Burt couldn’t be saying what I thought he was.
<
br />   “Carl’s gone, Anna. I called 911 and towed the Fair Winds in. The Marine Patrol and the police are searching, along with Dolan and me and the other guys.”

  “I’m leaving Portland now,” I said. “I’ll be home in about ninety minutes.”

  “Good,” said Burt.

  “And—I’ll be praying.”

  Burt hung up.

  The air seemed twenty degrees colder than it was before my phone rang. The parking lot and the other cars and even my newly found sister were in a haze.

  For a moment I went blank.

  “What’s happened?” asked Izzie. “Who was that?”

  “Burt. My husband. He found his brother’s boat adrift. Empty. Carl’s missing. The Marine Patrol and police are searching, along with the locals.”

  “Searching?”

  I put my key back in the car. “He must have fallen overboard.”

  “Get out, Anna. We’re changing places. I’m driving.” Izzie directed. “Head me in the right direction. I’m going to Quarry Island with you.”

  At first I didn’t move. Then I nodded, numbly, and did as she said.

  North Atlantic waters were deep and cold. I hugged myself in silence.

  “Get back on Route 295 and head north,” I directed.

  What could have happened?

  My brother-in-law wasn’t my most reliable relative, but he was close to Burt, and an important part of our lives. We were family.

  Burt and Carl had lobstered all their lives. They knew their boats and the waters. They knew when to come in if storms threatened.

  No Quarry Island fisherman had been lost at sea since I was five or six. Everyone on the island had been at that funeral. I hadn’t known the fisherman whose sternman hadn’t been able to haul him up after his foot caught in the trapline that pulled him overboard. But I never forgot his story.

  Each spring, Reverend Beaman, Quarry Island’s minister, held a blessing of the fleet at the town wharf and the head of the town council read the names of everyone from the island who’d been lost at sea. The first man—a boy, really—he’d been younger than Jake was now—had been hit by a boom and knocked into the rough North Atlantic in 1689.

  Two brothers from my family were lost together in an 1848 storm, and three of Burt’s ancestors were also on the list. So far no women were listed, but one day they would be. More women fished and lobstered every year.

  Every May, I cried during the Quarry Island memorial reading. It was a reminder, as if we needed one, that island life was challenging, and the sea couldn’t be trusted.

  “Maybe they’ll find him,” said Izzie. “Maybe he’ll be fine, and waiting for you at home.”

  Izzie didn’t know lobsters and ropes and waters. “Maybe.”

  I wasn’t usually the praying sort, but this wasn’t a usual day. I kept saying Carl’s name, over and over, in my mind. He had to be all right. He had to be.

  But I was a lobsterman’s wife. I lived on an island. I knew the odds.

  They weren’t good.

  Chapter Five

  “Cure for headache: Sponge the head all over, night and morning, with water as hot as you can bear it, and rub dry with a coarse towel.”

  —Peterson's Magazine, March, 1886. Peterson's, an American magazine for women, was published from 1842–1898.

  “The town wharf’s over the bridge, on your left,” I instructed as we approached Quarry Island.

  Izzie nodded.

  Neither Izzie nor I had spoken, except to give or confirm directions, in over an hour. I silently thanked her for sensing, without being told, that I couldn’t chat right now.

  The drawbridge was down, thank goodness. The wharf parking lot was full: two police cars, multiple trucks, and several cars were parked close together. Carl’s shiny red Ford pickup was next to the boathouse, in the space he usually used. He was so proud of that new truck.

  “Turn into the field across the street,” I said.

  Izzie glanced at me. “It’s not a parking lot.”

  “People park there when the wharf lot is full,” I explained. “Stop near the street. Farther in will be deep mud. We don’t want to get stuck.”

  We headed for the knots of people near or on the wharf. When there was trouble, Quarry Island people gathered.

  “Thank you for understanding,” I said to Izzie. “We haven’t had a chance to talk. But you’ll stay with Burt and me at least for tonight, all right?”

  “Of course,” she agreed, looking around. “What’s happening?”

  “We’ll find out,” I promised both of us as we got to the wharf.

  Lucy Martin waved and I headed toward her. “Lucy! I was in Portland when Burt called. I came as fast as I could.”

  She was wearing a jacket that almost matched her slacks. Her hair was ruffled by the wind, but her makeup was in place. Appearances meant a lot to Lucy. She looked past me at Izzie, questioningly.

  “This is my sister, Izzie Jordan,” I said. “Izzie, my friend and neighbor, Lucy Martin.” Lucy had known I was going to meet my sister today. I didn’t bother to explain how I had an Asian-American sister who dressed like a sophisticated New Yorker. Lucy didn’t ask. Today we were focused on Carl. “Any word?”

  She shook her head and pointed at the float where Carl’s Fair Winds was tied. “Burt towed his boat in. The search and rescue patrol boats are still looking for Carl. They’ve got helicopters, too, and our guys are all out looking. We don’t know how long Carl was out there before…” Lucy’s voice broke. She and Carl were the same age. They’d played hide-and-seek together when they were children and been close friends ever since. In all the years I’d known her, I’d never seen Lucy cry, not even when her mother died. Today her eyes were red and swollen. Her mascara must have been water proof.

  I hugged her. “Carl and Burt have been setting their traps together since Carl’s engine went on the fritz. Burt said Carl got it started today.”

  “Must have,” Lucy agreed. “Tide was full early this morning, so it was dead low about noon. By now, currents would have pulled him out to sea.”

  She carefully avoided saying “his body would have been pulled out.”

  “Couldn’t he swim to shore?” asked Izzie.

  Lucy and I looked at each other.

  I answered, “He couldn’t swim, Izzie. Not more than a few strokes. Most men who work the waters can’t.”

  She looked surprised. “But why?”

  “North Atlantic waters are wicked deep and cold, and currents are strong. Fall overboard, and unless someone is there to pull you out, chances are you’ll freeze and be pulled under. Knowing how to swim would prolong the pain. Not swimming is an old mariner’s tradition.”

  Lucy’s eyes filled.

  Izzie pointed to the wharf. “If everyone’s out looking for Carl, who’s on his boat?”

  We turned toward the dock. A man and a woman were on the deck of the Fair Winds, taking photographs and examining the starboard gunwale, the upper edge of the side of the boat.

  “They’ve been out there for the past half hour,” Lucy explained. “The man with Officer Heedles is one of the Marine Patrol officers.” Carmela Heedles was from the County Sheriff’s Office. When the law was needed on Quarry Island, she was the one who came. But we were pretty law-abiding. We didn’t see her often.

  “I talked to the Marine Patrol dispatcher. It’s still being called a rescue operation,” said Reverend Beaman, joining us along with Willis Tarbox. I quickly introduced them to Izzie.

  “Is a rescue operation good?” Izzie asked quietly.

  “That means they’re still hoping. Maybe Carl was wearing his life jacket. Maybe he had a raft with him,” Willis explained.

  Reverend Beaman’s curly gray hair was almost covered up by her navy seaman’s watch cap, and she was wearing sweatpants and a sweater. She laid it out bluntly. “When there’s no hope, it turns into a recovery. As long as it’s a rescue, there’s hope they might find him alive.”

  Lucy’s fi
sts were tight. “He has to be all right. He has to!”

  The missing fisherman could have been Lucy’s husband, Dolan. Or my Burt. I squeezed Lucy’s hand. For early April, it was a warm day, but Lucy’s hand was frigid. “Where are the boys?” I asked, looking around.

  Lucy’s Matt and my Jake were seldom far apart. “They’re out with Burt, searching,” she said. “They volunteered as soon as they heard.”

  I nodded. Fourteen was old enough, and two more sets of eyes would help to glimpse something—someone, I silently corrected myself—between the waves. Island boys were told the dangers of the sea. This afternoon they were getting a hard lesson.

  “Hot coffee?”

  Luc Burnham, the used bookdealer Jake worked for, was holding a tray of covered take-out cups. Luc was in his late seventies, wore his long gray hair in a braid, and walked with a slight limp he called his “war injury.” His worn jeans hung low on his hips, and he wore a plaid flannel shirt over a warm silk tee shirt. Jake once told me he suspected Luc wasn’t injured in war; he’d slipped off one of the ladders in his barn when he was shelving books. No one knew for sure. Luc was an off-islander who’d moved to Quarry Island when I was in kindergarten. Along with our small library that depended on donations from summer patrons, his Maine Chance Books was the chief source of books on the island. In summer months, it also drew antiquarian bookdealers and vacationing readers.

  “Thank you,” I said, reaching for a cup.

  Izzie and the reverend took cups, too. Lucy shook her head. Willis stamped his feet, as though to keep them warm. “Just what we need,” he said, accepting a cup. “Good of you to think of it.”

  “They’re all black, I’m afraid. I have a large percolator in my barn for customers, but I didn’t have enough milk,” Luc apologized. He looked at Izzie. “Don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “Izzie Jordan,” she said. “I’m Anna’s sister.”

  Luc looked her up and down. “Nice of you to visit,” he said. “Timing was off, though.”

  Izzie nodded, and Luc moved on to another group of people with his tray.