Death and a Pot of Chowder Read online

  Izzie had to grow up when she was fourteen. I wanted Jake and Matt to be children a little longer.

  Carl had been tinkering with his boat’s engine, got it going this morning, and decided to test it out. That made sense.

  Whatever happened after that didn’t make sense.

  Chapter Seven

  “Under ordinary circumstances, a woman whose husband enjoys a moderate income has no need to do much in the way of cooking; but as most of the domestics to be obtained know very little about this very important branch of household economy, it is absolutely necessary that the mistress of a family should herself be able to give the most particular directions on the subject.”

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

  Izzie joined me a few minutes later. She put a black roll of fabric on the back of the kitchen counter as I poured us each pottery mugs of tea.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “My knife kit,” she answered, joining me at the table. “I want to help you while I’m here, and I’m spoiled. My knives are sharper than most people’s, and the perfect sizes for kitchen tasks. Is it okay if I use them? It shouldn’t get in anyone’s way.”

  “Of course,” I said, smiling to myself. Izzie was the first person I’d ever met who brought her knives with her when she visited.

  I sipped my tea, and noticed Izzie hadn’t touched hers. “Would you prefer coffee? I should have asked you before.”

  “I drink both. No problem,” she said, picking up her mug and sipping a little. “How many people will be here for dinner? I know your grandmother said she’d bring food, but you all have so much on your minds. I can’t help find Carl, but I can cook.”

  “I put my casserole in the oven, and Mamie’s going to bring soup and fish pie. I don’t know how much more we’ll need. We’ll somehow find enough food for whoever shows up.” I always did.

  “Fish pie?” asked Izzie, looking puzzled.

  “It’s got salmon, potatoes, spices, and other stuff,” I said vaguely. “Everything’s baked in a pie shell. Wait. You’ll find out. It’s delicious.”

  “I can’t wait to taste it,” Izzie agreed.

  “Mamie grew up eating a little differently than most Mainers. She’s from Quebec. Mamie’s an abbreviation for mémère—grandmother. I couldn’t pronounce the French when I was little.”

  “Quebec! Fantastic! I’ve heard they have delicious food up there—a combination of New England and French.”

  “Ask her about it some time. I’ve always taken what she cooks for granted. I should pay more attention.”

  “Do you think she’d share some of her recipes?”

  “She’d probably love to, if she has recipes. She usually cooks without them.” Izzie was so enthusiastic about facts that I took for granted, I couldn’t help getting excited, too.

  Izzie popped a piece of cheese into her mouth and got up. “Mind if I look in your refrigerator?”

  “Go ahead,” I said. “I suspect family and neighbors will be in and out tonight, so if you see something you could cook, that would be great.” People would be in and out tomorrow, too, I added to myself. If Carl was found, however he was found, friends and neighbors would descend on us.

  “I see brown eggs, milk, and there’s cheese on the table. And you have asparagus and mushrooms.”

  “I got those at the mainland grocery yesterday,” I agreed.

  “Bacon or sausage? Tofu?”

  “There’s a little bacon behind the eggs,” I said. “No sausage or tofu.” What did tofu taste like, anyway? I’d seen it in stores but never tried it.

  She found a few slices of bacon. “What about potatoes? Onions?”

  “In the pantry,” I said, becoming intrigued with whatever she was doing. “The door on your left. Burt built shelves in that closet for canned goods and I keep some vegetables and fruit in there, too. Are you going to scramble eggs with vegetables?”

  “Something like that,” Izzie answered, putting a large onion and two potatoes on the table. “If you have a frying pan or skillet that can go in the oven I can make a frittata.”

  “A what?” I asked.

  “Frittata. It’s good, and easy, and quick to make,” said Izzie. “And different from what you and … Mamie, you call her?… made.”

  “Go right ahead,” I said, pulling out a deep frying pan I hadn’t used in years. “Will this do?”

  “Perfect,” she agreed. “I know this is an awful day for you and for everyone here. I didn’t know Carl, but he was a member of your family, so he was sort of a member of my family, too.”

  My eyes started stinging. I’d rather talk about Mamie’s food than about Carl.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “Go ahead and make your—frittata, you called it?”

  She lifted two of my other frying pans off the wall where I’d hung them, put bacon in one and turned the burner under it to low, unrolled her knife kit, selected a medium-sized knife, and began chopping vegetables.

  Her knife was true and fast. I watched her hands for a couple of minutes, fascinated. “Have you always cooked?” I asked.

  She nodded. “When I was little there weren’t any Korean restaurants nearby, and Mom missed Korean cooking, so she did it herself. We’d have chop chae—that’s a vegetable and noodle dish with beef—one night, then spaghetti and meatballs the next. The first thing I learned to make was kimchi. We always had that in the house.”

  “What’s kimchi?”

  “Pickled cabbage, with garlic and hot pepper. A Korean condiment, or side dish. It doesn’t need cooking … just chopping. Mom taught me how to make it before she let me use the stove. After she died, I kept cooking. When I cooked, especially when I made a dish she’d loved, it made me feel close to her.”

  Izzie wiped a tear from her face. Maybe she was crying because she was dicing onions. Or maybe not. “And, I’ll admit, I love to eat,” she continued. “If I’d left cooking up to Dad, we would have existed on take-out burgers and pizza. I worked in a local restaurant on weekends when I was in high school. While other kids thought about colleges, I looked at cooking school catalogs.”

  When I’d been a senior in high school I’d shopped for maternity clothes at a thrift shop in Camden.

  “What was he like? Our father? If you can talk about him.”

  She nodded as she cooked the chopped potatoes, onions, asparagus, and mushrooms. “When it first happened, when the police showed up at my door and told me about the accident, I didn’t want to believe he was gone. It all happened so fast, and there was no one else to make funeral arrangements, or talk to the lawyers. I had to do it all.” She glanced at me. “This might not be the right time to talk about that.”

  I was struggling to focus on Izzie, when half of my mind was with Carl. Burt and I would have to take care of those things if Carl was …

  “You’re right. Another time,” I agreed.

  “I brought a few pictures of Dad,” said Izzie. “They’re in my suitcase. I didn’t know if you had any.”

  “I don’t. I didn’t know anything about him until I got your letter,” I said. “All I knew was Mom had been married for a short time when she was young.”

  “So he wasn’t here on Quarry Island long.” She picked up pieces of parmesan and asiago from the table and started grating them.

  “He left when Mom was only a month or two pregnant. Mom married again when I was still little, so I grew up with a stepfather.”

  “Was he a good man?” Izzie asked. “Your stepfather?” She’d stopped stirring the vegetables and was beating eggs with the whisk I’d bought at a yard sale last summer. I’d never used it. Then she added seasonings. I watched, fascinated. She could still be making scrambled eggs, as far as I could tell.

  “Seth? Yes, he was a good father to me,” I said. “But I always wanted to know about my biological dad.”

  “So you didn’t know about me.”

  “N
othing.”

  “I didn’t know about you, either, until his lawyer told me. But Dad had your name—your married name—and your address. It was all in his will. So he’d kept track of you, at least a little.”

  “I wonder whether he ever would have come here, to meet me. Mom never talked about him. If he hadn’t died, and you hadn’t written to me, I might never have even known his name.”

  “Or I, yours,” said Izzie. She put the vegetable mixture into the deep frying pan, sprinkled the grated cheeses on top, covered everything with the beaten eggs, and put the whole pan in the oven.

  “I always wanted a brother or sister,” I said. When Mom lost her babies, I’d been old enough to be disappointed that I wouldn’t be a big sister.

  “Me, too,” Izzie said. “I always wanted a little sister. But an older sister is exciting, too!” She joined me at the pine table where I’d been nibbling crackers with brie and cheddar. Izzie had hardly eaten anything.

  “How long will your—frittata—take to cook?” I asked.

  “Fifteen or twenty minutes,” she said. “It’ll be ready about the same time as your casserole. But it doesn’t have to be served hot.”

  “After they’re both cooked we could leave everything in the oven on low until someone comes,” I suggested.

  “Good thought,” she said, sitting next to me.

  “I’m not sure it’s polite to ask … but how much money did our father leave us?” I couldn’t help wondering about that, and Izzie might know.

  She shook her head. “We won’t know exactly until the insurance comes in, the house is sold, the debts settled, and all his investments are sorted out. His lawyer is handling that. You and I’ll split whatever’s left.” She smiled. “We won’t be millionaires. The lawyer estimated there’d only be two or three hundred thousand left.”

  I gasped. “We’d each inherit over a hundred thousand dollars?”

  “Dad didn’t want to leave us a fortune. He wrote in his will that he wanted to leave us each other.”

  I was glad we’d found each other, too. But a hundred thousand dollars? For Burt and me, that was a fortune.

  Chapter Eight

  “If your husband brings home company when you are unprepared, rennet pudding may be made at five minutes’ notice, provided you keep a piece of calf’s rennet soaking in a bottle of wine. One glass of this wine to a quart of milk will make a sort of cold custard. Sweetened with white sugar and spiced with nutmeg, it is very good. It should be eaten immediately; in a few hours it begins to curdle.”

  —The Frugal Housewife: Dedicated to Those who are not ashamed of Economy, by Lydia Maria Child. Boston, 1833

  No calls must mean no news. I pulled out my stash of disposable plates, knives, and forks. With a crowd to feed, they’d make cleanup easier.

  I didn’t want to be left with a sink full of dishes to wash when my mind was occupied. Right now, my mind was overflowing.

  Carl, missing. Izzie, here. A father who might have left me a small fortune.

  Izzie was making herself at home, organizing the dining room table for a buffet and chattering about how lovely Maine was. I didn’t interrupt her.

  Blue sensed his quiet world was going to be disturbed. He’d disappeared, probably to his favorite hiding spot under the quilt and between the pillows on Burt’s and my bed.

  The sun was going down quickly. Outside, wheeling gulls were crying. Did they know something? Some islanders swore gulls could tell people apart. I wished we spoke the same language. Gulls might be the only witnesses to whatever happened to Carl.

  Gulls knew immediately if Burt or Carl threw the herrings they used for bait overboard—the gulls’ version of a buffet dinner—or if someone sitting on the wharf or at the little pebble beach near the lighthouse was eating a sandwich. Any food they could see was fair game.

  When I was a teenager, I’d packed a wicker picnic basket with chocolate chip cookies and potato chips and sandwiches for Burt and me and another couple. We’d left the basket above the high tide mark and gone for a quick swim before lunch. When we turned back to the beach, a dozen gulls were feasting. They’d turned the basket over and torn through the wrap I’d used to cover the food.

  That was the last time I’d left food unattended outside.

  Mamie was the first to arrive. “Hello?” she called. She was holding the same picnic basket I’d been remembering. “Is there space in your oven to warm up the pie?”

  “Just enough,” I said, holding the pie out so Izzie could see it. “Salmon and potato, like I said.” I turned to Mamie. “Izzie’s a chef. She’s made us a frittata, and she’s been asking about your Quebecois recipes.” I rearranged the oven to hold my casserole, Izzie’s frittata, and Mamie’s pie while Mamie poured her soup into the large pot I most often used for chowder or pasta. “We’ve turned the oven to warm. Will that be all right? And what about your bread?”

  “Bread can be room temperature,” she declared. “A warm oven will be good for everything else.” She turned to Izzie. “Your dad’s parents wrote to me when you were born. They were thrilled. I’m the only one here who knew about you.”

  “So you were in touch with Dad?” Izzie asked.

  “Only a little through your grandparents, and I didn’t hear much after that,” Mamie admitted. “I kept writing to them, though, for maybe ten years. Until their letters came back, ‘forwarding order expired.’ I wanted them to know their granddaughter in Maine was doing fine. I hoped they’d pass that on to their son.”

  “So he wasn’t totally out of touch,” Izzie said, turning toward me.

  “He didn’t contact my mom, or me,” I reminded her.

  “Or even me,” put in Mamie. “It was his mother who wrote every year or two, and that stopped after you were born, Izzie. So you’re a chef?” she said, changing the subject. “I’d love to talk recipes with you another day. I don’t do fancy cooking, but mine is a little different than most Mainers’ because I was born in Quebec City.”

  “Mamie, you came to Maine when you were four years old!” I smiled.

  “True enough. But my mother never changed the way she’d learn to cook in French Canada. I learned from her.”

  Izzie didn’t let on that I’d already told her Mamie’s history. “I’d love to talk food,” she said. “And I’m glad you were in touch with my grandparents. I never knew them. They moved to Florida when I was little, and we didn’t visit. And my mother’s family died before I was born.”

  “That’s sad,” said Mamie, opening the cabinet where she knew I kept wine. “Families should be in touch. Anyone else ready for a glass of wine?”

  “I’m in,” Izzie agreed quickly.

  I should have offered her some earlier, I realized. Tea wasn’t comforting to everyone. “I’ll have a glass, too, Mamie. Is Mom coming?”

  Mamie poured us each a glass from my box of chardonnay. “I don’t know. I left the wharf before she did, and I haven’t heard from her.” She raised her glass to Izzie’s and mine. “To better days. And to family.”

  “To family,” Izzie and I repeated in unison.

  The front door banged open. “Any news?” asked Rob Erickson. “Dad was getting tired, so I took him home. For now, he’s happy with his bourbon and CNN and some hummus and crackers. I promised to let him know as soon as I heard anything.”

  “Nothing yet,” I answered. “Glass of wine?”

  “Absolutely,” he answered, handing me a bottle of red. “My contribution.” Rob was tall, and his years as a detective on the Portland Police force had kept him in shape. He still jogged past our house every morning, although he didn’t look like a cop anymore. His hair was grayer and longer than it had been when he was on duty, and his plaid flannel shirt and worn jeans were more island than city. He was a good neighbor, and kept an eye on what was happening on Quarry Island. Once a detective, always a detective, he’d once said.

  He ducked a little as he came into the kitchen. Low ceilings kept warmth inside in winter, but
were a challenge to those over six feet tall. He helped himself to a glass of wine, and sniffed the air. “I smell good cooking.”

  “Something from each of us,” Mamie said. “After everyone gets here we’ll eat.”

  “Must admit, Dad and I don’t eat as well as you ladies do,” he added.

  “Izzie just graduated from the Culinary Institute,” I put in.

  “A CIA graduate?” he said appreciatively, looking at Izzie. “I’ve eaten some good meals in that restaurant the students run. Had to go down to Sing Sing a couple of times. I always tried to time it so I could stop in Hyde Park on my way back.”

  “You must have liked our restaurant,” said Izzie. “Sing Sing’s more than an hour from CIA.”

  Rob shrugged. “A man’ll do a lot for good cooking. Hope you’re staying on the island long enough to show us what you learned.”

  “Us!” I grinned, but wasn’t surprised. Rob had a way of stopping in right about mealtime. I suspected he’d lived on takeout in Portland after his divorce. Burt and I usually found enough on our table to share with him, as well as a portion for him to take home to his dad. He returned the favor by helping with the Anna when an extra hand was needed, and last spring he’d rototilled my vegetable plot and I’d shared the resulting tomatoes, zucchini, and lettuce. He was a good neighbor, although I suspected he was lonely. Rob was young enough to have interests besides painting his house and doing his father’s laundry.

  We heard voices outside, the door opened again, and our house filled.

  Burt looked exhausted. He ignored everyone else and came and held me for a minute. He smelled of lobster and bait and the sea. He smelled wonderful.

  “Any word?” I asked quietly.

  He shook his head. “Marine Patrol’s still looking, but they told the rest of us to go home for the night. If he’s not found by morning, we’ll go back out.”

  Dolan Martin collapsed on one of the living room chairs, and Lucy found a Shipyard beer for him in the fridge. Willis Tarbox added a six-pack of Gritty McDuff’s to our supply, and quietly put a sketch of Carl looking out to sea on our mantel.