Death and a Pot of Chowder Page 8

  “No! Of course not!”

  Thank goodness. I hadn’t thought he was guilty, but I was still relieved to hear him say it.

  Rob nodded. “Then that’s what you have to tell them, when the police question you again. Be straight, and don’t assume they’re out to get you. They’ll question you. But their job is to find whoever killed Carl, not to accuse you. If you talk to them the way you’ve been talking to us, they may think you’re guilty.”

  I couldn’t let them think that. “What if we figure out who killed Carl ourselves?” I said. “Then we could tell the police, and no one would suspect Burt of anything.”

  Rob swallowed hard. “As a former detective, I can’t endorse that. You don’t know what you might be getting involved with. It could even be dangerous.”

  “But…?” I said, sensing he hadn’t finished his thought.

  “If you think of something that could help Detective Preston or his team, let them know.” He looked from one of us to the other. “I’ll keep my ears open, too. Quarry Island isn’t a big place. If someone here killed Carl, sooner or later we’ll know who.”

  “The sooner the better,” said Burt.

  Rob Erickson stood up and turned to Izzie, who’d been quiet all this time. “I’m glad you’re here for Anna and her family, Izzie.” he said. “I have to get Dad’s lunch and settle him in for the afternoon. If I can help, give me a call.”

  Burt got up as Rob left. “I need to get out myself. I’m going to take a short walk. I’ll be back.”

  The door closed.

  “I’m here for you both. I am,” Izzie repeated. “What can I do to help?”

  The living room air felt thick, and heavy. “First, we can eat the rest of those delicious muffins you made before everyone in the neighborhood descends upon us and devours them,” I decided, standing up. “And then, you can help me figure out who killed Carl.”

  I wasn’t a detective, but I knew the islanders. If it was one of us, maybe I could put the pieces together faster than the police could.

  But first I was going to eat chocolate. If ever there was a day for chocolate, this was it.

  Chapter Eleven

  “We would have the housewife employ a German or Irish girl and give her two dollars a week for going through the daily drudgery of the kitchen, in order that she may earn twice as much, with ten times the ease, comfort, and recreation to herself by employing the time thus rescued from the broom, the dustpan, and the washtub, in attention to her cows, her hens, and her bees.”

  —The Philosophy of Housekeeping: A Scientific and Practical Manual by Joseph B. Lyman and Laura E. Lyman. Hartford, Connecticut: S.M. Betts & Company, 1869

  Dolan and Lucy Martin were the first to arrive with food that afternoon. “It’s tuna noodle casserole,” Lucy explained. “Nothing fancy, but it’ll go down easy. I made one for us and one for you, with extra mushrooms and onions, the way you like it.” She put her dish on our kitchen counter and hugged me. “I don’t know how you’re coping. I couldn’t sleep all night, thinking of poor Carl, out there, floundering in the water. I know it’s selfish, but I kept wondering what I’d do if it had been Dolan. Being married to a fisherman isn’t easy.”

  “I know,” I said, hugging her back. “I thought the same about Burt.”

  “Don’t be saying things like that. It’ll bring bad luck,” said Dolan, joining us in the kitchen and also giving me a hug. “But it’s going to seem mighty quiet without Carl around. He kept things lively.”

  “He did that,” I agreed. “For sure.”

  Word got around quickly on Quarry Island, but Lucy and Dolan must not have heard Carl had been murdered. I hesitated. Should I tell them? Or did the police want to keep that information quiet for now?

  “Fishermen?” asked Izzie. “I thought they were lobstermen.”

  “They fish the waters—for lobsters or fish,” I explained. “Fishermen do both, and shrimp, too, in that season. Folks here use both words. And, yes—Carl and Burt and Dolan all lobster.” I’d spoken of Carl as though he were still alive, but I didn’t correct myself. Part of me still couldn’t believe he was gone.

  “Izzie, I’m so glad you’re here with your sister,” said Lucy. “Having another woman around must be such a help to Anna. And I ran into Rob Erickson earlier. He told me you’re a cook.”

  “Chef,” Izzie corrected, quietly.

  “She made that egg dish we had last night,” I pointed out. “The frittata.”

  “That was tasty,” Lucy admitted.

  “Thank you,” said Izzie.

  “It might have been even better with more bacon,” Lucy added.

  “More bacon would have meant more salt,” said Dolan. “I think Izzie did just fine with those eggs. You should write it down for Lucy, Izzie.”

  “Do either of you know where the boys are?” I interrupted. “I texted Jake half an hour ago, and he hasn’t answered.”

  “He was over at our place first thing this morning, said he wasn’t going to church, that he had to talk to Matt. He looked pretty upset, so I didn’t make a point of them attending services. The two of them took off on their bikes. I don’t know where they headed, but Matt was home by the time we got back from church,” said Lucy, looking at Dolan for confirmation. “I assumed Jake went home. He didn’t?”

  “No. He didn’t,” I said.

  “I’m sure he’s fine,” said Lucy. “He’s had a lot to absorb. Fourteen is a hard age. Matt’s been a real pain in the you-know-what recently. Doesn’t answer questions, keeps to himself, and when he does say something, he yells it. I guess it’s teenage hormones. Whatever it is, it’s been driving me crazy.”

  “Jake has been on edge, too,” I admitted. “Maybe you’re right. Hormones, or spring. But I need to get hold of him.” I wanted to make sure Burt and I were the ones to tell Jake his uncle had been murdered. “Excuse me a minute.” I went outside the back door and texted Jake again. Sometimes cell phone reception on the island was stronger outdoors.

  When I returned to the kitchen, Izzie was showing Lucy the cookbooks she’d bought, and Dolan had retreated to the living room with a cup of coffee and a muffin.

  “And see? This one was published in 1869. It has recipes for curing headaches and female troubles, along with advice on how to hire a cook and maid,” she was saying.

  “Really?” said Lucy, glancing at one of the worn leather-bound books. “I suppose that’s fun to read, if you have the time. It’s not exactly useful information today. Those people didn’t have computers or television to teach them what they needed to know.”

  “What cookbooks do you use?” Izzie asked.

  “Fannie Farmer and Marjorie Standish. If it isn’t in one of those books I figure my family wouldn’t eat it.”

  Izzie’s eyes opened wide. I suspected she had dozens of cookbooks.

  “Fannie Farmer’s The Boston Cooking-school Cook Book’s a classic,” said Lucy. “I have my grandmother’s copy with all her notes in it.”

  “That sounds like a treasure. I don’t know Marjorie Standish,” Izzie continued.

  “Her book is the classic bible for Maine cooking,” Lucy said. “Cooking Down East. I can’t imagine living without it.”

  “I have copies of both,” I said, joining the conversation. I hadn’t heard from Jake yet. I wanted to call Mom and Mamie. Maybe they’d seen him. “Izzie, you’re welcome to look at any of my cookbooks, but I’m afraid I don’t have many. What I know how to cook I learned from my mother and grandmother.” I hadn’t learned that much, I admitted to myself, having seen Izzie with her knives. My cooking (and knife work) was strictly amateur.

  Izzie nodded. “I learned to cook from my mother, too. She didn’t have any Korean cookbooks, but she did have a Betty Crocker that she checked sometimes for American food.”

  “Did it take long for you to learn English?” asked Lucy. “You don’t have any accent!”

  “I was born in Connecticut,” replied Izzie, more calmly than I would have
. “I only know a few Korean words. My mother was born in this country, too, although I do have distant relatives I’ve never met in Korea.”

  “Oh,” said Lucy. She looked at the cell phone in my hand. “Shall I ask Matt if he knows where Jake is?”

  “Thank you,” I said. Lucy’s cell phone provider sometimes worked when mine didn’t.

  “I’m sure he’s fine,” she said, as she texted Matt. “Those two know every inch of the island.”

  “I’m surprised they took their bikes in mud season,” I said.

  “They probably stayed on Island Road,” she nodded. “It’s the walkways and side roads that are messy. And they weren’t gone for long. Matt was watching TV when we got back from church.”

  Almost immediately, she heard back from Matt. “He says he doesn’t know where Jake is.” She hesitated, reading the text again. “And he doesn’t care. Did those boys have a fight of some sort?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “That doesn’t happen often. But thanks for checking with him.” Now I was really starting to worry about Jake.

  “Why don’t you make a few phone calls, Anna?” said Izzie. “See if you can find him. Lucy and I’ll join Dolan in the living room. He’s alone in there.”

  I nodded, relieved to have Izzie taking over my social obligations for a few minutes. “Thank you. I’m sure Jake’s fine, but I’d like to know where he is.”

  Izzie herded Lucy to the living room, and I called my mother. “Mom? Is Jake over there?”

  “He just got here, Anna. He didn’t want people seeing him, and he knew you’d have company today.”

  “He isn’t usually that shy,” I said.

  The phone went silent for a moment. Then I heard Jake’s voice. “Mom, I’m a little messed up. I didn’t want Dad to see me like this, with Uncle Carl dead and all.”

  “Messed up? What happened?”

  “Mamie says I’m going to have a super dark black eye,” Jake said. He sounded proud. “The cut on my lip is already clotting. She put ice on it.”

  “Did you have an accident with your bike?” He hadn’t fallen off his bicycle in years, but it was April. He could have hit a frost heave or pothole.

  “No. Matt and I had a … disagreement.”

  “You and Matt were fighting?” They argued, and they got into trouble sometimes. Usually trouble that involved dirt or water or both. I didn’t remember them ever having a real fistfight.

  “We had to, Mom. It was important.”

  I usually tried not to interfere with Jake’s relationships with his friends, but that was a strange answer. “Jake, nothing is important enough to fight about. Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No! It’s private. It’s between Matt and me.”

  “Okay,” I sighed. “But you and Matt have to settle whatever it is. We have enough problems right now.”

  “I know, Mom! I’m not stupid.”

  “And right now, you need to get yourself home. Come in the kitchen door if you want to, and go up the back staircase to your room. The only people here now are Matt’s parents, but other people may be coming.”

  “Can I stay here for lunch first? Mamie’s made seafood chowder.”

  Mamie’s chowder was one of Jake’s favorites. “Eat, and then come home,” I said. “No more arguments. Or fighting.”

  Lunch! I hadn’t even thought about that. But we hadn’t eaten all of Izzie’s muffins and we also had Lucy’s tuna casserole. No one would starve, even if other friends stopped in.

  As if on cue, our front door opened and I heard new voices, including Burt’s.

  Thank goodness he was back. The sympathy open house had begun. I hoped whoever it was had brought more food. I couldn’t focus on cooking right now. And maybe not for a while. At least none of these people knew Carl had been murdered. Not yet. Although someone, probably right here on Quarry Island, did know. His murderer knew.

  No matter what Rob had advised, I was determined to find out who that was. Who it was who was hurting my family.

  My hands were cold as Izzie handed me a pan of lasagna. “Martha-someone brought this. Are you all right?” she asked. “You look pale. Did you find Jake?”

  “Jake’s fine. He’ll be home in a few minutes,” I assured her, not answering her first question. “That must have been Martha Decker. She runs the general store. I’ll put her lasagna in the refrigerator. If we get too much food we may have to freeze some.”

  “Not a problem,” said Izzie. “I love that you have so many people who care about you and your family. And that you have a freezer.”

  “And that our winter venison’s gone,” I agreed. “But it’s our family,” I added firmly. “Your family now, too.”

  “I’m going to help you find out what happened to Carl,” she said softly. “I’m listening to what everyone says. Maybe the murderer will stop in. Visiting the bereaved family would be a good cover, don’t you think?”

  “You and I must watch the same crime shows,” I said. “But you’re right. I had the same idea. We might come up with information that will help the police.”

  In the meantime, I put Martha’s lasagna away and prepared to be comforted by my neighbors.

  Although Izzie was right. One of them might be a murderer.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Rules Recommended to Servants: Never tell the affairs of the family you belong to; for that is a sort of treachery, and often makes mischief; but keep their secrets, and have none of your own.”

  —The Gentleman’s Magazine, London, October 1777

  “Jake, your father and I need to talk with you.” He’d stayed at Mom’s longer than I’d expected, and tried to sneak up the back stairway when he finally got home. I’d stopped him and gestured that he should join Burt and me in the living room. On the way there, I’d handed him one of the ice bags I kept in the freezer. All our company had left.

  I tried not to stare at his purpling cheek and swollen eye. The ice bag might help a little, but he was going to be colorful for days. Had Matt looked like that, too? His mother hadn’t mentioned it. They were old enough so they should be able to settle whatever problem they had without Burt and my help. Fighting was never an answer.

  But I bit my tongue. Burt and I had more important issues on our minds than the boys’ quarrel.

  Neighbors had come and gone all afternoon. I was exhausted by everything I’d had to say, and everything I couldn’t say. I’d gratefully turned the kitchen and all the donated food over to Izzie, who’d miraculously found bowls for salads and freezer wrap for multiple baked bean casseroles, macaroni and cheeses, and spaghettis, and tin boxes for the cookies and brownies. She’d emptied a bag of chocolate covered blueberries into a bowl, and I’d already been nibbling. She’d also sliced two of the donated cakes and one apple pie, and served them, along with many cups of coffee. Two large bottles of wine were now empty, and two six-packs of Moxie, and I was pretty sure we were out of beer.

  After everyone had left, Izzie’d excused herself and taken her newly purchased recipe books to her room, leaving Burt and me to talk with Jake alone. I looked questioningly at Burt and gestured at Jake’s swollen face.

  Burt just shrugged, focused on what had happened to his brother. “We need to talk about your uncle.”

  “Dad, I know about Uncle Carl. You told me last night,” Jake said impatiently.

  “But you weren’t here this morning when we learned more,” said Burt, gently.

  “What more is there?”

  Jake was taller than I was, but he was still young. I hated him having to face what had happened. He slumped into one of the armchairs.

  “Uncle Carl’s dead. He’s gone. What more is there to say? If you’re going to warn me about the dangers of lobstering, I’ve already got it.”

  “That isn’t it,” said Burt. “Slow down and listen, Jake. Your uncle Carl didn’t drown. He was killed.”

  Jake’s eyes opened wide. “What do you mean? How?” He leaned forward, listening.

>   “We don’t know. But a homicide detective from the state police was here today. He’s going to be talking to all of us and to our friends in the next few days.”

  “I don’t want to talk to him!” said Jake, standing up. “I have nothing to say!”

  “Your mom or I will be with you when you’re interviewed,” said Burt. “You don’t have to worry. Give the detective simple answers, and tell the truth. That’s all.”

  Jake looked from Burt to me and back again. “Simple answers?”

  “Right,” I said. “Whatever he asks, you answer. But don’t add anything, or guess.”

  “Your uncle and I argued yesterday morning, down at the wharf,” said Burt “The police already know that.”

  “You argued? Again?” Jake’s voice rose. “Why yesterday, Dad?”

  “I wish it hadn’t happened.” Burt flushed and his voice broke. “But it did. And someone outside the family might believe I hurt Carl, because of the problems he and I were having.”

  “And the cops are going to ask me about that?”

  “We don’t know,” I said. “It’s possible.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not going to do it. I don’t want to answer any questions. I’m not going to talk to the police! You can’t make me.” He stormed upstairs and slammed his bedroom door.

  Burt ran his fingers through his hair as he looked after Jake. “He’s going to have to do it.”

  “Maybe tomorrow he’ll be calmer. He’s still young. Carl’s death upset him, of course, and then he and Matt got into a fight. It’s been a hard day for him.”

  “It hasn’t exactly been easy for any of us,” said Burt, bluntly. “At his age I was out lobstering on my own, saving for a bigger boat. Planning my future. He isn’t a little boy anymore, Anna. It’s time he grew up.”

  I nodded. “I know. But we should cut him a little slack right now.”

  “Let’s leave him alone tonight,” said Burt, standing. “I’m too tired to cope with him, anyway. Besides, maybe he’ll think on the whole situation and tomorrow he’ll accept what he’s expected to do. I’m going to get a couple of those brownies someone brought and a glass of milk and go to bed. I didn’t get much sleep last night, and I’ll have to take the Anna out in the morning. Lobsters don’t stop for murder.”