Scam Chowder (10 page)

“Pushed me down the stairs. I lived on the second floor and never bothered to take the elevator for just one story. Someone shoved me in the stairwell. I was lucky the landing halfway down broke my fall. I moved out of there because I was afraid they'd try again. I was careful to get a place without stairs.”

No staircase. What a deterrent for hit men. Val didn't mind feeding a fantasy that absolved everyone at the chowder dinner from blame. “If they're responsible for what happened to Scott, they must have gotten to him before the chowder dinner. Were you with him that afternoon?”

“No. He picked me up right before the dinner.”

Val studied Thomasina for signs of drug use—watery, red eyes, pupils too large or too small—but saw nothing unusual. Maybe a drug prescribed to help her weather the shock of Scott's death made her imagine things. A peek in the medicine cabinet might reveal what kind of drugs the woman took.

Val stood up. “Do you mind if I use your bathroom?”

Thomasina pointed straight ahead. “It's the first door off the hall.”

The tiny bathroom had a mirror, but no medicine cabinet. No makeup cases, not even a toothbrush. This must be the guest bathroom, and Thomasina's was probably off her bedroom. Val left the bathroom. The hall had three closed doors, the louvered one probably leading to a utility area. With Thomasina watching her from the couch in the living room, Val couldn't get away with snooping.

As she returned to the living room, her grandfather stood up. “Well, Thomasina, we've intruded on you long enough.”

He again gave his condolences to Thomasina, who walked them to the door of the cottage and waved from the front porch as they climbed into his car.

Val buckled her seat belt. “Do you know where Thomasina lived before she moved here?”

“Another retirement place. I'll ask Ned. He may know where.” Granddad started the car. “What did you think of her gangster plot?”

“As full of holes as Swiss cheese. Mobsters shoot victims at close range. They don't make their hits look like accidental falls or food poisoning. But suppose Scott was swindling seniors at the retirement place where she used to live? One of his scam victims might have shoved her, thinking she was in cahoots with him.”

Granddad shook his head. “Nah. If you fall at her age, you're an old putz who lost your balance. If someone pushes you, you're the center of attention. I'm not saying she flat out lied. She convinced herself she didn't trip and it was someone else's fault.”

No one understood scapegoating better than Granddad.

He parked in the lot at the Village Center. While he talked to Ned in the sunroom, Val introduced herself to the activities director, a man just below retirement age. He'd heard from Bethany about Val's offer to run the Brain Game this week. He gave her sample activity sheets from previous sessions to use as models and asked if she would run the session both this week and next. When she agreed, he provided a pass to get her through the security gate.

When she joined her grandfather and Ned in the sunroom, the two men were conversing. Granddad told Val to take his car. He would spend a few hours at the Village, and Ned would drive him home. Apparently, they'd patched up their differences.

Val drove directly from the Village to the club. Anyone planning to fish bomb her blue Saturn in the club parking lot would be disappointed. Instead of the blue car, she was driving Granddad's white Buick, and she wouldn't leave the windows cracked open today.

 

 

At a quarter to two, the last of Val's lunch customers left, and Yumiko, the club's tennis manager, bustled into the café, a clipboard in her hand and a smile less broad than usual. Yumiko talked fast for a speaker of English as a second language, as if she'd rehearsed and wanted to get through her part quickly without pausing for a breath.

“Hello, Val. I have three things to tell you. Number one, yesterday morning a woman called to ask if you were in the café, but you were not. Bethany said you would be back in the afternoon. I told the caller that you are usually here until three. But yesterday, you left sooner than that.”

“Yesterday I needed to leave earlier than that.” The caller had to be someone Val didn't know well. Her friends would have called her cell phone number. “Did you get the caller's name?”

“I am sorry. She hung up before I could ask.”

Val cleared the eating counter of empty coffee cups. Maybe the fish vandal had phoned to find out when her car would be in the club parking lot. “Was there anything distinctive about the woman's voice?”

“She only said a few words, and the connection was bad. I also want to tell you that someone challenged you on the tennis ladder. The assistant manager took the message last night after I left.”

“Great. I'd love to play. The ladder's been static lately.” The players were ranked like rungs on a ladder, those on lower rungs challenging those above them. Val had climbed to the third rung from the top after joining the club six months ago and successfully defended her position since then. But if she lost a ladder match, the challenger would take her place, and she would go down a rung. “Who wants to play me?”

Yumiko consulted her clipboard. “Petra Bramling. She wanted to play tomorrow afternoon. The tennis camp has the courts reserved until three-thirty.”

Val came from behind the counter to wipe the bistro tables. “I can play at three-thirty.”

“Okay. I will phone her. Now for number three. This is not good news.” Yumiko spoke in an undertone, though no one else was in the café. “Someone called to complain about the café. The front desk transferred the call to the club manager.”

Val's hand stiffened. She stopped cleaning the table. “What kind of complaint?”

“A woman said she felt sick after she ate here last week. She said she saw cockroaches.”

“What? I've never seen a roach here.” And after ten years in New York, Val knew her roaches. With complaints about food and roaches, she might lose the contract to run the café. “I'll talk to the manager about this.”

“Good idea, but you must wait. He left for a meeting and won't be back today.” Yumiko patted Val's arm. “I know you have a clean place here. No bugs. Good food.”

Yumiko left the café and Val sat at the bistro table, her chin cupped in her hand. She exhaled loudly. Between the rotten fish in her car and the bogus complaints about the café, she felt under siege. The fish vandal might not have targeted her personally, but the complainer probably had. You could ask the same question about a lie as you could about a murder—who benefits? Val knew of one person who'd like to see her lose the café contract—Irene the Irate. Irene would never admit to lying about the café, but her conscience might bother her enough that she'd answer questions about the chowder dinner. A phone call to her wouldn't do the trick. Irene could avoid conscience qualms and questions more easily on the phone than face-to-face.

Val stood up and rushed through the rest of the cleanup. Fifteen minutes after leaving the club, she turned onto Creek Road . . . and shivered. She wondered if she'd ever be able to drive on this street without the scene of a gruesome murder coming to mind. Last month, she'd found a woman murdered in a house on this peaceful street, the house next door to Irene's. Fortunately, Irene didn't know Val had suspected her of killing that neighbor. Even so, Val didn't anticipate cooperation from the woman who bore a grudge against the Codger Cook. Getting information from her would be like trying to make a gourmet dish from tough, dry meat.

Chapter 11

Val climbed out of the car in front of a yellow frame house, plain and sturdy like Irene and her husband, Roger. Orange marigolds and red salvia bordered the house. White and red impatiens flowered in the dappled shade of a tree to one side of the front lawn. A white picket fence behind the tree marked the property border. Along that fence, garden gnomes with grim expressions stood shoulder to shoulder as if facing a firing squad.

On the sunny side of the house, vegetables grew in raised beds. Val glimpsed a scarecrow standing sentry over the vegetables. She did a double take when the figure's wide-brimmed hat moved. Not a scarecrow, but Irene, in a straw-colored blouse and baggy Capri pants the color of mud. Irene harvested a bright red tomato and put it into a basket. She could have picked crops in the cool morning air or in the predinner hours when trees would shade the garden, so why garden in midafternoon on a hot day? Her relaxed posture and fluid movements, so different from her usual rigidity, suggested that she chilled out in the garden no matter how hot the temperature.

Val wiped sweat from her forehead and approached the vegetable patch with a plan—schmooze enough to make Irene feel guilty for complaining about the café and then dig for information. “Hi, Irene. I stopped to admire your flowers and noticed you working here. Your tomatoes look luscious.”

Irene stiffened and turned her head slowly, her eyes like the ones on the falcon decoy that kept rodents from venturing near the crops. “Don't beat around the bush. You didn't come here to look at my garden.”

After those blunt words, she whipped a far-from-blunt weeding tool from the gardening tote at her feet and looked more ready for combat than a guilt trip.

Scratch the schmoozing,
Val told herself.
Move on to the backup plan. Give information to get information.
“I came to tell you that Scott Freaze didn't die of natural causes or food poisoning. Once the autopsy results come back, the police will interview everyone who went near him on Saturday. You may want to write down what you remember about the dinner while it's fresh in your mind.”

“Are you suggesting my memory is failing?” Irene twirled the weeding tool in her hands. Its forked end glinted in the sun.

Val took a step back, ready to sprint in case Irene took her for a weed that needed uprooting. “Memories get hazy over time. With detailed accounts from everyone at the chowder dinner, the police may conclude that no one there could have poisoned Scott's food. Then they'd focus their investigation on what Scott was doing before he came to dinner.”

Irene shifted the weeder from one hand to the other and back again. “I saw him in town before the dinner. He was with Junie May at the Bean and Leaf Bar. They were sitting by the window, drinking fancy coffees with cinnamon sticks in them. They were gazing into each other's eyes and having a serious conversation.”

Val's neck prickled. “How did they act at my grandfather's house?”

“Like they barely knew each other. I asked her about that afterward. She said she and Scott had discussed business in the afternoon, a private matter. They didn't want to answer questions at the dinner about how they knew each other.” Irene stooped, plunged the weeder into the dirt, and ripped out a dandelion with its long root intact.

A more effective way to get rid of weeds than Val's approach of tugging and coaxing them from the ground. “Did Junie May give you any hints about the private matter?”

“No, but I can guess. He's a financial expert, and she has money problems. She talked about them while we were driving to the chowder dinner.” Irene stood up and tossed the dandelion on her weed pile. “The upkeep on the house she inherited is eating into her savings. She'd like to make more on her investments so she can fix up the place and sell it.”

Gossiping about Junie May's misfortunes had made Irene less hostile. Val might as well take advantage of the woman's surprising openness. “Are you suggesting she asked Scott for financial advice?”

“She might have already given him her money to manage. In case she hadn't, but was thinking of doing that, I advised her against it.”

“Why?” Because of rumors against him or something more substantial?

Irene pounced on another weed with vengeance. “Roger and I visited the Village a few weeks ago and heard Scott's investment pitch. It sounded risky to me.”

“When you saw Scott at the dinner, did you tell him you'd gone to his seminar?”

“Why should I? He didn't recognize me. I was just another gray head in the audience.” Irene tore the weed apart in her hands, not content with just ripping it from the ground. “If I'd told him I heard his lecture, he'd have pretended to remember me.”

At parties people often pretend to know each other, but at Granddad's dinner several guests had pretended not to know Scott—Junie, Irene, and possibly Omar. Granddad believed Scott knew Omar, but Lillian had denied any connection between the two men. Maybe Irene could break the tie. “Do you think Scott and Omar recognized each other?”

Irene scrutinized the forked end of the weeder. “I didn't pay much attention.”

Of course not. She'd focused on trying to prove Granddad couldn't cook. Maybe Val could get Junie May to break the tie. “Do you have Junie May's phone number?”

“I reached her at the TV station. Look up the number.” Irene picked up her basket and gardening tote. “You'd better watch out with your snooping. You know what happened last time you stuck your nose into police business.” With that, she marched into the house, as cordial with her farewell as with her welcome.

Val needed no reminder of the dangers she'd faced trying to uncover the truth about that murder. Most of the suspects then had been young and fit. Now the suspects averaged twice her age, dangerous in a different way. If someone who'd gone to the chowder dinner offered her food, Val wouldn't eat it.

In the car, Val congratulated herself on getting Irene to open up to her. But thinking over the conversation on the drive home, she realized Irene had controlled the discussion. She'd cooperated only when she saw an advantage to herself. If the police gave up their focus on the chowder dinner, Irene wouldn't be a suspect. She'd planted suspicions about Junie May as carefully as she planted the garden. But that didn't mean Irene had lied about seeing Scott and Junie May together.

 

 

Val parked her grandfather's Buick at the curb. She glanced at her Saturn in the driveway and wondered if the fish smell had weakened. She'd check later, but now she needed to get in touch with Junie May.

She climbed the porch steps and went in the front door. “Granddad?”

No answer. He wasn't in his bedroom or the kitchen. Maybe he and Ned had taken advantage of the Tuesday-afternoon senior-citizen discount at the movies.

She searched online for the Salisbury TV station phone number, called it, and asked for Junie May. Val could tell by a change in ring tone that her call was forwarded from the station's system, probably to a cell phone. Junie May answered.

“Hi, it's Val Deniston. Can we get together for a talk? No camera and off the record.”

“My camera guy's on his way to Salisbury. I just left the police station in Bayport, but I can turn around. If you're at home, I'll stop by there.”

Not a good idea. Ned might bring Granddad back at any moment, and Val wanted to talk to Junie May without her grandfather around. “Why don't we meet on Main Street? For happy hour or high tea, whatever you like. My treat. Let's go someplace quiet.”

“Bugeye Tavern has some booths way in the back. See you there in ten minutes or so.”

At a fast pace, Val could walk there in ten minutes. On her way, she phoned Gunnar. He didn't answer. She left him a voice mail. He'd always called her back promptly in the past, but now that his former fiancée had come to town, Val might have to wait longer. Depressing, but what could she do if he preferred his ex to her? Nothing. Better to concentrate on something she might be able to change—the focus of the investigation into Scott's death.

The traffic on wheels and on foot moved slowly in the historic district. Tourists meandered along the sidewalks, walking in and out of wood buildings that dated back to the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Antique shops, small restaurants, and boutiques occupied narrow two-story buildings that shipbuilders and their families had once called home.

Val had just passed a wider and taller brick building, a merchant's residence turned B & B, when Granddad called out to her from Ned's car. “Where are you going?”

“I'm meeting someone for a drink. I'll be home soon.” She waved as Ned's car continued on its way.

Bugeye Tavern occupied a brick building at the far end of Main Street. Named for the type of sailboat used to dredge oysters in the nineteenth century, the tavern had offered beer and spirits for most of its history. The latest owners yuppified the menu and made the place inviting to twenty-first-century tourists by extending and enclosing the front porch.

Customers filled the converted porch even at four o'clock in the afternoon. The sunny eating area, frond rich with potted palms and hanging ferns, contrasted with the tavern's dark interior. Only a few patrons sat at the polished wood bar.

Val passed under an arch to a small brick-walled room and went back in time to a place where merchant mariners and fishermen had gathered to drink during their off-hours. The odor of beer spilled long ago rose from the dark wood floors.

Junie May sat in a booth, a tumbler of amber liquid in her hand, a laptop computer on the table. A red sandal, with a three-inch high heel, dangled from the foot of her crossed leg.

Even looking at those heels made Val's feet ache. Like her customers at the Cool Down Café, Val wore cushioned athletic shoes. Her feet would stage a protest if she switched to a job that required shoes like Junie May's.

“Hi.” Val slid into the booth across from Junie May. The wood bench had a straight back and no cushions, hard seats designed for hard drinkers who wouldn't notice their discomfort. “Thanks for meeting me.”

“No problem.” Junie May clutched her glass, its edge imprinted with bright red lipstick that matched her scoop-neck shell. With her dark hair, she looked good in red. “I could use a break before hitting the road to Salisbury.”

Val eyed Junie May's drink, a double scotch or bourbon, two for the road. “How about splitting an appetizer with me?” Or, better yet, two appetizers to sop up the alcohol. “Crab dip and some nibbles okay with you?”

“Sure. I didn't have time to stop for lunch.” Junie May tucked her laptop into a nylon briefcase.

A young man in jeans and a black shirt took Val's order, a glass of sauvignon blanc, the dip with pita chips, and a snack platter with pretzels, nuts, dried fruit, and chocolate.

Junie May ran her fingers through her heavy bangs, which hid any lines she might have on her forehead. “I have a few questions for you.”

“Likewise. We can trade answers.”

“You're tight with the police chief. Did he tell you anything about the autopsy?”

“Only that it might take several days to get the results.” Val noticed dark circles under Junie May's eyes that even heavy TV makeup couldn't camouflage. The reporter looked as if she hadn't slept much since the chowder dinner three nights ago. “How well did you know Scott? You acted like strangers at the chowder dinner, but you were with him before that.”

“You've been talking to Irene.” Junie May lifted her glass and peered through it. “Scott was helping me with a story. I like to keep my sources to myself. That's why we pretended to be strangers.”

“He was your source, and now he's dead.” Could that alone explain Junie May's vow to find out the truth about his death? Irene might have misread the relationship between the reporter and the dead man. Alternately, Junie May might be lying or admitting only part of the truth. “A story about what?”

Junie May gave her an aren't-you-naïve look. “Talking about my work before it's ready to go on the air is inviting someone to scoop me. Not even my boss knows. And I don't leave my notes lying around my desk at the station.” She put a hand on the briefcase, as if to protect the laptop she'd stashed inside it.

The waiter brought the wine and the appetizers.

Val didn't need Junie May to tell her what kind of story Scott might contribute to. She could guess. When the waiter left, she pushed the crab dip across the wood table toward the reporter. “Help yourself. Given Scott's area of expertise, I assume your story has to do with money management.” And maybe Scott was as much a target as a source for an investigative report. “I heard Scott's investments weren't legit.”

“I researched him. He's—I mean, he
was
—a respected financial adviser. His clients say he gave them good advice.” Junie May picked almonds and cashews from the bowl of nuts, leaving the peanuts untouched.

Similarly, she would also pick and choose what information to share. Val munched on a dried apricot while chewing over what she'd just heard. Junie May might be mistaken about Scott or even lying to protect his reputation. But suppose what she'd said was true and Scott hadn't been a scammer? Or suppose he'd given some clients good advice and others bad advice? He could have suppressed bad reviews, possibly with the threat of a lawsuit. Unsavory tactics, but not illegal.

Val ran her fingers along the pitted edge of the table. “Irene told me she attended Scott's money management seminar. She thought he was promoting risky investments.”

Junie May mounded a pita chip with crab dip. “She thinks anything besides money under the mattress is risky. I understand why. Her husband made some bad financial decisions. They're not as well-off as she thought. Irene would stop him from making any new investments if she could, but they have an old-fashioned marriage. He handles the money.” She plucked nuts from the small bowl on the snack board.