Scam Chowder (15 page)

“No, sir, I don't want to buy it, and you don't want to put it back on the shelf. If I see it on the shelf again, I'll notify the police. Your fine for selling a banned and dangerous substance will be way more than the fifteen dollars you'd get for selling that bottle.”

The man's face grew redder. “All right, I'll pour out the liquid. Will you buy it then?”

“No, and you won't pour it out because it isn't safe to dispose of arsenic that way. Keep it locked up until you can take it to the hazardous-waste collection site.”

The man muttered something about her being a nut job.

One of the women looking at teacups approached the counter. “She's right. You can't leave poison sitting around.”

The man fished a key from his pocket and put the bottle in a locked cabinet behind the counter.

Val checked her watch as she left the shop. She'd killed too much time checking out poison bottles. Even if the traffic was lighter than usual, she would keep Junie May waiting.

The rat poison occupied Val's mind as she drove south on the highway. She had no idea if the bottle she'd seen at the shop contained enough arsenic to murder anyone, but it hadn't been hard to find. With patience and determination, a would-be poisoner could accumulate enough to do the trick.

Val turned off the highway onto a country road flanked by fields. Another turn took her to a lane where mailboxes at driveways provided the only clues that houses existed beyond the trees and bushes.

She found the address Junie May had given her on a mailbox and drove down a long gravel driveway toward a ground-hugging, one-story frame house. Junie May's silver compact car was parked in front of a detached garage. Val pulled up behind the car. The reporter had exaggerated in saying she lived in the woods. Though if she didn't get the bushes and undergrowth trimmed, she could soon say she lived in a jungle.

A paved path led from the driveway to the front door. It ran along the length of the house, under the roof overhang. Val approached a picture window. An armchair upholstered in a bold flower print was near the window, a lamp table between the chair and a powder blue sofa against an interior wall.

On the other side of the sofa, facing the window, Junie May was slumped in an armchair that matched the one near the window, her eyes unblinking, a hole in her temple.

Chapter 16

Val's heart thumped so loudly she could hear nothing else. She squeezed her eyes shut, convinced that they were playing tricks on her. When she opened them, the tableau framed by the window hadn't changed, but now she took in more details. The blood on Junie May. Her limp hand hanging over the chair's arm. Her fingers pointed toward a gun on the beige carpet.

Someone had shot her. Someone who might still be in the house or lurking around it.

Run!
Val tried, but couldn't budge. Her knees locked. Her feet went numb. Trying to flee and getting nowhere—that happened in her nightmares. But this was real. A crow cawed in a tree behind her. Suddenly her legs worked.

She ran to her Saturn, put it in reverse, and zigzagged back up the driveway to the lane. Across the lane, a woman emptied her mailbox. An SUV nosed out of a driveway in front of Val. A station wagon entered the lane from the country road.

Junie May's neighbors were coming and going, like people in most neighborhoods at this time of day. These signs of ordinary life calmed Val. The car she'd seen at the house had been Junie May's. It didn't belong to her killer, who'd probably already driven off, the job done. Val didn't trust her own conclusion enough to return to the house, but she felt safe pulling over six houses from Junie May's, near where the lane intersected the country road. She reached for her phone and punched 911.

When the dispatcher answered, Val described what she'd seen at Junie May's house. The dispatcher took down her name, asked for her location and a description of her car, and told her to stay where she was. The emergency responders would arrive shortly. The sky was darkening by the minute.

Val hugged herself to keep from shaking. If she hadn't stopped at the secondhand shops, she would have arrived here early. In time to prevent a murder? Or would she have walked in on the murderer and be lying next to Junie May now? Val shuddered.

Her relief at being alive turned to anger as fast as the lightning forking in the distance. Junie May didn't deserve to die. Scott didn't deserve to die either, but Val had wanted to uncover the truth about his death only to prove her grandfather innocent. Could anyone possibly think Granddad had murdered Junie May?

The arrival of a county sheriff's car interrupted her churning thoughts. The car stopped across the lane from hers. A middle-aged deputy approached her Saturn. He confirmed that she'd made the 911 call and told her that he or a colleague would come to interview her shortly. In the meantime, she should stay in her car.

An emergency medical vehicle arrived next and more sheriff's cars. Some of Junie May's neighbors stood near her driveway. Val rested her head on the steering wheel. Junie May was going to dig up information today about the guests at Granddad's dinner. Did her search for the truth about Scott's death threaten his murderer and lead to her own death? Someone who'd murdered once had no reason to hold back a second time. Or a third. Val had asked a lot of questions about the chowder dinner. Did that put her next on the hit list?

Thunder rumbled, raindrops fell, and the neighbors near Junie May's driveway scattered.

A tap on the window startled Val. A deputy stood outside in the rain, tall, spruce, and broad-shouldered in a black-and-gray uniform. She cracked the window open.

He introduced himself as Roy Chesterfeld. He asked for her driver's license and took it to a sheriff's car. He must be checking whether she had a criminal record. Five minutes later, he appeared at her window again. His wide-brimmed hat did a good job of shielding his face and head from the rain, but the rest of him was getting wet.

He handed her the license. “Thank you. I'd like to ask you a few questions where neither of us will get rained on. We can use the sheriff's car, I can sit in your car, or we can meet at—”

“Please sit here.” She gestured to the passenger seat.

He climbed into the seat next to her and took off his hat. His tousled blond hair contrasted with his otherwise neat appearance. “You mind putting on the air-conditioning?”

“Not at all.” She hadn't noticed the heat in the car until he joined her. She turned on the motor and put the AC on full blast.

“Your car has a weird smell.”

“From a rotten fish. The AC will bring in fresh air from outside. If it bothers you, we can talk elsewhere.”

“I'll get used to it.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “What you saw at that house must have spooked you. Try to relax. From here on, it's all routine.”

Maybe for him, but not for her. In answer to his questions, she told him where she worked and described what had happened from the time she turned into Junie May's driveway until she called 911. He was polite, respectful, and attractive, totally unlike Deputy Holtzman from the sheriff's office near Bayport . . . and therefore more dangerous. She'd never let down her guard with Holtzman, but with Roy, she felt herself melting, even calling him by his first name, at least in her mind. Holtzman had given her only his last name.

Roy took notes as she talked. “A deputy recognized the victim as a reporter for a local TV station. We don't want news of this to go public until we've contacted her next of kin. I'll ask you not to tell anyone what you saw here until we issue a statement.” At her nod, he continued. “Were you a good friend of Junie May Jussup?”

“I barely knew her.” Val wouldn't have met her except for the chowder dinner. Hard to believe only four days had passed since then. “The first time I talked to her at length was yesterday. We met for a drink in Bayport. She invited me to stop by her house this evening.”

He looked up from his small notebook. “Why did you drive away when you saw her through the window? You could have called 911 from her place.”

Val hoped she wouldn't be charged with violating a Good Samaritan law. “She was obviously dead. There was a gun on the floor. I was afraid the person who shot her might still be there, so I bolted.”

“That's the right thing to do if you suspect a crime. But you can stop worrying about a shooter on the loose. It looks like she committed suicide.”

Val flashed back to the tableau in the reporter's living room. It did look like suicide, as her killer intended. Junie May, seeker of the truth about Scott's death, deserved to have the truth known about her own death. “She didn't kill herself. She wasn't the type.”

“The family and friends of people who commit suicide often say something like that. You can't always tell.” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Especially if you barely know the person.”

“Family and friends need to convince themselves they couldn't have done anything to prevent the suicide. As a relative stranger, I'm more objective.” When he didn't disagree, she continued talking. “Junie May was enthusiastic about her work, looking to get ahead in her profession. Why would she invite me to her house if she was planning to commit suicide?”

He shrugged. “Who says she planned it? Even if she did, she might want a
relative stranger
to find her instead of someone who knew her well.”

Good reasoning, but Val still believed Junie May had been murdered. “She was an investigative reporter. She vowed on TV to find out the truth about a suspicious death at Treadwell Hospital early this week. She knew the man who died. He was providing information for a story she was researching.”

“A story about what?”

“She wouldn't say. She told me even her boss at the TV station didn't know about it.” Val remembered how Junie May had held her briefcase close while talking about the story. “You may find her research for the story on her laptop or in her briefcase.”

“We'll look for those at her office.”

That probably meant the deputies hadn't found the laptop or briefcase in Junie May's house. “She told me she didn't leave her research lying around the office. If you can't find it here, Deputy Chesterfeld, it's because her murderer took it.”

He cocked his head sideways, his green eyes twinkling. “You sound like a lawyer. You use every fact to support your case against suicide.”

“One fact would change my mind. A suicide note, in Junie May's handwriting. Or a selfie video. Find anything like that?”

He opened his mouth, shut it, and put his notebook away. “I can't talk about what we found, uh, or didn't find.”

Val took that as a
no.
She wouldn't get any more from him, and she'd told him all she could about finding Junie May. “Deputy Chesterfeld, do I have to stay here? If there are more questions, I'm happy to tell you where you can reach me.”

“I'm happy to take down your phone numbers and e-mail address.” He smiled. “Any time you're ready.”

Was he flirting with her? Val glanced at his left hand. No ring. She gave him her contact information. She wouldn't mind hearing from him if things didn't work out with Gunnar. Roy Chesterfeld struck her as more solid and rooted than Gunnar, who might hop into a red sports car, his or Petra's, and ride off into the sunset.

The deputy tucked his notebook with her phone numbers in his breast pocket. “Are you sure you're okay? Going to meet someone and finding them dead can be a shock.”

And the aftershock could be even worse. A month ago, soon after Val came upon a murder victim, a killer had targeted her too. “I hope the statement the sheriff issues about this doesn't include my name. I don't want any attention from the media.” Or from a murderer the police didn't believe existed.

“I understand. There's no reason to mention your name. I'll ask my boss if you can leave.”

“Thank you.” Her stomach rumbled as he climbed out of the car.

She usually had hard candy stashed in the storage bin between the front seats. Today the bin was empty. So were the pouches behind the front seats. She'd removed everything from the car in the fish cleanup.

The deputy tapped on her driver's-side window. She rolled it down.

“You're free to go. I'll bet you haven't eaten yet. Here's something to tide you over. I carry these in my glove compartment.” He offered her a protein bar.

She'd tried a bar like that once, the closest she'd ever come to a mouthful of sawdust. A protein bar would tempt her only if she hadn't eaten in two days and there was no roadkill in sight. “Thank you, but I'll stop for a snack on the way.”

Sadness nearly overwhelmed her on the drive home. Going in the other direction two hours ago, she'd looked forward to exchanging information with Junie May, convinced that between them they could solve the mystery of Scott's death and lift the shadow hanging over Granddad. Now Junie May was dead. Because of something she'd found out today? Or something she remembered about the chowder dinner?

Val told herself not to leap to conclusions and tried to imagine an explanation for the reporter's death that had nothing to do with the guests at the chowder dinner. Maybe a drugged-out burglar had shot Junie May for not surrendering her laptop. Unlikely, but possible.

To Val's relief, Granddad's Buick wasn't parked on the street when she arrived home. She didn't look forward to telling him about Junie May. He still hadn't returned from his movie date with Lillian by the time Val finished eating an omelet and a salad. She went up to her bedroom and phoned Chief Yardley.

She told him about the reporter's death and her interview with the deputy. “I'm just afraid the sheriff's department there will write off her death as a suicide without a full investigation.”

“Between the crime scene unit, the medical examiner, and the forensic lab, they'll figure out what happened. Don't go around talking to anyone outside law enforcement about what you saw and what you suspect.”

“Is it okay if I tell Granddad what happened?”

“Warn him not to go around saying his granddaughter found another body. If you're right about what happened to Junie May, you may have just missed seeing who killed her. The murderer would want to make sure the person who drove up didn't get a glimpse of him . . . or her.”

“And I'll have to hope the murderer didn't get a glimpse of me.”

It occurred to Val after she hung up that even without the police releasing her name, her bright blue Saturn might be enough to identify her.

She had trouble falling asleep, haunted by fears of a murderer gunning for her.

 

 

Before leaving for the café Thursday morning, Val knocked on Granddad's door.

He'd just woken up and was sitting on the edge of the bed when she went into the room.

She sat next to him. “I have bad news. I found Junie May dead when I got to her house.”

“What?” He put an arm around her. “
You
found her? Are you all right?”

She leaned against his shoulder. “I barely slept.”

“Why didn't you tell me last night?”

“Then we both wouldn't have slept. She had a bullet in her temple.” Val felt her grandfather's grip on her tighten. “The first deputies on the scene thought she committed suicide. I think she was murdered because she found out something about Scott's murder.”

“Someone shot her to keep her quiet. That makes more sense than suicide.”

At least one person agreed with Val. “Yesterday she told me Scott was one of her sources. She was working in secret on a story she hoped would give her career a boost.”

Granddad rubbed his grizzled chin. “Do you suppose whistle-blowing got him killed, not scamming?”

“I hadn't even thought of that.” She glanced at her watch. “I'm running late.” She'd spent the first half of the night restless and then zonked out for the second half, not even hearing her alarm go off.