Scam Chowder (17 page)

Bethany welcomed the Brain Game participants at the door and asked whether they'd like water or lemonade with their doughnut holes. Ned came early and offered to help serve the snacks.

Five minutes before the session was scheduled to start, Thomasina arrived in a black caftan. She came with a retinue, three women, also in black, apparently in mourning with her.

She frowned when she saw Val, as if trying to remember where they'd met, but then approached her with an extended hand. “Hello, again. I hope your grandfather's well. I didn't want to come today, but . . .” She looked toward her companions.

A thin woman with silver hair patted Thomasina's arm. “We encouraged her to get out of the cottage. She needs to be with people at a time like this.” The other two women nodded in agreement.

The four of them took over one square table.

Four tables had already filled up by the time Lillian arrived. Her outfit was similar to the one she'd worn three days ago—a golfing outfit and pom-pom athletic socks, in pale pink instead of Monday's light blue.

She stopped dead when Val approached her. “What are you doing here?”

“Substituting for the Brain Dame. Thank you for coming.”

Lillian joined another woman, who was sitting alone at a table for four. A minute later, a man in a wheelchair rolled into the room. Lillian moved aside a chair at her table to make room for him. Ned took the last empty seat at Lillian's table.

Val counted six men and fourteen women. “Welcome, everyone. I'm Val Deniston, filling in for the woman who usually runs the Brain Game. Please forgive me if I don't do everything the way she does. We'll start with some trivia. Please write your name at the top of the answer sheet in front of you.”

“Oh heck.” Bethany waved Val's phone. “I just got a new phone and it's so complicated, I can't get a text message I've been waiting for. It's totally frustrating.”

Bethany sounded like a ham actress reading from a bad script, but nods from around the room showed empathy for her plight.

“Those newfangled phones are a real pain,” the man in the wheelchair said.

“I second that,” Ned said. “You gotta be a computer whiz to make a phone call these days.”

“Sorry,” Bethany said. “Just keep going with the trivia, Val, while I try to figure out this thing.”

A good excuse for fiddling with the phone for the next half hour.

Thomasina rested her left arm on the table and crooked it around her paper, like an A student shielding her answers from roving eyes. Apparently, she didn't trust the friends she'd brought with her. Was she paranoid, or did these senior citizens cheat at the Brain Game? Amazing what some people will do for doughnuts.

“Is everyone ready?” Val saw heads nod. “Let's start. University of Maryland athletic teams share a name with the diamond-backed turtles native in this region. What is the name?”

All the men and half the women, including Lillian, immediately scribbled on their answer sheets, some probably writing
Terps,
the team's nickname. Only the full name, the Terrapins, matched the turtles' name. Thomasina pursed her lips, tapped her pen, and wrote something quickly as Val announced the second question.

“Which of these organs are not considered vital to life—the appendix, the liver, the gallbladder, the spleen? To get credit for the answer, you'll have to include all the organs from that list that people can live without.”

All the pens in the room went into action. Val couldn't see the answer sheets, but she'd bet that everyone was writing
appendix.
How many of them would know the liver was the only vital organ among the four?

“Could you repeat the possible answers?” Thomasina said.

“Certainly. Appendix, liver, gallbladder, spleen—which can you live without?” From where Val stood, she could see Thomasina write something, hesitate, cross it out, and write again. “Question three. What married couple, both Oscar winners, starred in the 1973 TV movie
Divorce His, Divorce Hers
and, a year later, divorced in real life?”

Val had counted on most people forgetting this obscure Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton film if they ever knew it. Thomasina and a woman at another table wrote an answer immediately, everyone else more slowly. Lillian shrugged and scribbled something at the last second. As Val continued with the questions, Thomasina and Lillian glanced sideways toward each other's table frequently, apparently assessing the competition. Neither seemed to notice Bethany taking photos with the phone.

“We're almost done,” Val said. “Question nine. The sweet taste of this antifreeze component makes it dangerous to animals and children who might drink it accidentally. Is it isopropyl alcohol, ethanol, ethylene glycol, or corn syrup?”

Both Lillian and Thomasina paused briefly and wrote something.

“Question ten.” Casting around for entertainment questions earlier, Val had remembered the obscure fact Granddad and Gunnar had mentioned Sunday night about the director Alan Smithee. “What name was used by film directors from 1968 to 2000 when they didn't want their own name to appear in the credits? Was it Stacy Smith, Alan Smithee, John Smithson, or Sandy Shore?”

Thomasina smiled and wrote on her paper. The man in the wheelchair asked Val to repeat the question and answers.

When everyone stopped writing, Val asked the participants to pass their answer sheets to the table on their right for correcting and went over the questions again, asking for oral responses. No single question stumped the entire group of seniors. Lillian scored highest with seven correct answers. The man in the wheelchair and Ned got six right. Thomasina and three others scored five. To come out on top, Thomasina would have to make up her losses in the next game, Alphabits.

Val explained the rules while Bethany collected the trivia answer sheets and gave everyone a blank piece of paper. “I'm going to read a set of letters. You'll have five minutes to form as many words as you can from those letters. Your words have to be at least four letters long. You score a point for using all the letters in a single word and for any word that no one else has written.”

When everyone was ready, Val announced the letters—
ACEEHLMNO
—and started the timer. When the timer dinged, she asked if anyone had used all nine letters in a word.

Only Thomasina raised her hand. “Chameleon.”

“Great!” Val said. “That's worth two points. Anyone have an eight-letter word?” No one did. “How about seven letters?”

Thomasina had written
manhole,
but so had three other people. The woman at Lillian's table earned a point for
echelon.
Two of Thomasina's six-letter words,
menace
and
enamel,
were duplicates, but she scored a point for
enlace.

Going through the shorter words took ten minutes and yielded few unique ones. Thomasina formed more words than anyone else. Though many were duplicates, her Alphabits score combined with her trivia score put her in first place. Lillian, Ned, and another man tied for second place. Thomasina claimed her doughnut prize and left with her entourage.

Once the room emptied out, Bethany gave Val the phone. “See what you think of the photos I took.”

Val scrolled through them. She found an excellent full-face shot of Thomasina and a decent picture of Lillian. “I think you have a future as a paparazza when you give up teaching first graders.”

Bethany laughed. “What are you going to do with those pictures?”

“I have a hunch one of our Brain Game rivals lived at a Virginia retirement community before moving here. No one there knows them by name. I want to drive there first thing in the morning and see if anyone recognizes either of them. Can you open the café for me?”

“I hate getting up early in the summer, but okay. I'll work as long as you need me tomorrow, but I have to leave right now. Muffin's waited a long time for her walk.” Bethany hurried toward the door.

“I really appreciate your help.” Besides paying Bethany for all the hours she'd worked, Val would invite her to a special dinner, but not until she could serve something other than caveman food.

Val took out her cell phone and checked her messages. She'd missed three calls. Granddad had left a message, saying he wouldn't be home until late afternoon. Either the fish were really biting, or he'd caught none yet and stubbornly refused to give up. The young real estate agent, Kimberly, had called to say that Mrs. Z liked the idea of renting her compact house for a few months and that Val's friend should call Kimberly to look at the house. Good news, but did Gunnar still want a place in Bayport? He, too, had left Val a message. He was sorry he'd missed her at the café this morning, hoped they could get together this evening, and would phone her later. Too vague a message for Val to guess why he was suddenly anxious to talk to her after being elusive for the last few days. She called him back, but only reached his voice mail.

She stuffed the score sheets in her tote bag and tidied up the room quickly, anxious to go home and search online now that she had the name of the man who'd committed suicide. She was about to leave when Lillian marched in.

“I want to talk to you.” Lillian spoke through clenched teeth.

Uh-oh. Maybe she'd noticed Bethany sneaking a picture of her and held Val responsible. Val couldn't lie well enough to get away with denying it.

Chapter 18

Lillian ran a hand across her forehead and over her head, mussing up her usually neat hairdo. “I just found out Junie May Jussup is dead. The news reports aren't saying how she died. I called your grandfather to see if he knew, but he didn't answer the phone.”

Val was relieved Lillian hadn't demanded an explanation of the sneak photos. “I'm not sure Granddad can tell you much. The police are keeping a lid on it.”

Lillian sank into the nearest club chair, her face gray. “That means it wasn't an accident. It was another murder. Junie May announced on television that she would investigate Scott's death. She was asking for trouble.”

A tremor of anger rattled Val. She stood tall and looked down at Lillian. “It sounds as if you're blaming the victim.”

“No. I just don't want more victims. You questioned me, Omar, and no doubt everyone else at the chowder dinner. Don't you realize playing detective can put
you
in danger, like Junie May?”

Was that a warning or a threat? “Junie May kept her research to herself. I'll tell the police what I find out. No one will gain anything by harming me.” The tell-all insurance policy for amateur sleuths, Val reasoned.

Lillian leaned back and folded her arms. “What did you find out about me?”

“That you own a nice house in Annapolis.” Val took the chair opposite Lillian's at the square table. “I can't imagine why you're living in a tiny apartment here.”

Annoyance flitted across Lillian's face. “People downsize, move to a place like this, and then regret it. Before I sell my house, I want to know if I can adjust to a different living arrangement. Is that so hard to understand?”

“Not at all.” Mrs. Z felt the same way about selling her house. “My grandfather would have understood if you had told him. But for some reason, you didn't mention your house in Annapolis.”

“Not talking about my financial assets is how I protect them from swindlers, fortune hunters, or anyone else who wants to go after them.” Lillian drummed her fingers on the table. “Obviously, my financial affairs aren't safe from snoopers.”

“I'll cop to being a snoop, but my grandfather's no fortune hunter.”

“I know that. Did you do any research on Irene Pritchard? She and Junie May came to the dinner together.”

And Junie May died four days later—hardly cause and effect. “I included everyone at the chowder dinner in my research and my report to the police. How long before the chowder dinner did you find out that my grandfather invited Junie May?”

“A week. Scott was visiting Thomasina that weekend. I told them both. I didn't want him skipping the dinner because he thought only senior citizens would be there. He was definitely more enthusiastic when he found out Junie May was going.”

“So you used her to lure him there. And now they're both dead.”

Lillian covered her forehead with the palm of her hand as if it were a cold compress. “My head's throbbing. I've got to lie down.” She trudged out of the room.

Val had never before seen the cool Lillian so upset. She looked almost frightened. Was she worried about her own or someone else's safety, or worried that the truth would come out and implicate her in two murders?

 

 

On her way out of the Village, Val drove past Thomasina's cottage and slowed down. One of the black-clad, gray-haired women who'd gone to the Brain Game with Thomasina was carrying grocery sacks up the walk to the cottage.

Val parked her Saturn. Though anxious to get home and research Arthur Tunbridge, she couldn't pass up the chance to hear Thomasina's take on Junie May's death. She hurried up the path to the cottage and rang the bell.

Thomasina's grocery-toting friend answered the door and invited Val into the cottage. “I'm Edith. You did a nice job with the Brain Game. This was the first time I went. I only did it to keep Thomasina company, but I really enjoyed it.”

“Thank you.” The scent of Thomasina's floral perfume lingered in the empty living room and made Val long for a whiff of garlic.

She felt stifled by the velvet drapes and rugs on top of wall-to-wall carpeting. Between this overdecorated living room and the cold austerity of Lillian's apartment, a happy median existed. Granddad and Grandma had achieved it, in the clutter collected over the decades, the books on the sitting-room shelves, and sturdy, well-worn furniture. By contrast, this place had themed collections of brassware and glassware, but not a book in sight.

“Where's Thomasina?” Val asked.

Edith pointed to the hall leading to the bedrooms. “Changing clothes. Excuse me, I should put away the food so it doesn't spoil.”

Val followed Edith into the kitchen. Black cabinets and appliances lined two walls. Thomasina's winnings, the half-full box of doughnut holes she'd carried away from the game room, sat on the counter. A round wrought-iron table and two chairs hugged one corner of the kitchen. Without a window to let in natural light, the room looked stark and gloomy. It contrasted with the plush living room, where Thomasina probably spent most of her time.

“Do you live nearby?” Val asked.

“A few doors down.” Edith put a package of hamburger patties in the meat compartment and a quart container of half-and-half on a door shelf in the fridge. Packages of corn soufflé and macaroni and cheese went into the freezer. She set the other items on the counter. Hamburger rolls, ajar of salsa, and taco chips. “Well, that's everything on her list.”

Not what the USDA would call a healthy diet. “Does Thomasina eat some of her meals at the main dining room?”

Edith shook her head. “Most of us in cottages don't bother going to the Village Center to eat. We have to pay extra for a meal plan. It's included with the apartments because they don't have full kitchens like we do.”

“Who are you talking to, Edith?” Thomasina swept into the room in a green silk pantsuit that matched her eyes. “Oh, it's the temporary Brain Dame, but why are you in the kitchen? Come into the living room.”

“I was putting the groceries away.” Edith pointed to the items on the table. “I don't know where to put those things.”

“I'll take care of it. I've already imposed on you enough for today. Don't feel you have to stay and do anything else for me.” Thomasina looked pointedly at the living room.

Translation: Scram, Edith. Did that mean Thomasina wanted to talk to Val in private?

Edith looked more relieved than hurt. “Call me if you need anything else, Thomasina. Good-bye, Val. Will you run next week's Brain Game too?”

Val nodded. “I hope you'll both come again.”

Thomasina saw Edith to the door and then whirled around to face Val. “As long as you're here, I'd like to talk to you about today's game.”

“You did well today.”

“Yes.” Thomasina stroked the mahogany frame of her couch. “Even though I won, I must say that your questions were too sexist.”

Huh?
“What was sexist about them?”

“Too much sports and science. That favors men, and you saw how few men go to the Brain Game. You should ask about things the women would remember, like songs and movies from the fifties and sixties.”

In other words, more of what Thomasina knew. She didn't just want to win. She wanted to win
big.

Val shifted her weight from one foot to the other and longed to sit on the down sofa that had enveloped her the last time she was here. But her mother wouldn't approve of her plopping down on the sofa uninvited with the hostess still standing. “When I work on the trivia for next week, I'll keep that in mind. How about if I include questions about cooking?”

Her hostess grimaced. “That would be sexist the other way.”

And present a challenge for this week's winner, judging by her supermarket purchases. Val smiled. “I stopped by here, hoping you would have suggestions for improving the Brain Game, and you did. By the way, did you hear about Junie May Jussup?”

“I heard she was dead, and nobody's saying how she died. You know what that means?” Thomasina didn't wait for an answer. “She committed suicide. It's always hushed up for the sake of the family.”

On the other hand, murder made headlines.
Zero details
plus
zero headlines
equaled
suicide
to Thomasina. To Lillian, they equaled
murder.
She'd assessed Junie May's character more accurately.

Val voiced her thought. “Junie May didn't strike me as suicidal. She enjoyed her work and had good career prospects.”

Thomasina fingered a silk rose in the arrangement on her sideboard. “None of that matters if you're unlucky in love. She was crazy about Scott, you know, but he didn't feel the same way about her. That's why she murdered him and then committed suicide.”

Stunned, Val couldn't speak for a moment. In Junie May's version of the relationship, Scott had pursued her, not vice versa. That version made more sense to Val, but Thomasina's idea intrigued her. “How could Junie May have poisoned him? She wasn't sitting near him.”

“I don't think she did it at the dinner. Scott met her beforehand and told her to leave him alone. She poisoned him then. It just didn't take effect right away.”

And she just happened to have some arsenic in her purse to do the dirty deed. Val had chalked up Thomasina's earlier theory about Scott's murder to a mother distraught over her son's death, unable to think clearly. The mother's revised scenario, like the earlier one, was long on fantasy and fuzzy on details. Both resembled B-movie plots.

“When I came to visit you with my grandfather, you didn't mention Junie May as someone who might have killed Scott. What changed your mind?”

“I was in shock then. Scott's death came soon after a murder attempt on me, and I connected them. Edith and my other friends convinced me I was wrong.” She rubbed a brass samovar on the sideboard as if it were Aladdin's lamp. “I couldn't imagine who killed Scott and why, until Junie May died. Then it all fell into place.”

When the news broke that Junie May had been murdered, Thomasina would have to go back to the drawing board—or the cutting-room floor—to make sense of her son's death. Would her next scenario involve Junie May poisoning Scott and a hit man shooting Junie May? Illogical to the point of being funny, but also sad. Thomasina was coping with grief in her own way. Her imagination shielded her from the ugly possibility that her son's swindling may have led to his murder.

“I won't keep you any longer, Thomasina. Thank you for your ideas on the trivia questions.” At the door, Val added, “I also want to say again how sorry I am for your loss.”

 

 

By the time Val arrived home, Granddad still hadn't returned from fishing. She sat at the computer in the study and pulled out the scrap of paper Ned had given her with the name of the man who'd committed suicide. She hoped he'd spelled the name correctly.

Her phone chimed. She dug it out of her bag and glanced at the display. Gunnar. Her heart did a cartwheel.

“Hey, Val. I know it's late to ask, but any chance you can join me for dinner? Nothing fancy, a picnic along the river.”

“I've spent the whole day under a roof. Eating out, as in outdoors, sounds better than a banquet.” And she'd get to listen to his melodic voice instead of the bluster of banquet speakers. “I have some news for you.”

“I have some for you too.”

His news might cancel out hers. If he'd decided not to stay in Bayport, no point in telling him about renting Mrs. Z's house. “What can I bring to the picnic?”

“Just yourself. I'll get the food and reserve the best seats on the lawn behind the B & B. Can you meet me there at seven?”

That would give her time to make dinner for Granddad, assuming he showed up soon. “See you then.”

Val clicked the phone off and opened a browser window on the computer. She navigated to a page for
Washington Post
death notices and entered Arthur Tunbridge's name with a date range from March through May of this year.

The text of the notice popped up. Val skimmed it. Died April 9, Spring Lake Retirement Community. He'd worked as a restaurant manager in a suburb of Baltimore and, after retiring, volunteered as a mentor to small-business owners. Husband of the late Ann Tunbridge, survived by a daughter, Lucy Tunbridge Azamov, and two grandsons.

Azamov. Omar's wife? Val confirmed her guess on Lucy Azamov's Facebook page, which included photos of Arthur Tunbridge, his son-in-law, and his two grown grandsons.

If Scott's swindling drove Omar's father-in-law to suicide, Omar could have settled the score at the chowder dinner, abetted by Lillian. She hadn't exactly lied in saying Omar was the son of an old friend if
old
meant elderly rather than longtime, and Omar might well have called Arthur Tunbridge his father, having lost his own parents decades ago. But what connected Lillian to the old man and to Omar? What tie would be so strong that she would arrange a comeuppance dinner for Scott? Could Junie May have unearthed that link?

The front door opened. “Val? I'm home.”

She popped up and met her grandfather in the hallway. His neat plaid sport shirt and tan pants surprised her. She'd expected a fishing vest and cargo pants. “Your note said you were going fishing.”

“That's what I did. In Northern Virginia. Fishing for information.” He whipped a folder from under his arm. The gold lettering on it read
SPRING LAKE RETIREMENT COMMUNITY
.