Scam Chowder (20 page)

“Thanks, Nina.” Fayette handed the photo to Val as Nina left the office. “Your grandfather may have run into this care manager at that other retirement community in Maryland and mistaken her for a resident there.”

“That's possible. There was another woman he thought lived here.” Val gave her Thomasina's photo. “Do you recognize her?”

Fayette studied it, frowned, and made a circle with her thumb and forefinger around Thomasina's face. “If I block out the hair, she looks like Shawna Maliote, who was a blonde. She moved out a few months ago after being here half a year. If your grandfather knows her, my best advice is to keep him away from her. She was a bit off.” Fayette tapped her temple.

“In what way?”

“Delusional. Paranoid. She claimed people here were stealing from her and trying to kill her. She threatened to sue us. We let her out of her contract, happy to return her money just to get rid of her.”

That paranoia may have led her to change her name to Thomasina Weal. “Did her family support her decision to leave?”

“That I don't know. It wouldn't matter anyway. She came here as an independent resident, responsible for her own decisions and finances.” Fayette returned the photo to Val.

“I've probably said more than I should have about her, given current privacy laws, but I wanted to warn you. Your grandfather shouldn't get involved with her.”

“I'll just tell him she isn't here anymore. How does she spell her name?” Val jotted Shawna Maliote's name on the back of the photo. “Thanks.”

“I'm guessing you're thinking of moving around here. Is that why your grandfather's looking at this place?”

“He's just trying to get a feel for different communities.” Enough said about their motives for visiting this community. “At the retirement village near us, a TV reporter recently interviewed residents for a story and embarrassed some of them. Have you had reporters here too?”

“Not lately. We don't let the media bother the residents, though some of them like the attention.”

“Do you have educational programs, guest speakers, that sort of thing?”

“Occasionally. And we have so many clubs and activities, your grandfather's bound to find something that interests him.” Fayette glanced at her big watch. “If you have any other questions, don't hesitate to call me.”

Val took the hint and stood up. “Great talking to you, Fayette.”

“I'll walk you back to the lobby and set you up with a tour. Let me know if you want to visit again. We'll have lunch.”

For the sake of Granddad's cover story, Val had to go on the thirty-minute tour. With that out of the way, she checked her phone messages. Only one had come in, a text from Althea with the contact information for three criminal lawyers. On the way to the Lakeside Lounge, Val passed the elevators and the door to a staircase. She opened it and walked up one story, twenty concrete steps in all, with a landing halfway up, where the staircase turned. With a shove from the top of the stairs, Thomasina would have hit ten steps before the landing broke her fall. Ouch. Hard to imagine she could have avoided serious injury, unless she'd grabbed the handrail before falling far. Or maybe, as Granddad suspected, no one had pushed her. She'd just stumbled down a few steps.

Val went into the Lakeside Lounge. Based on the view from the room,
Pondside Lounge
would have been more accurate, but she was spoiled by living near the Chesapeake. It made bodies of water smaller than oceans, seas, and the Great Lakes look puny.

She found her grandfather on a sofa facing the puny pond. Three women sat in chairs grouped around the sofa.

He gestured with a sweep of his arm toward Val. “This is my granddaughter, ladies. Meet my new friends, Val.”

“He's been telling us all about you,” the tiny woman with ash-gray hair said. “You're so lucky to have a grandfather who cooks for you.”

Val smiled through clenched teeth.

“And he's lucky to have a granddaughter with experience in book publicity,” the robust woman with yellow-gray hair said. “You'll make his cookbook a best seller.”

Val felt herself getting steamed, and not just because the temperature in the building was five degrees warmer than she liked. Had Granddad managed to do anything but lie about his cooking? Had he passed around the photos?

The lanky woman with frosted gray hair stood up. “It's almost time for bridge. So nice to meet you, Don, and you too, Val. Come visit again.”

The other two trailed her out of the lounge, the largest woman commenting, “Maybe he can do a cooking demonstration, and we can sample the food.”

“A cookbook, Granddad?” Val kept her voice low. “You can't be serious.”

“Why not? It's the next step after a recipe column. Stop looking like you just drank battery acid. I got a lot out of talking to those ladies.”

Something besides a boost to his ego? Val sat next to him on the sofa. “What?”

“You first. Your friend tell you anything?”

“I found out the name Thomasina used here.”

“So did I. Shawna. The ladies recognized her from the picture, but didn't know her last name.”

“Shawna Maliote.” Val could contribute at least something to what he'd learned. “Did they say anything else about Thomasina/Shawna?”

“They said she carried on about being pushed down the stairs. She bought pepper spray and things like that to protect herself. The tall one said Thomasina made up the story about being pushed in order to get out of her contract. The little one swallowed the story and won't go near a staircase. The third one took Thomasina's paranoia as a sign of Alzheimer's. Now I've known a few people suffering from that awful disease, and it's true they did turn paranoid.”

“Yes, but you can be paranoid without having that disease. Alzheimer's destroys your memory, and Thomasina's memory worked well for the trivia game.”

“Folks with Alzheimer's can recall something from fifty years ago, but not from five minutes ago.”

Val thought about the trivia results. Yes, memories from the distant past could have given Thomasina the answers to the Hollywood questions. Random chance could explain her other two correct answers, given that she'd made a stab at every multiple-choice question. “Thomasina is going by a totally different name than the one she used a few months ago. Could someone with dementia change names without getting confused?”

Granddad shook his head. “Nah. Let's rule out Alzheimer's. What about the idea that she used her fall on the stairs to wiggle out of her contract?”

“It tallies with what Fayette said. Thomasina's false name makes me wonder what else is false about her.” Val lowered her voice. “You didn't like the idea that a mother would murder her son. Suppose she's not Scott's mother, but his accomplice? She moves into a retirement community and vouches for his expertise. For that, she gets a cut of the money. She has to move out before anyone catches on to him. Maybe she was tired of the setup, but he wouldn't let her quit.”

Granddad shook his head. “You only saw her and Scott together for a minute. He was devoted to her.”

“That's exactly how a con man would behave.”

“I can tell the difference between real and fake affection.”

But could her grandfather tell the difference with respect to Lillian's affection for him? “Did you show anyone here Lillian's photo?” Val asked.

“Yup. No one recognized her.”

Not a surprise. Lillian wouldn't have necessarily met any residents except the one she was hired to visit. “Fayette and another woman who works here recognized Lillian from the photo.” She told Granddad about Lillian's role as geriatric care manager to Arthur Tunbridge.

Granddad gazed out the window at the pond. “She must have felt terrible when he committed suicide. I suppose she found out that Scott bilked the old guy. That's why she warned me against investing.”

And also why she'd arranged to confront Scott at the chowder dinner, backed up by someone from the dead man's family. “She didn't tell you about Omar's connection to the man who committed suicide.”

Granddad polished his glasses on his shirt. “I'll ask her why she didn't mention it.”

“I want to be there when you ask her.” Not only because Val would like to hear Lillian's excuse, but also because she didn't want Granddad alone with a suspect. His girlfriend had two possible reasons to murder Scott—to avenge her client's death by suicide, or to eliminate her accomplice in scams against the elderly.

Granddad stood up. “We got what we came for. It's a long ride home.” He held out his hand. “Give me the keys. You drove here. I'll drive back.”

“There's a ton of traffic on the beltway.”

“I drove both ways yesterday.” He waggled a finger at her. “Stop treating me like a baby.”

She didn't baby him, but sometimes she acted like an overprotective mother of a teenager. She surrendered the keys. While he was driving back to Bayport, she would call the chief and tell him what they'd found out. Granddad would have no choice but to listen again to all the things Lillian had kept from him. He might even get past his blind spot about her.

Chapter 21

Val watched the traffic while Granddad drove on the beltway, or more accurately, the speedway around Washington. When he left the urban congestion behind, she relaxed and phoned Chief Yardley. She told him what they'd heard at the Spring Lake Retirement Community.

“Did you drag your granddaddy there this morning to snoop with you?”

She turned her face toward the side window and covered her mouth. “I planned to go alone. He insisted on coming along.”

“It's bad enough you're playing detective. Now you're both at it. You'll need to tell Deputy Holtzman what you just told me. Go to the county sheriff's substation outside Treadwell and make a statement.”

“Okay. Granddad and I are in the car and can swing by there on the way back to Bayport. Where exactly is it?”

He gave her directions to the substation. “Go there alone. Your granddaddy shouldn't talk to the deputy without a lawyer present.”

She clicked off her phone and relayed the warning to Granddad. “Althea sent me the names and phone numbers for lawyers. I'll copy them for you.” She wrote the information on the outside of the Spring Lake folder the tour guide had given her.

“I'll call them when I get a chance.”

“You'll have a chance. When we get to Treadwell, we'll stop at a coffee shop. You can have lunch there while I go to the substation and tell the deputies what we found out this morning.”

Val rifled through the Spring Lake folder, located an information sheet printed on one side, and turned it to the blank side.

Granddad glanced at her. “What are you doing?”

“Making a diagram of the dining-room table, showing where everyone sat Saturday night and the type of chowder they first requested and eventually ate.”

“What's that going to tell you?”

“Possibly nothing, but I won't know until I finish it.”

 

 

It was late morning by the time Granddad stopped at a coffee shop. Val drove his Buick to the county sheriff's substation. As she backed into a parking space, a neatly dressed man with dark hair walked out of the barracks-like building and donned sunglasses.

She jumped from the car. “Omar!”

He stopped and frowned as she approached him. “Yes?”

“Remember me? I'm Don Myer's granddaughter, Val Deniston.” She met him at the edge of the parking lot, where a large tree provided shade even at noon.

The lines in his forehead deepened. “Yes. How is your grandfather?”

“He's good.” No thanks to Omar and his crony Lillian.

Omar took off his designer sunglasses. “Please tell him I'm deeply sorry for taking advantage of his hospitality and not explaining my presence at his dinner.”

“I assume your presence at the dinner—” His formal way of speaking was contagious. Val started again. “You were there because of Scott. Why did you want to sit at the same table with him when his actions may have brought on your father-in-law's death?”

Omar jerked back as if she'd hit him, apparently surprised at what Val knew about his family. “I wished to shame him in the presence of his mother, appeal to his conscience, and possibly prevent another family from suffering what mine did. He was worse than a killer, Ms. Deniston. Murdering a man takes away his life. Driving him to suicide takes away his life and his soul.”

“Are you sure Scott was responsible for that?”

“My father-in-law left my wife a rambling voice mail, full of despair over money he'd lost on risky investments. He gambled his entire life savings, hoping to bequeath more to our sons. My wife was distraught at not receiving his message until it was too late. He didn't realize we all valued him for himself, not for his money.”

Such a sad story.
Val's eyes stung. “I'm sorry for your family's loss. After your father-in-law's death, did you go to the police?”

“With what?” Omar held out his hands with his palms up. “He'd lost the early account statements that showed gains and prompted him to invest more and more money. The latest ones, which came after he requested some money back, showed losses. I left several phone messages for Scott. He never returned my calls.”

But he'd probably listened to them. “Scott must have recognized your voice at the chowder dinner. He was afraid of you. He pulled away when you offered to help him.”

Omar shrugged. “He had the chance to avoid me. Shortly after we sat down, his mother said she didn't feel good and wanted him to take her home. He didn't do it. When he got sick, I assumed they'd both eaten something earlier in the day that gave them food poisoning.”

“But then it came out that he was deliberately poisoned.”

“And I didn't care if his killer was caught. Now I fear the same person murdered the woman reporter. Her death convinced me to tell the authorities what I know. I suspect you are here for the same reason.” He took car keys from his pocket. “My best to your grandfather.”

With a back as straight as the knife-edged crease in his trousers, he walked to a shiny black SUV. A trim man, shorter than average, he could have been mistaken for a woman by someone who glimpsed him in a fast-moving car. He could have rented a white car to go to Junie May's house, but why would he have killed her? She wouldn't have told him she'd dug up proof that he'd murdered Scott, and she wouldn't have let him in her house. Even though Omar made an unlikely culprit in Junie May's murder, it was worth checking his alibi. Val would ask Roy Chesterfeld about it if she saw him inside the substation.

She hurried into the building and came face-to-face with Deputy Holtzman. After she explained why she was there, he ushered her into a small room and turned on a recorder.

His face remained stony as she reported what she'd discovered at Spring Lake. When she suggested Thomasina might not be Scott's mother, he rolled his eyes.

“From our previous talks, Ms. Deniston, I know you lack confidence in the police. At least give them credit for checking on a murdered man's next of kin. He was her son, and she had her reasons for their name changes.”

Could he have swallowed Thomasina's story about her husband's criminal past catching up with her? Maybe if she'd shed tears when she told the story. In the last murder investigation, Bethany had earned Holtzman's sympathy by crying when he questioned her. Val had roused his suspicion by keeping her emotions in check.

She snapped back to the present as his last three words echoed in her mind—their name changes. “So Scott used a false name too?”

“I wouldn't call it
false.
People can change their names as long as their purpose isn't to defraud. They don't even have to file a name-change petition with the court. They just use a different name. Actors and writers often do.” He leaned toward her across the table. “Name changes for the purpose of cashing in on someone else's fame might land you in court. So don't hang out your shingle as
Nancy Drew.
”

Her turn to roll her eyes. She left the interview room, confident that he would investigate this murder as he had the last one, ignoring facts that didn't fit his preconceived theory of the crime. She asked a deputy standing near the substation exit whether Roy Chesterfeld was around. He wasn't. As she climbed in the car, she thought of a way to check on Omar's alibi herself.

She phoned the restaurant where Omar worked and said she'd had a wonderful wine with her dinner there on Wednesday evening, but had forgotten the name of it. The restaurant's wine expert had suggested it and might recall it. “I can't remember his name, but I'd like to speak to him if he's there now.”

“You probably mean our sommelier, Omar. He isn't in the restaurant at the moment,” the woman on the phone said. “I can ask him to phone you if you leave your name and number.”

“Would he have been the man who helped me choose the wine on Wednesday? I ate there quite early.”

“He usually comes in around five.”

Usually
didn't suffice for an alibi. “Were you working at the restaurant Wednesday evening?”

“No. Omar will be happy to call you back.”

“I'll phone again this evening, unless I remember the name of the wine before then. Thank you.” Val clicked off her phone.

Omar's usual work schedule would have put him two hours away from Junie May's house at the time of the murder. No point in asking him if he'd been at the restaurant that evening. He could simply lie about it. The deputies would surely check his alibi, but they might not tell Val what they learned.

 

 

Granddad steered into the club parking lot at one o'clock to drop Val off at the café.

“Why don't you come inside the club and wait for me, Granddad? I'll be finished in an hour. Then you and I can drive to the Village.” And talk to Lillian together.

“I'm supposed to sit around twiddling my thumbs for an hour?”

“The club has today's newspapers and a bunch of magazines. You can read them or watch the TV in the café. I'll make you a smoothie.”

“Hmph. You just want to keep an eye on me.” He parked and unbuckled his seat belt. “You're the one who needs watching, not me.”

Val reached behind her for her shoulder bag and climbed out of the car. “We have each other's backs then.”

Granddad pointed to the club entrance. “Look who's heading inside. They make a nice couple, don't they?”

She looked, turned rigid, and forgot to breathe. Not a couple she expected to see. Gunnar and Petra, both in exercise clothes, were climbing up the steps to the club. He opened the door for her.

Val took a deep breath. She didn't believe Gunnar had lied to her last night. So what could explain those two together today? Unlikely that they'd run into each other by chance outside the club. More likely, he'd changed his mind overnight. “Whoever says women are fickle should meet Gunnar,” Val muttered.

“I could say
I told you so,
but I won't. I know how it feels to find out that someone you like a lot hasn't been straight with you.”

A wave of sadness engulfed her . . . for both of them. She hugged Granddad, her eyes stinging with tears. The first man who'd interested her since Tony, the first woman who'd interested him since Grandma—both disappointments. “We'll get through it.”

“Smoothies will help.”

They went inside the club. Granddad found a fishing magazine and sat on a sofa in the reception area. Val went into the café, noticing out of the corner of her eye that most of the tables were occupied. A good sign. Maybe the summer slump was over.

Bethany broke into a smile. “So glad to see you, Val. Too bad you didn't come in sooner.”

Val joined her behind the counter. “Has it been hectic?”

“I've had no problem with the lunch crowd. The musclewoman arrived with a new dirty trick.”

Val groaned. After a promising start, this day was going downhill fast. “What happened?”

“She came in early this morning and ordered coffee. After she left, I noticed the nutmeg shaker wasn't with the other coffee condiments. I went to the pantry, found an empty shaker, and filled it with nutmeg. By the time I did that, the first shaker was back, but the stuff inside looked more reddish than nutmeg. I confiscated it.” Bethany pointed to the corner of the food prep counter. “It's there. Don't touch it, or you'll mess up the fingerprints.”

Only an idiot would tamper with it and leave fingerprints. Val sniffed the shaker top. Definitely not nutmeg. A different, yet familiar, smell. “It's Chesapeake Bay seasoning. Great on crabs and shrimp, bad in coffee. Thanks, Bethany. You saved a customer from a peppery mouthful.”

“Is that all? After what happened at your house, I figured it was poison.” Bethany looked disappointed. “Oh, I almost forgot. Irene Pritchard's at the corner table. She asked for you.”

A chat with Irene the Irate—just what Val needed to brighten her day.

She pasted a smile on her face, squared her shoulders, and marched toward the corner table, where she'd sat with the deputies the day before. “Hi, Irene. I hope you enjoyed your lunch.” She must have, based on the few crumbs remaining on her plate.

“It used to be enough to mix mayo and celery with tuna fish.
You
put in lemon juice and chopped-up olives and red peppers. Not bad tasting, but more trouble to make.”

Val sat down, facing the older woman. “That tuna salad sells well here. What can I do for you?” Irene probably wanted a list of popular menu items so she'd know what to serve when she took over the café contract.

“I feel terrible about Junie May. I want her murderer caught.” Irene banged her glass of iced coffee on the table. “I've talked with the sheriff's people already, but you did more than the police to catch the last murderer. How can I help?”

Irene had stonewalled four days ago, possibly out of animosity for Granddad or fear of being a murder suspect. Did she come here today to help or to plant misinformation?

Val might as well hope for the best. “When was the last time you talked to Junie May?”

“The night of your grandfather's dinner.”

“I'm still trying to figure out exactly what happened at the chowder dinner. Maybe you can help with that.” Val took the sketch she made in the car from her tote bag. “Based on what I've heard from other people, I made a diagram of the table. Would you look it over and tell me if it's correct?”