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.
Val wondered how far Irene would go to keep her husband from making another bad investment.
Killing a scammer after he’d swindled money made as much sense as closing the stable door after the horses had bolted. On the other hand, putting a swindler out of commission to keep your husband from squandering the family nest egg made good sense. But was it a motive for murder? And how did Junie May know so much about Irene’s family finances?
Val picked up her wineglass. “You sound like you know Irene well.”
Junie May took a swig of her drink, apparently thirsty after eating every last almond and cashew. “She phones me regularly, wanting me to investigate wrongdoing of some sort. Most of it’s in her head. Last month, she wanted me to investigate you.”
No surprise there. “Because she thought I was hiding evidence in a murder?”
“Exactly. And your relationship with the local police was entirely too cozy and inappropriate. It turned out, though, you weren’t hiding evidence. You were going out on a limb to catch a murderer.” Junie May looked at Val over the rim of her glass. “Gonna do it again?”
“I’d rather skip the limb this time.” Val reached across the table for a pita chip, loaded it with warm crab dip, and popped it in her mouth. She wasn’t about to tell a reporter, who was also a suspect, that she was trying to uncover evidence before Deputy Holtzman got too far into the case.
“But you’d like to prove your grandfather blameless. Are you willing to share what you find out? The police clam up with anyone from the media, but you have a direct line to the chief, and your grandfather has friends at the Village. Between your sources and mine, we might figure out who killed Scott.”
Join forces with a woman who vowed on TV to uncover the truth about Scott’s death? “Doesn’t that put both of us out on a limb?”
Junie May took a sip of her drink. “I’m out on that limb. You just have to support it.”
“And stand under it when it comes crashing down. I can’t protect myself unless you tell me what you know.”
“Fair enough.” Junie May banged her nearly empty glass on the table like a judge with a gavel. “I think I know how Scott was killed.”
Chapter 12
Val leaned across the heavy wood table toward Junie May. “You have a theory about how Scott was killed?”
“I’ve been researching poisons. Arsenic is perfect to slip into food. It’s colorless with a slight metallic taste, soluble in a hot liquid, and easy to disguise in chowder.”
Or even in a cappuccino. Val had expected to hear how someone managed to poison Scott in front of other people, not what kind of poison was used. “The police haven’t mentioned arsenic. What gave you that idea?”
“I’ll answer that if you swear not to tell anyone about the arsenic.” At Val’s nod, she continued. “My sources at the hospital said Scott had neurological and other symptoms that suggested arsenic poisoning to one of the doctors. Something like that spreads fast in a small hospital.”
“It could just be gossip.”
“Of course. The autopsy should provide conclusive evidence about what killed him. I assume the police took the leftover chowder for testing.”
Val’s turn to provide information. “All the chowder went down the disposal before Scott died. Where do you even get arsenic? I would think it’s banned or at least heavily controlled.”
“It’s banned now in rat poison and weed killers, but people keep that stuff for years. About six months ago, I did an investigative report about bottles of poison turning up in old houses. The bottles are sold at antique shops and flea markets around here.” Junie May unwrapped a chocolate truffle. “At an online auction site, I’ve seen rat poison with arsenic for sale and even a bottle containing strychnine.”
“I hope you didn’t broadcast that in your report. It might give people
with homicidal intentions ideas.”
“You can buy arsenic from chemical supply houses too. It’s used in glassmaking and leather tanning.”
Val grabbed the last chocolate truffle before it disappeared. “Even glassmakers and leather tanners don’t walk around with arsenic in their pockets. If arsenic killed Scott, the murder was premeditated, but we still don’t know that he was the intended victim or exactly what contained the poison.”
“True. I was just passing on my conclusions and hoping you would reciprocate. You and I have a lot in common. We both gave up city life and came to the Eastern Shore to help a grandparent. My mother died when I was young. When her mother was in an accident a few years ago, I was the only family member who could help her, but I didn’t stay here long enough.”
“What do you mean?”
“I set her up with a caregiver and went back to my job in St. Louis. The caregiver told sob stories about her family needing money. My grandmother lent her money.” Junie May put air quotes around the three words. “The woman emptied my grandmother’s accounts, talked her into mortgaging her house to pay bogus bills, and then disappeared. My grandmother had no one to turn to except me. So I quit my job and came back here.”
“Were you able to track down the caregiver?”
“I had leads, but the police and a lawyer told me I had no chance of getting the money back. My grandmother’s memory was shot. She couldn’t give a coherent statement. She died a year later, destitute and depressed. She left me a house with a mortgage that was way more than the house is worth now.”
“That’s rough. Can you sell the house?”
“I’ll do better by holding on to it until the market improves rather than sell in a depressed market. I want a job at a station that pays better. I could rent a small place near the station and hang on to the house here for a few years. A big story would give me a shot at that kind of job.”
Junie May claimed Scott was a source for a story she’d planned to write. Now his murder might give her an even bigger story to cover. Maybe Scott wasn’t just a source to Junie May. Irene had seen them gazing into each other’s eyes before the dinner. Lillian had noticed him fixating on Junie May during the dinner.
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