Scam Chowder

by Maya Corrigan

  “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.

  “You gotta let the police handle this and not go around asking questions about Scott or Junie May.”

  “I’m happy to leave it to the police. The chief said we shouldn’t tell anyone I was at Junie May’s house.” She stood up. “I’d better go to work or my customers will be in the café before I am.”

  “No more dead bodies, Val. This is the second one you found since you moved here. You keep that up, and folks here will run you out of town.”

  Arriving late at the café meant Val had to play catch-up for the first few hours. She was so busy brewing coffee, making pecan muffins, and serving customers that she forgot to turn on the wall-mounted TV until the regional news program was almost over.

  The middle-aged anchorman recapped stories covered in more depth earlier in the show, one of them about Junie May. “Last evening, in response to an emergency call, sheriff’s deputies went to the home of Junie May Jussup, a reporter for our affiliate station, and found her dead. No details are available yet about the cause of death, pending an investigation and notification of relatives. Ms. Jussup, who began working in southern Maryland two years ago, will be missed by colleagues and viewers alike. We’ll bring more details about her untimely death as they become available.”

  Other recaps followed. The anchorman ended with a late-breaking bulletin. “A Baltimore man, Scott Freaze, died early this week at Treadwell Hospital after experiencing severe gastrointestinal symptoms. Criminal investigators from the state police, the county sheriff, and town police are cooperating on the inquiry into the man’s death, tentatively attributed to arsenic poisoning. No further details are available at this time. Stay tuned for updates.”

  Stay tuned for updates repeated in Val’s head. Junie May had said those words on TV a few days ago after vowing to find out what happened to Scott. Now she was dead. Val sighed.

  She left the TV on, hoping for a news bulletin about the investigation into the reporter’s death. An hour later, she was making crustless spinach quiche when two men in uniform strode into the café. Deputy Chesterfeld, blond, bright-eyed, and smiling. Deputy Holtzman, bald, eagle-eyed, and glaring. She recognized the classic setup. Unfortunately, the bad cop probably had seniority. The good cop might never get a word in.

  They approached the counter as the club manager passed by the café alcove. He glanced at them, stopped cold, and then after two seconds continued toward his office.

  Val gulped. On top of assorted complaints about the café, she’d have to explain visits from law enforcement.

  Chapter 17

  Val greeted the two men in uniform as if they were café customers. “Good morning, Deputy Chesterfeld. Deputy Holtzman.” She pointed to muffins mounded on a plate under a glass lid. “Care for a blueberry muffin and something to drink?”

  Roy Chesterfeld pulled a protein bar from his pocket. “No muffins for me, but the coffee smells great. I wouldn’t mind—” He broke off at
a frown from the deputy, who outranked him.

  “Tap water for both of us.” Holtzman surveyed the empty café. “We’ll sit at that table in the far corner. Less chance of anyone interrupting us there. I have some questions for you, Ms. Deniston.”

  She brought their water to the table and sat on the settee. From there, she could see if anyone came into the café. “I’m expecting my assistant in fifteen minutes. Until then, I’ll have to take care of any customers who come in.”

  “We’ll wait if necessary. Last night, you told Deputy Chesterfeld that Junie May Jussup was murdered. Well, you were right. Now how would you know that just from looking in the window? The first responders who went into the room concluded it was a suicide.”

  His interviewing techniques hadn’t changed in a month. He used veiled accusations to fish for information. In this case, he was suggesting she’d had inside knowledge about the murder. “The first responders may have seen evidence the murderer planted to suggest suicide, but I was too far away to see that evidence. It never crossed my mind that she would commit suicide.”

  Deputy Chesterfeld nodded. “You ruled that out based on what you knew of her personality and activities.”

  “You said you barely knew her.” Holtzman’s tone implied Val had lied about that. “What was your purpose in visiting her?”

  “On Tuesday, we talked about my grandfather’s dinner. She thought one of his guests poisoned Scott Freaze. She was going to dig up information and share it with me.”

  “You told Deputy Chesterfeld she was secretive about her research. Why would she share it with you?”

  A fair question. Val gave him points for picking up on an apparent contradiction. “She wanted something in return. She expected me to tell her what I learned about my grandfather’s guests.”

  “Two Nancy Drews working together, huh? And now there’s just one.”

  Val didn’t know what to say. Was he mocking her, warning her of danger, or accusing her of offing Nancy Drew?

  A young woman came into the café, wearing a red bandanna on her head and a long T-shirt over knee-length black leotards. She looked around.

  Val stood up. “Excuse me. I’ll deal with this customer and come back.” She maneuvered between the bistro tables and checked her step when she noticed the customer’s eyebrow and lip piercings.

  Musclewoman must think hiding her biceps and her purple forelock would make her unrecognizable. She stared over Val’s shoulder at the corner table, pivoted, and hightailed it out of the café.

  Val turned around, wondering if the woman had recognized one of the deputies. Both had their backs to the café entrance. Their uniforms alone might have frightened off the woman. Val’s small lingering doubt that musclewoman had planted a worm in the café disappeared. Val returned to the table in a better mood. The deputies had spared her from another dirty trick. They wouldn’t be here together unless they were treating the murders in two different jurisdictions as possibly related.

  She might as well lead them in the right direction. “The day before yesterday, Junie May said Lillian Hinker and Omar Azamov had the best chance to poison Scott’s chowder. She even suggested they might have been working together. She was going to research those two.”

  “How would you have reacted if her research turned up something that incriminated your grandfather?”

  “I’d have told her she was wrong. One thing I wouldn’t have done is insist she was murdered. I’d have been happy for the police to assume she committed suicide.”Gotcha there, Holtzman.

  He sneered. “But if you knew we’d find out it was murder, you would say it wasn’t suicide, hoping we’d take that as a sign of your innocence . . . or your grandfather’s.”

  Roy Chesterfeld looked askance at his colleague. The mental contortions Holtzman went through to pin crimes on Val didn’t surprise her. He’d done it while investigating the previous local murder, but now he had even less reason to suspect her.

  She returned his fixed stare. “Unlike the last time you and I sat across the table from each other, you won’t find my fingerprints or DNA at the crime scene.”

  “So you’ve never been in her house. Did your grandfather ever visit her?”

  Val stiffened. They wouldn’t have asked that question without a reason to suspect Granddad. She looked hard at Deputy Chesterfeld, hoping he hadn’t mastered the poker face. “I don’t think he visited her. Do you have evidence my grandfather was at Junie May’s house?”

  Roy Chesterfeld looked down and said nothing, an obvious tell. What could the deputies have found there belonging to Granddad? What would they collect as evidence? Fibers. Hair.

  She stared at Holtzman’s shaved head. “My grandfather sheds strands of white curly hair everywhere. His bathroom is next to his bedroom on the main floor. It served as the guest bathroom for the chowder dinner. Anyone could have gone in there and collected a few samples of his hair to plant later. In the last few days, he’s visited Lillian’s apartment and Thomasina’s cottage. He probably shed hair in both those places too.”

  Chesterfeld winked at her.

  Holtzman glowered. “Did your grandfather know you were planning to visit Ms. Jussup?”

  “I talked to him at four yesterday and told him I’d be late for dinner because I was meeting her.”

  “Did you tell him where you were going to meet her?”

  Val hesitated long enough to replay the brief conversation she’d had with her grandfather and, from the look on Holtzman’s face, to arouse suspicion. “No.”

  For the next fifteen minutes, Holtzman quizzed her about Lillian and the other guests at the chowder dinner. Val told him what she knew without saying she’d spent the last three days digging it up. Roy Chesterfeld threw in a few questions about Junie May’s relationship with Scott.

  Holtzman cautioned her on his way out of the café not to talk about what she’d seen at Junie May’s house. “People know she’s dead, thanks to the media. We don’t want to announce how she died yet. We’re having trouble reaching her only relative.”

  A minute after the deputies left, Bethany arrived to take over the café until closing time. She wore a body-hugging dress in a leopard-spotted print.

  “I’ve never seen that dress before. Something new?” Clothing to match the caveman diet?

  “Uh-huh. I didn’t think the flowered apron would go well with it, so I bought this too.” Bethany held up a black apron with a reptile skin pattern. “Do you want any help coming up with questions for the Brain Game?”

  “I’ll manage the questions, but I could use help at the session. You really worked well with the people at your pet-a-pet visit. Can you meet me at the Village before the Brain Game?”

  “Okeydoke. Did you hear about the newscaster who died?” At Val’s nod, she continued. “She was at your grandfather’s dinner, like the man who was poisoned. That’s scary. It’s like that Agatha Christie where people die one by one until—”

  “I know the ending.” And the next step in the story—another murder. A chill came over Val. “See you later, Bethany. I’m heading home to work on those trivia questions.” And to tell Granddad about the deputies’ questions.

  When Val arrived home fifteen minutes later, his Buick wasn’t at the curb. As usual, she parked the Saturn at the side of the house. She had to squeeze past a pickup truck encroaching from the neighbor’s half of the driveway. Whoever was visiting Harvey probably didn’t expect another car to pull into the driveway at midday.

  Granddad had left a note that he’d gone fishing. No point in calling him. He always turned off his cell phone while fishing, convinced that if it rang, the big one he was about to catch would get away. She sat at the computer in the study to work on the trivia questions.

  She completed her questions in time to arrive at the Village thirty minutes early for the Brain Game.

  Ned was sitting in a thick-cushioned chair on the front patio and motioned to her. “I got some information about the man who committed suici
de at that other retirement community.”

  Val sat on the chair next to his. “On the Eastern Shore?”

  “Nope. Near Alexandria, Virginia. A place called Spring Lake. The woman here who told me about the suicide put me in touch with her friend who lives there. I got the name of the man who died. Arthur Tunbridge. Here, I wrote it all down for you.” He pulled a slip of paper from the pocket of his plaid shirt.

  Val tucked the paper in her shoulder bag. She’d look up the man online as soon as she had a chance. “When did he die?”

  “Around three or four months ago.”

  Just before Thomasina and Lillian moved here. “That’s helpful, Ned.”

  His dark brows met over his nose. “Yeah, but I couldn’t find out the name of the guy who gave financial seminars at the place. I told your grandfather all that when he called me this morning. Wanted me to go fishing with him. Wish I could have gone, but I had lunch plans with some folks here.”

  Fortunately, Granddad didn’t mind fishing alone. “Did you ask the woman at Spring Lake if she knew Lillian or Thomasina?”

  “She never heard of them. Then I called the main number and said I used to know some people who lived there and wondered if they still did. The gal at the switchboard didn’t recognize their names. She looked them up on old rosters. No Thomasina Weal or Lillian Hinker for the last two years.”

  Darn. “Thanks for checking, Ned.”

  “Course if they were working with a con man, they coulda used aliases. It’s easy to change your name.”

  “But harder to change your face.” A picture beats a thousand aliases. “I may take some photos at the Brain Game. I hope Lillian and Thomasina will be there.”

  “They told me they would be, but a woman who uses an alias may be camera shy.” Ned tilted his head toward the reception area. “There’s Bethany. She looks better in bright colors than animal designs. She gonna help you with the Brain Game?”