Scam Chowder

by Maya Corrigan

  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?”

  Chapter 22

  Val gave Irene the table diagram. “I put down the kind of chowder each person requested and crossed it out if they ended up eating a different type.”

  Irene put an index finger on her own name and pointed to each of the other names. “Yes, that’s where everyone sat. When we first went to the table, your grandfather was in the kitchen and Lillian was going back and forth from the kitchen to the dining room.”

  Now for the key question. “When Lillian started serving, where did she put the chowder bowls?”

  “She put the light chowder by me and the creamy chowder by Thomasina.”

  “But then both of you changed your mind about what kind of chowder you wanted.”

  “Yes. I wanted to try small portions of both chowders. I passed the light chowder to Scott. He set it at Lillian’s place. Thomasina said the creamy chowder looked so rich that her gallbladder might act up and she’d be better off with the light chowder. She passed her bowl to Junie May, and I went to the kitchen to tell your grandfather and Lillian about the change.”

  Val pointed to Junie May’s name on the diagram. “When did Junie May switch to a cup of each chowder?”

  “She called out to me while I was going to the kitchen. By the time I returned to the table, the creamy chowder was in front of Scott.”

  According to Irene’s version of the traveling-bowl tale, her hands never went near Scott’s chowder. No surprise that she would give the story that slant. The surprise was that the creamy chowder had gone to Junie May before it went to Scott. Junie May hadn’t mentioned that to Val, talking instead about who could have poisoned the chowder once Scott had it. Maybe Junie May had poisoned Scott, as Thomasina claimed, but why would she have waited until the chowder dinner instead of doing it when they met for coffee in the afternoon? Possibly because she’d had no chance to slip anything into his coffee. And if she’d poisoned Scott, who had killed her? Thomasina would have had a motive, avenging her son’s death, but wouldn’t she have tried to keep that motive secret? Instead, she’d described a scenario involving Junie May as Scott’s killer.

  Val rubbed her temples, feeling as if she was going in circles. “You saw Scott and Junie May in town on Saturday afternoon. Where and what time?”

  “They were drinking coffee at the Bean and Leaf around four-thirty. Half an hour later, on my way back to the car, I saw them go into the vintage jewelry shop on Main Street.”

  Val remembered Junie May fingering a cameo pendant on Saturday night. Maybe it had come from that shop. The clerk there might remember her and Scott if they’d bought anything or browsed for a while. Val foresaw a trip to the jewelry shop in the near future. She’d enjoy that more than poking through dusty bottles at thrift shops or visiting retirement villages.

  She glanced toward the counter to see if Bethany needed help, but a woman entering the café caught her attention. Petra.

  Val stiffened. “Excuse me, Irene. Gotta see someone.” Or rather, see her out.

  “If you have any other questions, call me.” Irene left a ten-dollar bill on the table.

  Val took it and was about to get up when the spandex-clad Petra maneuvered between the bistro tables toward her. The café’s male customers tracked Petra’s progress with hungry stares.

  Gunnar’s ex sat in the chair Irene had just vacated. “I’ll make this brief. I’ve just spoken to the club manager and taken responsibility for the complaints about the food, the water on the floor, and the bug on the salad. I apologize.”

  Val felt as if she was listening to Petra audition for a part that demanded insincerity. “Is that all you did?”

  “My sister was the one who did everything.”

  Her sister with spiky hair and bulging biceps had certainly planted the worm, but surely Petra had put her up to it, and played some of the other tricks herself. “What about the fish in my car?”

  Petra stared at the wall above Val’s head. “I guess my sister did that too.”

  Val didn’t believe it. “Why would she do all those things?”

  “She thought that by hurting you, she would help me. You’d leave town to avoid the harassment, or you’d lose your job and have to move. Gunnar wouldn’t stay in this Nowhere Ville if you weren’t here. He’d go back to Washington.”

  Val caught sight of Gunnar near the café entrance. He watched them with his arms crossed. “How come you’re apologizing for your sister?”

  “She doesn’t do apologies. Or please or thank you.”

  “She also didn’t cheat on the tennis court.”

  “I took my name off the tennis ladder.” Petra stood up, turned to go, and nearly ran into Gunnar.

  He blocked her. “Did you apologize, Petra?”

  Her parting words didn’t belong in a PG-13 movie.

  Val kept a cork on the happiness bubbling inside her, afraid to let it out after the ups and downs of the last few days. “How did you get involved in this?”

  “When I stopped by here yesterday afternoon and you weren’t here, Bethany told me about the bug in the salad and the water on the floor. I brought in two motion-sensitive cameras. She and I set them up.” He tilted his head toward the counter. “Come on, I’ll show you them and tell Bethany the upshot of our spying operation.”

  He pointed out the two cameras. One looked like a CD player on the food prep counter, the other a tiny eye affixed to the TV on the wall. Val hadn’t even noticed them, though she might have if she’d spent more than a minute near the counter.

  This morning, one camera had caught musclewoman slipping the nutmeg shaker into her pocket, leaving the café, and returning later to put the shaker back. When Gunnar looked at the video, he recognized Petra’s troublemaking sister. With previous arrests for drug possession and theft, she couldn’t afford another run-in with the police. Gunnar coerced Petra into confessing to the club manager and apologizing to Val by threatening to show the police evidence of her sister’s vandalism.

  “Petra isn’t all bad,” he said. “I admire her loyalty to her sister. Too bad I had to exploit that loyalty. I’m sorry you had to go through this, Val.”

  “I still think you should check that shaker for poison.” Bethany waved a pair of tongs. “I used these to pick it up, in case there were fingerprints. They would sew up the case.”

  “Thank you both for your help. The case has gone as far as we need to take it.” Making a case against a murderer still loomed for Val, and with more suspects than for the nutmeg caper.

  “In other good news,” Gunnar said, “Mrs. Z is going to rent me her house for six months. I signed up for an improvisation workshop in Philadelphia this weekend. I’m going to drive up there this afternoon. And I got a part in the Treadwell Players’ October production.”

  “Congratulations!” Val threw her arms around him. He hugged her, lifting her off her feet.

  Granddad cleared his throat. “Where’s my smoothie and when are we leaving for the Village?”

  Val perched on the love seat in Lillian’s tiny apartment, barely denting its firm cushion. Granddad sat in one of the swivel barrel chairs at right angles to the love seat; Lillian was in a matching chair across the coffee table from him. She’d given them tall tumblers of ice water.

  Val put hers on the glass coffee table and plunged into the questions she wanted to ask Lillian. “What led you to become a geriatric care manager?”

  Lillian’s hand clutching a glass of ice water froze on its way to her lips. “Nursing. I became interested in eldercare when I worked as a private-duty nurse. How did you discover I’m a care manager?”

&nbs
p; “Granddad and I visited the Spring Lake Retirement Community. We’re wondering why you didn’t tell us you were the care manager for Omar’s father-in-law.”

  The ice cubes in Lillian’s drink rattled. “I couldn’t tell you without violating a client’s privacy rights.”

  “You also didn’t tell us about Scott’s connection to a man who’d committed suicide.” Val glanced at her grandfather, giving him a chance to say something, but he didn’t. She shifted on the hard cushion, angling herself toward Lillian. “How did you end up here, in the same village where Thomasina lives and where Scott was giving investment seminars?”

  “Coincidence.” Lillian crossed one leg over the other and jiggled her sandaled foot.

  Val remembered from her last visit here that Lillian’s twitching leg betrayed when she was lying. “You didn’t know Scott before you moved here?”

  “I knew of him. Omar told me the name of the man who bilked his father-in-law. When I moved here, I read that same name on notices for an investment seminar.”

  Probably true statements, but also evasive. “I’m surprised you didn’t report Scott to the staff here,” Val said.

  “I couldn’t prove he was dishonest. And any specifics I gave would intrude on Omar’s family’s privacy.” Lillian swiveled her chair toward Granddad. “When you told me that Scott impressed you with his financial expertise, Don, I warned you against giving him any money.”

  Granddad put his glass on the coffee table. “How did we go from a warning to an action? I just wanted to throw a dinner party for friends. It was your idea to invite Scott and pressure him into returning Ned’s money.”

  Val had detected Lillian’s manipulating hand in the chowder dinner from the start. Granddad must have noticed too, though without admitting it to himself . . . until now.

  Lillian thrust out her chin. “You agreed to it, Don. You even invited a reporter who could investigate his scams and put more pressure on him.”