Scam Chowder

by Maya Corrigan

  Val went into the kitchen. Cooking something sweet would calm her. She set the ingredients for chocolate chunk cookies on the counter. Creaming butter and sugar usually put her into a trance powerful enough to take her mind off any troubles, at least temporarily. Not today. As she stirred in the chocolate chunks, one problem after another intruded on her thoughts. Gunnar’s glamorous ex-fiancée arriving to claim him back. A man getting sick and dying after eating in this house. A possible police inquiry into that man’s death.

  She dropped the dough by spoonfuls onto the cookie sheet. She’d take some cookies to Gunnar later at his B & B. Did his former fiancée bake cookies? She couldn’t possibly consume them and keep that svelte figure . . . unless she was one of those women who ate with abandon and didn’t gain weight. If so, Val would envy the woman’s metabolism more than her height or hair.

  Val paddled vigorously to work off the cookies she’d eaten. Gunnar, the stronger paddler, sat behind her in the canoe’s stern. He saw only her back, as she’d seen his ex-fiancée’s back this morning, but what a different view. Instead of black spandex, Val wore khaki Bermuda shorts and a white tank top. Instead of upswept intricate braids of hair, she had whorls and spirals pointing in different directions.

  Sitting tandem wasn’t conducive to conversation. Gunnar talked about his plans to study acting, now that he’d quit his job in favor of part-time self-employment. As they paddled between the river’s tree-lined banks, his voice washed over her like a melody, smooth and seductive, with a depth that suggested something dark. He’d never make a handsome leading man, but he could play the tragic hero.

  Just short of the bay’s open water, Gunnar laid his paddle in the canoe with a thump. “Forget paddling. Let’s drift for a few minutes.”

  She took her paddle out of the water and turned around in her seat to face him. Her pulse kicked up at his smile. Over the last few weeks, she’d forgotten how that smile affected her.

  Had his ex tracked him down? Val didn’t want to bring up the subject, but maybe he would if she coaxed a bit. “How was your day? Any surprises?” Not exactly a subtle question.

  “No surprises. I spent most of the day with the real estate agent. I asked to see small houses where I could have room for an office and living space.”

  “You’d know how to deduct a home office.” With his accounting background and his former job with the IRS, he probably knew the tax code inside out. “Did you see anything you liked?”

  He looked past her toward the wide expanse of the bay. “She showed me two places for sale that would work well, a small bungalow and a Cape Cod on side streets. But a rental would make more sense for me.”

  A change of plans? “Because you’re not sure you’ll stay in Bayport?”

  “For the first time in my life, I don’t have a safe job tying me down. I can open an accounting practice anywhere. Is this the right place to live if I also want to take up acting?”

  “I asked you that question last month.” He’d responded then with a firm yes. Where had that firmness gone? Maybe the slinky blonde had given him a reason to return to Washington. “You already miss life in the big city?”

  “The pace here suits me better. I don’t know whether anything else will pan out for me here. The business venture, the acting, and the”—he leaned forward and locked eyes with her—“the friendship.”

  That depended on how committed he was to just a friendship. Did he now want more than that? Did she? “You can’t know how anything will work out unless you give it a try.”

  He put his paddle in the water. “Trying means renting, not buying a house.”

  She couldn’t fault his commitment phobia when she suffered from it herself. “Six months ago, when I walked out on my life in New York and came here, I wouldn’t have bought a place either. Fortunately, my grandfather had room for me.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “He’s fine physically, but otherwise iffy. It’s a long story. I can turn around in my seat and go back to paddling, or I can tell you the story.”

  “Clever ploy to get out of paddling. Okay, you talk while I power us back to the B & B.”

  She told him what happened at the chowder dinner, leaving out her role in preparing the food. He assumed, like everyone else except Irene, that the newspaper’s recipe columnist could actually cook. While she talked about the allegations of food poisoning, Gunnar paddled rhythmically and listened without comment.

  His paddle slowed when she mentioned the financial scam. “What’s this con man’s name? I’ll try to do some research on him.”

  “Scott Freaze.” Val spelled the name.

  “Great-Aunt Gretchen nearly fell for a scam like that. Luckily, she asked my advice before she handed over any money.”

  Back in June, when Val questioned Gunnar’s honesty, she’d doubted the existence of that aunt and the inheritance he’d received from her. “Your aunt went to the right person for advice. My grandfather advised his friend Ned to invest with the scammer, and may have even invested money himself.”

  “People who target the elderly are bottom-feeding lowlifes, almost as bad as child abusers.” Gunnar wielded the paddle with a vigor that splashed up water. “Older people are easy marks for cons. They grew up when crime was rare. They respect authority, trust people, and want to please them. All those good qualities make them vulnerable.”

  “If all fraud victims respect authority, trust others, and try to please, I can rest easy.” Val stretched out her legs. “Granddad doesn’t have any of those traits.”

  Gunnar grinned. “You’re hard on him. Those aren’t the only traits of con victims. They also like to feel special and score a bargain.”

  “Now you’ve described Granddad. He always wants something for nothing. But I’d be surprised if he fell for a too-good-to-be-true scheme.”

  “Maybe he didn’t. Safe investments these days don’t pay as well as they used to. Your grandfather and his friend probably remember making ten percent on CDs. If the con man promised a return like that, they’d have less reason to suspect fraud.”

  Val hoped Gunnar’s knowledge of financial scams encompassed how to recover from them. “How can a victim of investment fraud get the money back?”

  “It’s hard to prove financial fraud because it can look like bad investment advice. You can’t put someone in jail or demand restitution for that.”

  “Even if it happens over and over?”

  “A pattern of rip-offs would strengthen the case, but older people make bad witnesses because of their poor memory for details. Most of them don’t even tell anyone they’ve lost money. They’re ashamed or afraid their children will take over the purse strings.”

  Maybe Granddad had said his friend made a bad investment to avoid admitting he’d done it himself. Val made a mental note to talk to Ned. “You’re not cheering me up, Gunnar.”

  “Would a dinner at the Tuscan Eaterie cheer you up?”

  Val had gone there when the restaurant first opened and had left unimpressed, but maybe by now the chef had gotten his act together. She’d like to give it another try. “Yes, it would cheer me up, but I’d rather not leave Granddad by himself tonight. He’s had a rough day.” Gunnar’s B & B came into view, a two-and-a-half-story Colonial with wings, one of the larger riverfront dwellings. “Why don’t you eat with us? Nothing fancy.”

  He fingered his cargo shorts. “Does that mean I won’t have to change clothes?”

  “If you change into a tux, we’ll do a Downton Abbey dinner. Otherwise, shorts and a T-shirt are fine.”

  He maneuvered the canoe toward the shore and climbed out where the water was only knee high. “Stay in your seat. I’ll tug the canoe onto land.”

  Once she climbed from the canoe, they turned it upside down, next to the kayaks.

  She pointed toward the top floor of the B & B. “You must have a good view if you’re in the room with dormer windows.”

  “My window is on the front, facing the parking area.
The view’s not bad as long as I don’t look down. Above the trees, I can see the turret on your grandfather’s house.”

  As they walked from the B & B to the house, Val talked about her mother’s concern that Granddad had fallen for a gold digger. “The woman he’s seeing, Lillian Hinker, is younger than he is, good-looking, and in great shape.”

  “Your mother’s afraid of a sweetheart scam. A lot of old, and not so old, people fall for that one.”

  She winced. “You missed your cue. You were supposed to tell me not to worry about Lillian.”

  “For years I tracked down the proceeds from criminal activities. You expect me to restore your faith in human nature?” He squeezed her arm. “I’ll try. Women are usually the targets in sweetheart scams, not the culprits. Scams are the exception, not the rule. Widows and widowers often find mates who make them happy. How’s that for upbeat?”

  “I’m hungry for good news. I’ll take whatever crumbs I can get.”

  “Who else was at the dinner besides Lillian, Scott, and your grandfather?”

  “In order, from oldest to youngest. Scott’s mother, Thomasina Weal, from the retirement village. A local woman, Irene Pritchard. Omar, a mystery man Lillian added to the guest list just before the dinner.” Val ticked the guests on her fingers. “Junie May Jussup, a reporter for the Salisbury television station.”

  “The name sounds familiar. I must have seen her on the TV. Thin, late thirties, straight dark hair?”

  “That’s Junie May.” Val peered down the street as they rounded the corner. Granddad’s car wasn’t parked in front of the house. “My grandfather’s not back yet. When he comes home, don’t say anything about the scammer or Lillian or my concerns about his money. Let’s just keep it light.”

  “I’ll check his video collection for a frothy film we can all watch.”

  “He’s mostly into Hitchcock and film noir. You’d think, with all the femme fatales he’s seen on the screen, he would have his guard up.”

  “Few men can resist an ego-stroking beauty.”

  The voice of experience? Val heard his rueful tone and saw the grim set of his mouth, maybe because she wanted to hear and see them.

  They went inside the house and browsed for movies. Granddad’s collection, the stock from the video store he used to run, filled half the shelves flanking the fireplace in the sitting room.

  The hall phone rang. Val hurried to answer it and glanced at the caller ID. The Bayport Police. Her heart leapt into her throat. She had visions of Granddad in a smashed-up car.

  “Hello, this is Val Deniston.”

  “Val, it’s Chief Yardley. How’re you doing?”

  She relaxed. Earl Yardley wouldn’t make small talk if anything had happened to her grandfather, his childhood mentor. “I’m fine, and how are—”

  “Your granddaddy there?”

  The abrupt change in tone startled Val. The chief usually got what he wanted by letting a conversation develop rather than forcing it. “He should be home soon. Can I give him a message?”

  Silence on the line. “Yeah, maybe it’s better if you tell him. It’ll be less of a shock.”

  Val’s muscles tensed. “Tell him what?”

  “One of his dinner guests, Scott Freaze, died.”

  “Granddad knows that.”

  “The death looked suspicious to the doctor at the hospital. There’ll be an autopsy to determine the cause.”

  Val suppressed a groan. “What does the doctor suspect?”

  “Something toxic.”

  Chapter 6

  Val held the phone in a white-knuckled grip. Until the chief called, she’d clung to the belief that Scott had died of a natural cause, a rogue virus or bacteria. “What kind of toxin?”

  “No one knows for sure until the autopsy results are in. Meantime, I’d like to talk to your granddaddy about the guests at his chowder dinner.”

  The guests and probably the food too. “How about talking to me first, Chief? There are some things you should know that Granddad might not tell you.”

  “I’ll be in my office at the station tomorrow morning. Stop by. It’ll be like old times.”

  Those times were only a month old. She’d bugged him repeatedly in June, trying to refocus his murder investigation on someone other than the obvious suspect. “Let’s hope it’s nothing like old times. See you tomorrow, Chief.” She hung up.

  She phoned Bethany and asked her to work at the café in the morning. Bethany agreed to come in at ten and stay as long as necessary.

  Val put the phone down and looked through the screen door. Her grandfather climbed out of his white Buick, carrying a plastic grocery bag. She rushed out and met him on the sidewalk in front of the house. “You’ve been gone awhile.”

  “I didn’t want to miss my interview on the evening news. Lillian and I watched it at her place. How did I look on TV?”

  “I wasn’t here to watch the news.” She saw her grandfather’s face fall. “Sorry. I saw most of the interview live. Did they cut anything?”

  “Only the cars honking.” He started up the path to the house. “Lillian said the camera didn’t get me from my best angle. Next time, I’ll stand on the other side of the interviewer.”

  May that next time be a long way off. “Did you get a chance to talk to Thomasina?”

  “There was a please-don’t-disturb note on her door. I can understand that.”

  Val eyed his plastic bag. “You went to the supermarket.”

  He stopped walking and planted his feet like a warrior defending a stronghold. “Do you know how long it’s been since I had a nice piece of rare beef?”

  “Well, I haven’t cooked any for you since February.” After moving in with Granddad, she’d followed her mother’s directive to reduce his red-meat intake. “But you’ve gone to restaurants and eaten with friends since then. You must have tasted beef in the last six months.”

  “Not as good as this.” He held up the bag. “Tenderloin tips. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it too, as a change from white meat and fish. There’s plenty for both of us.”

  “I invited Gunnar to dinner. He’s in the sitting room checking out your video collection.”

  Granddad rolled his eyes. “I thought he was gone for good. Well, I’m not giving up my beef. Go out for dinner with him . . . after you cook the steak.” He climbed the three steps to the porch.

  “I can stretch the meat you bought by making a stir-fry.” She had plenty of vegetables to add to it. “With rice and a salad, we’ll have enough for three.”

  “Hmph.” He turned around and looked up and down the street. “Where’s his little red car, the mini-otter. Did he get rid of it?”

  “The Miata is parked at River Edge B & B, where he’s staying. We walked from there.” Val locked arms with her grandfather. “A stir-fry requires a lot of slicing and chopping. You and Gunnar can help me.”

  Meanwhile, she’d figure out how to tell Granddad about the autopsy without upsetting him too much. Bad news goes down better over a good meal.

  Granddad suggested they eat at the picnic table in the backyard. Val nixed the idea, using mosquitoes as an excuse, and set the table in the dining room. Though sitting there would remind her grandfather of the chowder dinner, the joy of eating beef might counterbalance the bitter taste left by last night’s meal.

  He took his usual place at the head of the large mahogany table, with Val on his right and Gunnar on his left. Val tried a piece of beef. Perfect. Granddad couldn’t complain about chewy beef. She’d taken extra care not to overcook it, easy to do with a stir-fry.

  Gunnar dug into his food. “This tastes really good, Val.”

  Granddad nodded. “Almost as good as a grilled steak.”

  “A question for you, Mr. Myer. With all the great movies in your collection”—Gunnar pointed with his thumb toward the video shelves in the sitting room—“why are you keeping the ones on your top shelf? Most of them are mediocre and some are terrible, like The Shrimp on the Barbie.”
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br />   Granddad nodded. “That one is so bad it’s almost good. It’s part of my Alan Smithee collection.”

  Val didn’t recognize the name of the movie or the man. When she cleaned the top shelves, she always used an extender on her dust mop. Without a ladder, she could barely see the titles up there and never bothered to read them. “Who’s Alan Smithee?”

  “The award winner for the most films directed by a person who doesn’t exist,” Gunnar said.

  Granddad laughed and glanced at Val. “You don’t get it? Has to be the first time you don’t know trivia that two other people know.”

  Finally something that Granddad and Gunnar had in common—the movies. “Who’s going to explain this private joke to me?” With her grandfather chewing, she looked toward Gunnar for an answer.

  “Alan Smithee is the pseudonym directors use to disown films after someone takes over and messes them up. Suppose you started cooking a meal, and somebody else finished it. If it turned out good, you’d want the credit. If it turned out bad, you wouldn’t want the blame.”

  Val exchanged a look with Granddad. Neither of them wanted the blame for last night’s fiasco. “So Alan Smithee appears on the credits instead of the real director’s name?”

  Gunnar picked up his wineglass. “Exactly. It’s an anagram of the alias men. The Directors Guild allows an alias in the credits only if someone else’s fingers got in the pie—a producer, an actor, or a second director.”

  And whose fingers had gone near Scott’s chowder bowl? Depending on the autopsy results, the police might ask that question, and Granddad needed a ready answer. She’d better tell him the news about the autopsy before he and Gunnar became wrapped up in cinema trivia.

  She speared a piece of broccoli. “Chief Yardley phoned while you were out, Granddad. There’s going to be an autopsy on Scott Freaze to determine the cause of his death. They think he might have been poisoned.”

  Gunnar’s blue-gray eyes widened.