Scam Chowder

by Maya Corrigan

  Edith shook her head. “Most of us in cottages don’t bother going to the Village Center to eat. We have to pay extra for a meal plan. It’s included with the apartments because they don’t have full kitchens like we do.”

  “Who are you talking to, Edith?” Thomasina swept into the room in a green silk pantsuit that matched her eyes. “Oh, it’s the temporary Brain Dame, but why are you in the kitchen? Come into the living room.”

  “I was putting the groceries away.” Edith pointed to the items on the table. “I don’t know where to put those things.”

  “I’ll take care of it. I’ve already imposed on you enough for today. Don’t feel you have to stay and do anything else for me.” Thomasina looked pointedly at the living room.

  Translation: Scram, Edith. Did that mean Thomasina wanted to talk to Val in private?

  Edith looked more relieved than hurt. “Call me if you need anything else, Thomasina. Good-bye, Val. Will you run next week’s Brain Game too?”

  Val nodded. “I hope you’ll both come again.”

  Thomasina saw Edith to the door and then whirled around to face Val. “As long as you’re here, I’d like to talk to you about today’s game.”

  “You did well today.”

  “Yes.” Thomasina stroked the mahogany frame of her couch. “Even though I won, I must say that your questions were too sexist.”

  Huh? “What was sexist about them?”

  “Too much sports and science. That favors men, and you saw how few men go to the Brain Game. You should ask about things the women would remember, like songs and movies from the fifties and sixties.”

  In other words, more of what Thomasina knew. She didn’t just want to win. She wanted to win big.

  Val shifted her weight from one foot to the other and longed to sit on the down sofa that had enveloped her the last time she was here. But her mother wouldn’t approve of her plopping down on the sofa uninvited with the hostess still standing. “When I work on the trivia for next week, I’ll keep that in mind. How about if I include questions about cooking?”

  Her hostess grimaced. “That would be sexist the other way.”

  And present a challenge for this week’s winner, judging by her supermarket purchases. Val smiled. “I stopped by here, hoping you would have suggestions for improving the Brain Game, and you did. By the way, did you hear about Junie May Jussup?”

  “I heard she was dead, and nobody’s saying how she died. You know what that means?” Thomasina didn’t wait for an answer. “She committed suicide. It’s always hushed up for the sake of the family.”

  On the other hand, murder made headlines. Zero details plus zero headlines equaled suicide to Thomasina. To Lillian, they equaled murder. She’d assessed Junie May’s character more accurately.

  Val voiced her thought. “Junie May didn’t strike me as suicidal. She enjoyed her work and had good career prospects.”

  Thomasina fingered a silk rose in the arrangement on her sideboard. “None of that matters if you’re unlucky in love. She was crazy about Scott, you know, but he didn’t feel the same way about her. That’s why she murdered him and then committed suicide.”

  Stunned, Val couldn’t speak for a moment. In Junie May’s version of the relationship, Scott had pursued her, not vice versa. That version made more sense to Val, but Thomasina’s idea intrigued her. “How could Junie May have poisoned him? She wasn’t sitting near him.”

  “I don’t think she did it at the dinner. Scott met her beforehand and told her to leave him alone. She poisoned him then. It just didn’t take effect right away.”

  And she just happened to have some arsenic in her purse to do the dirty deed. Val had chalked up Thomasina’s earlier theory about Scott’s murder to a mother distraught over her son’s death, unable to think clearly. The mother’s revised scenario, like the earlier one, was long on fantasy and fuzzy on details. Both resembled B-movie plots.

  “When I came to visit you with my grandfather, you didn’t mention Junie May as someone who might have killed Scott. What changed your mind?”

  “I was in shock then. Scott’s death came soon after a murder attempt on me, and I connected them. Edith and my other friends convinced me I was wrong.” She rubbed a brass samovar on the sideboard as if it were Aladdin’s lamp. “I couldn’t imagine who killed Scott and why, until Junie May died. Then it all fell into place.”

  When the news broke that Junie May had been murdered, Thomasina would have to go back to the drawing board—or the cutting-room floor—to make sense of her son’s death. Would her next scenario involve Junie May poisoning Scott and a hit man shooting Junie May? Illogical to the point of being funny, but also sad. Thomasina was coping with grief in her own way. Her imagination shielded her from the ugly possibility that her son’s swindling may have led to his murder.

  “I won’t keep you any longer, Thomasina. Thank you for your ideas on the trivia questions.” At the door, Val added, “I also want to say again how sorry I am for your loss.”

  By the time Val arrived home, Granddad still hadn’t returned from fishing. She sat at the computer in the study and pulled out the scrap of paper Ned had given her with the name of the man who’d committed suicide. She hoped he’d spelled the name correctly.

  Her phone chimed. She dug it out of her bag and glanced at the display. Gunnar. Her heart did a cartwheel.

  “Hey, Val. I know it’s late to ask, but any chance you can join me for dinner? Nothing fancy, a picnic along the river.”

  “I’ve spent the whole day under a roof. Eating out, as in outdoors, sounds better than a banquet.” And she’d get to listen to his melodic voice instead of the bluster of banquet speakers. “I have some news for you.”

  “I have some for you too.”

  His news might cancel out hers. If he’d decided not to stay in Bayport, no point in telling him about renting Mrs. Z’s house. “What can I bring to the picnic?”

  “Just yourself. I’ll get the food and reserve the best seats on the lawn behind the B & B. Can you meet me there at seven?”

  That would give her time to make dinner for Granddad, assuming he showed up soon. “See you then.”

  Val clicked the phone off and opened a browser window on the computer. She navigated to a page for Washington Post death notices and entered Arthur Tunbridge’s name with a date range from March through May of this year.

  The text of the notice popped up. Val skimmed it. Died April 9, Spring Lake Retirement Community. He’d worked as a restaurant manager in a suburb of Baltimore and, after retiring, volunteered as a mentor to small-business owners. Husband of the late Ann Tunbridge, survived by a daughter, Lucy Tunbridge Azamov, and two grandsons.

  Azamov. Omar’s wife? Val confirmed her guess on Lucy Azamov’s Facebook page, which included photos of Arthur Tunbridge, his son-in-law, and his two grown grandsons.

  If Scott’s swindling drove Omar’s father-in-law to suicide, Omar could have settled the score at the chowder dinner, abetted by Lillian. She hadn’t exactly lied in saying Omar was the son of an old friend if old meant elderly rather than longtime, and Omar might well have called Arthur Tunbridge his father, having lost his own parents decades ago. But what connected Lillian to the old man and to Omar? What tie would be so strong that she would arrange a comeuppance dinner for Scott? Could Junie May have unearthed that link?

  The front door opened. “Val? I’m home.”

  She popped up and met her grandfather in the hallway. His neat plaid sport shirt and tan pants surprised her. She’d expected a fishing vest and cargo pants. “Your note said you were going fishing.”

  “That’s what I did. In Northern Virginia. Fishing for information.” He whipped a folder from under his arm. The gold lettering on it read SPRING LAKE RETIREMENT COMMUNITY.

  Chapter 19

  Granddad held up the Spring Lake folder like a big fish he’d hooked. A current of excitement ran through Val.

  She took the folder. “I was planning to go there tomorrow.”r />
  “Well, I beat you to it. Ned couldn’t find out on the phone if Scott gave financial talks there. Figured I’d do better in person. I pretended I was looking to move there. Had to listen to the sales pitch and tour the place. Then they let me go off on my own and talk to the people living there.” He went into the sitting room.

  Why couldn’t Granddad just tell her what he’d learned? Getting information from him was like trying to reel in something tugging on a line. It took a lot of maneuvering to find out if it was a fish or a waterlogged shoe.

  She followed him into the sitting room and perched on the old tweed sofa. “Did you find anyone who knew about the investment seminars?”

  “Yup, but they couldn’t come up with the name of the guy who gave the talks. Some folks thought his aunt or mother lived in the community. None of them knew her name either.”

  Darn. Just an old shoe. “So your trip was a bust?”

  “Until the last minute. As I was leaving, a man I’d talked to earlier took me aside and said he remembered the financial expert’s name—Freaze.” Granddad raised his palm for Val’s high five. “Scott was the one who bilked an old man of his savings.”

  “And drove him to suicide, according to some people. The pieces are coming together at last.”

  “Thanks to me. You’re not the only detective in the house.”

  “I never claimed to be a detective, but I found out something about the man who committed suicide. He was Omar’s father-in-law.” She waited for Granddad to draw the obvious conclusion. When he didn’t, she spelled it out. “Omar had two reasons to hate Scott. His family lost money they might have inherited if Scott hadn’t swindled it. And Omar’s wife lost her father, who was despondent over the swindle.”

  Granddad didn’t look as elated as she’d expected. He rubbed his chin. “Nobody knew for sure why or even if the man committed suicide.” He headed for the kitchen. “Been a long day. I could use a beer.”

  Val frowned. They’d reeled in a fish, not an old shoe, but now Granddad had thrown it back. Why wasn’t he rejoicing that Omar’s motive for murdering Scott had come to light? Then it dawned on Val. Maybe Granddad was wondering why Lillian had invited Omar to the chowder dinner. Possibly she’d urged him, like Granddad, to confront Scott. There was a chain from Lillian to Omar to his father-in-law to Scott the scammer. Granddad’s girlfriend had kept the links in that chain secret, even after Scott was murdered.

  Val had to give Granddad time to digest Lillian’s deceit. Best to change the subject. She followed him to the kitchen. “I’m going out to dinner. I’ll make you something to eat before I leave.”

  “I already ate. Cars were bumper to bumper going toward the Bay Bridge. I pulled off the road and stopped at a barbecue place until the traffic got lighter.” Granddad took a beer out of the fridge and pried the top off the bottle. “You hear anything about Junie May?”

  “The police have proof she was murdered. They’re keeping it quiet until they reach her next of kin.” Val pulled a tall glass from a cabinet near the sink. “I wonder if Junie May heard the rumors about the man who committed suicide. She might have gone to Spring Lake and discovered that Scott had given seminars there.”

  “Nobody told me about a reporter there, but I didn’t ask.”

  “I can ask tomorrow. I want to go there to show Thomasina’s photo around.” And Lillian’s, but Granddad didn’t need to know that. “People might remember the face even if they’ve forgotten her name.”

  “You need a cover story to get through the guard gate. I’ll go with you and say I want my granddaughter’s opinion before I move in.”

  Val filled her glass with water. How could she show anyone Lillian’s photo if he went with her? “Once we get past the guard and the reception desk, let’s split up. We can talk to more people that way.”

  “Good idea.” Granddad took a swig of beer. “Here’s our cover story. I’m a doddering old guy who doesn’t recall the name of a woman he thinks lived there. That’s why we’re showing folks her picture. We should also ask if anyone remembers a woman falling down the stairs.”

  Val nearly dropped her water glass. A few days ago, he’d made fun of Thomasina’s yarn about being pushed down the stairs. “I thought you didn’t buy Thomasina’s staircase story.”

  “I didn’t buy that her ex-husband’s underworld cronies pushed her down the stairs. But someone who’d lost money to Scott might have figured she was in on the scam and gone after her.”

  “You mean Omar?”

  Granddad shrugged. “His father-in-law could have pushed her too. Or another one of Scott’s victims. Where are you going for dinner?”

  “To Gunnar’s B & B. We’re having a picnic by the river.”

  “He just got an inheritance, and he’s too cheap to take you out? I retired years ago and I can afford to treat Lillian to a restaurant dinner now and then.”

  No point in telling him Lillian could better afford to treat him. Men of his generation didn’t let ladies pay. But by bringing up his finances, Granddad had opened a door for Val to pursue that subject. “Can you afford it? I saw a notice from your bank about an overdraft.”

  Granddad flicked his wrist. “That was a mistake.”

  “A mistake by the bank?”

  “Don’t worry about it. I took care of it. Isn’t it time you started primping for dinner with your cheap boyfriend?”

  Val wouldn’t get any more information from Granddad about the overdraft. “I don’t know about primping, but I’ll change clothes. I’m also going to call the police and tell them what we found out today.” Maybe they’d give up on the idea that Granddad had poisoned Scott. Omar made a much better suspect.

  She went upstairs to her bedroom and pulled out her cell phone. She should tell Holtzman about Omar, but she didn’t have a direct number for him. She phoned Chief Yardley and left a detailed message for him. He’d get the word to the deputy in charge.

  As Val walked up the path to the River Edge B & B, a forty-something man on the front porch hailed her. “You must be Val. Gunnar told me to keep an eye out for a petite woman with fantastic hair.”

  “Hi, I’m Val Deniston.” Gunnar’s ex also had fantastic hair, but a different meaning of fantastic applied to Val’s hair.

  The man came down the porch steps and extended his hand. “I’m Ian Tallifer. I met your grandfather when my wife and I bought the B & B three years ago. How is he?”

  “He’s doing well, thank you.”

  Ian brushed his long hair off his forehead. “I noticed some work going on at his house. Roofing, painting. Fixing it up to sell?”

  “He doesn’t plan to sell anytime soon.”

  “It’s a big house to keep up. How many bedrooms?”

  That question didn’t fall into the category of chitchat. Maybe the Tallifers, or someone they knew, wanted to buy the house. If Granddad had gotten himself in financial trouble, he might welcome an offer. The thought disheartened Val.

  “Four bedrooms on the second floor. One on the main floor.” The B & B owner couldn’t have missed Val’s brusque tone. She’d come to eat dinner, not talk about real estate. “Is Gunnar here?”

  “He’s waiting for you out back.” The B & B owner pointed to the path along the side of the house. “It’s a great evening for a picnic. Enjoy.”

  The lawn behind the B & B sloped down to the river. Gunnar sat in one of the two Adirondack chairs closest to the river, his head of dark hair visible above the back of the chair. The neck of a wine bottle stuck out from a metal bucket on the table between the two chairs, and a large red cooler sat by his feet.

  A refreshing breeze off the river ruffled Val’s hair as she approached the picnic spot. “You snagged the best seats in the house, as promised.”

  He popped out of his chair and gave her a bear hug. “I hope you like prosecco.” He reached for the bottle in the bucket and untwisted the wire around the mushroom-shaped cork.

  “I never met an Italian wine I didn’t like. Are we
celebrating something with that bottle of bubbly?”

  “The two of us together in one place for the first time in three days. That’s worth celebrating.” He eased the cork out of the bottle and took two champagne flutes from the cooler.

  “I’ll drink to that.” He’d counted the days since he’d last seen her—a good sign.

  She sat in the Adirondack chair, leaned back, and savored the moment: the bubbles rising in the glass, the sunlight glinting on the river, and Gunnar’s radiant smile.

  He put a container of crabmeat dip and a tray of miniature bread sticks on the table. “I contacted the Treadwell Players to tell them I’d like to help out in their productions, build stage sets, learn lighting, whatever they needed. They were about to hold auditions for an October production. One of the guys in the company helped me get ready for the audition yesterday.”

  “You auditioned. Something else to celebrate.” She clinked her wineglass against his for the second time. “You’re here less than a week, and your acting career has taken off. Congratulations.”

  “It’ll be a few days before the cast is announced, but I think it went well. Thanks for the vote of confidence.” He twirled the stem of his wineglass. “My ex-fiancée showed up in Bayport this week.”

  What should Val say? I knew that or No kidding? She didn’t like either of those. Having just stuffed a bread stick covered with crab dip into her mouth, she had a third option. “Mmm.” She chewed vigorously and hoped he would keep talking.

  “She’s the one who called me a flake for even thinking of quitting my job and taking up acting.” He downed the remaining wine in his glass. “Now she wants to get back together and won’t take no for an answer. I couldn’t figure out why, until I talked to a friend in Washington. He’d told her about the money I inherited from my great-aunt.”

  Val’s arms and legs felt weightless, a wine buzz reinforced by her joy that he’d rebuffed his ex. “Now you’re a flake with a bank account. That makes a difference.”