Scam Chowder (2 page)

“I'd like to watch the Codger Cook make tonight's meal,” Irene said.

She wasn't above haunting the kitchen to make sure no one besides Granddad went near the stove, but he had enough riding on the Codger Cook hoax that he would keep her out.

“Not much to watch,” Granddad said. “The chowder's just about done. Let's go to the sitting room and dig into the appetizers.”

Val allowed two minutes for everyone to settle down in the sitting room and crept back into the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator and took out the clam liquor, the juice left over after Granddad shucked a hundred clams. He'd taken on the messiest part of making this meal.

Just as Val added the clam liquor to the pots, the doorbell rang. RoboFido barked a few seconds later. She rushed to her hiding place. She sat on her usual step, but this time couldn't hear anyone talking in the kitchen, only the floor creaking.

Someone must have gone into the kitchen while Granddad was occupied greeting new arrivals. Val stiffened, worried that a prying guest would catch her crouched on the staircase. She heard water splashing into the sink and then her grandfather's voice.

“Can I help you with anything, Irene?” he asked.

Luckily, Granddad had found Irene before she found Val.

“I just wanted a drink of water,” Irene said.

Ha.
Irene had spent a minute in the kitchen before turning on the faucet. Doing what?

Val returned to the stove only after she was sure Granddad had maneuvered Irene out of the kitchen. The doorbell rang one more time while Val finished making the chowders. She heard occasional laughter coming from the sitting room. The dinner party sounded as if it had begun well. But with Granddad and Lillian planning to trap a crook, and Irene trying to trap the Codger Cook, it might not end well.

Val turned off the burners and sampled a spoonful of creamy chowder. Good. The cream didn't overpower the taste of the clams. She filled a mug with the light chowder, figuring it would be less popular than the creamy one, and took it up to her room above the kitchen, the same room where she'd slept during the summers she spent here as a child. Intended as the maid's chamber when the house was built in the nineteenth century, the room had direct access to the kitchen, her favorite place.

She took out her cell phone, speed-dialed the house's landline number, and let it ring twice before hanging up to tell Granddad he was on his own. She shifted the cookbooks on the small table in her room to make space for her mug of chowder and James Michener's
Chesapeake.
Then she sat by the window overlooking the backyard and enjoyed the simple flavor of clams and brine. Whatever else happened at the dinner tonight, no one could fault the food.

She finished eating long before she finished thirty pages of
Chesapeake
. Then she went down the staircase to the kitchen. A hum of conversation came from the dining room. With her grandfather's chowder dinner well under way, she could sneak out the back door and go for a walk. She had her hand on the knob when a raised voice came from the dining room.

“Food poisoning! That's what it is.”

Val restrained herself from zooming into the dining room and confronting the accusation head-on. Doing that would expose her grandfather as a liar. To buttress his claim that he'd made tonight's dinner without her help, he'd doubtless told his guests she wasn't home.

She rushed out the back door and ran around to the front of the house. She risked annoying her grandfather by crashing his party. Too bad. He needed her, though he might not know it.

She opened the front door and called out, “I'm home, Granddad.”

No one at the table even glanced at her as she approached the dining room. They all stared at the man with thinning blond hair. He groaned and pitched face-first into the chowder.

Chapter 2

A woman across the table from the collapsed man yelped. “Scott! My poor boy.”

Val rushed to Scott, intent on saving him from drowning in her chowder. She put her hands under his forehead and lifted his head from a nearly empty bowl. Not enough liquid in it to drown him.

He jerked his head, covered his face with both hands, and wiped away the trickles of chowder on his forehead and nose.

Lillian sat at the end of the table and looked askance at the man on her right. The henna-haired woman who'd called him
her boy
came around the table and peered at his face. “What's wrong?”

He looked up at her. “Feel bad, Ma. Sorry.”

Scott's freckled nose made him look boyish, but the creases in his pale face suggested a man in his forties. Val glanced at the tall woman hovering over him and saw a slight resemblance between mother and son.

Junie May gaped at him from across the table. “He might have the flu.”

Irene pushed her chair back from the table. “It's not flu season. Something he ate made him sick.”

Junie May jumped up from her seat. “Where's my purse? I'll call 911. If it's food poisoning, they can pump his stomach at the hospital.” She pounced on a leather bag near the sofa in the sitting room and pulled out a cell phone.

Scott's mother brushed her chin-length reddish hair back from her face. “Don't call an ambulance. Scott has ulcers and other tummy problems. Antacids usually help. I have some at the Village. We'll just go back there.”

Granddad stood up. “
If
he's so sick, Thomasina, he's better off in the hospital. It's faster to drive him straight there than to wait for an ambulance.”

Junie May fingered her antique cameo pendant. “Do you want to go to the hospital, Scott?”

He shook his head.

The reporter screwed up her face and crossed her arms, looking like a brat about to throw a tantrum.

She might have scored some airtime if the Codger Cook's dinner party had ended with an ambulance ride to the emergency room. A woman driving home with her sick son had no news value.

“Well, that settles it.” Thomasina looked down at her son. “I'll drive us back to the Village. You can walk to the car, can't you?”

Scott moaned, clutched his stomach, and nodded.

A dark-haired man directly across from Scott maneuvered swiftly around the table to Scott's chair. “May I help you take him to the car?”

Val had barely noticed the trim, fiftyish man until now. He had to be the guest Granddad's girlfriend had invited at the last minute. Lillian had said his name. Something unusual.
Omar.

Thomasina turned toward her host. “I feel so bad that we ruined your evening.”

Val waited for her grandfather to absolve his guests of blame. When he didn't, she realized why. His plan to trap a crook had failed.
Tummy problems
allowed the rogue to slip the snare.

Scott got to his feet with two people supporting him. He walked with one arm around his mother's shoulder, the other in Omar's grip. The trio moved through the sitting room toward the hall. Scott swayed every few steps, and so did the leather purse hanging from Thomasina's shoulder.

Val and Junie May followed a few steps behind the sick man.

Scott paused in the hall, broke away from the two people supporting him, and rushed into the bathroom. Val winced at the sound of his retching. Granddad, Lillian, and Irene clustered at the archway between the hall and the sitting room.

Scott emerged from the bathroom after a minute or two, saying he felt better. He took deep breaths as if summoning strength and put one foot tentatively in front of the other.

Omar took his arm. “I'll help him into the car, Thomasina, and drive behind you. You may require assistance at the other end.”

Scott pulled away from him and muttered, “No.”

Thomasina gave her son a puzzled look. “Thank you for the offer, Omar. I'll call the aides at the Village to help me if he's still feeling poorly.”

Scott took a step forward, leaning only on his mother. “I can walk.”

Val slipped by them and opened the screen door. Scott stumbled. She reached out, and he grabbed her arm.

Omar sprang toward them. “Allow me to assist.”

Scott's grip on Val's arm tightened. “I'm feeling better. Not much pain. I don't need help.”

Yet he leaned on Val. She was glad Omar walked behind the sick man, near enough to break a fall if Scott's legs buckled.

Junie May shot a video with her smart phone while Val and Thomasina helped Scott into a black sedan parked on the street. Val waited at the curb until Thomasina drove off and then returned to the house, while Junie May stayed on the sidewalk, punching buttons on her phone.

Irene stood by the front door. She smiled at Val without showing any teeth. “All of us ate the appetizers and the salad. Scott was the only one who ate the creamy chowder. That's what made him sick.”

Hard to believe everyone else wanted the light chowder. Given a choice between two types of chowder, most people selected creamy chowder, even in Manhattan, the home of red chowder. Not that it mattered which chowder Scott ate. “Getting sick after eating something doesn't mean getting sick because of it.”

Irene folded her arms. “He was fine until he ate it.”

Val's teeth clenched. “Food poisoning doesn't work that quickly.”

“Don't be too sure of that.”

Irene fancied herself an expert cook after running a tea shop in Bayport until it went bankrupt last winter. If she didn't know how long food-poisoning symptoms took to develop, neither would most other people. She could spread her rumor around town without anyone disputing it.

Junie May came inside. “I hope you don't mind if I drive you home now, Irene.”

“Not at all. I wouldn't want to eat anything else here.” Irene kept her hands firmly against her body as if the walls in the house would infect her.

“I'll just go say good night to the Codger Cook.” Junie May headed to the kitchen, her heels clacking on the wood floor.

The phone in the pocket of Val's cutoff jeans chimed. She excused herself from Irene and went into the study, the front room that the nineteenth-century builder would have called a
courting parlor.

The phone's caller ID displayed Gunnar Swensen's name. Her spirits soared. “Hey, Gunnar. Good to hear from you. Where are you calling from?”

“From the mother of all traffic jams. There was an accident on the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, and I'm stuck on the other side of it. I started driving around dawn and made great time until now. I was hoping to see you tonight, but I think I'll just pull off the road, grab dinner, and wait for the traffic to ease up. That might take a while.”

Though anxious to see him, she hadn't expected him to return from visiting his family in Indiana until tomorrow. And twice in the last few weeks, he'd scheduled visits to Bayport, only to cancel them. This time, with the Chesapeake Bay in sight, he might actually make it. “Do you have a place to stay tonight?”

“The B & B two blocks from you. The one on the water.”

As a tourist town, Bayport usually didn't have unoccupied rooms on a Saturday night in July. If he'd arrived without a reservation, Val would have offered him a spare bedroom here, even though Granddad wouldn't have liked it. He hadn't yet warmed to Gunnar. “You scored a room at the River Edge B & B. Fancy place.”

He laughed. “Not the room I have, the crow's nest, up in the attic. I got a bargain rate by taking it for a week.”

“You'll probably be able to stand up without hitting your head if you stick to the center of the room.”

“I hope so. If I have to stoop for a week, I'll end up your height.”

“Being five-foot-three has its limitations, but I cope with them, and so can you.” Val heard
good nights
coming from the hall and looked out the front windows. Irene and Junie May walked toward a silver compact car. Good riddance.

“How's your cookbook coming along?” Gunnar asked.

“It's more like a cook pamphlet right now. I finished the chapter on appetizers and the one on desserts. I'm just missing the middle. Can we get together tomorrow afternoon?”

“A real estate agent's showing me some places then. Why don't you meet me at the B & B around five-thirty? They have canoes and kayaks for guests. We can go out on the river and talk about how to spend the rest of the evening.”

“Sounds great.”

She hung up. How long would he stay in Bayport this time, and could they really start over as friends? They'd agreed to that in June, after their brief and rocky romance ended. But his absence the last few weeks had left her wondering if he'd lost interest in a friendship.

She followed the aroma of coffee to the kitchen. Granddad, Lillian, and Omar stood in a tight group at the island counter.

The dishwasher, sounding like a waterfall on steroids, drowned out their conversation.

Val approached them and extended her hand to the dark-haired man. “We haven't met yet. I'm Val Deniston.”

He shook her hand. “I am Omar, a friend of Lillian.”

If Omar had a last name, he wasn't giving it up. “Nice to meet you, Omar.” And it would be even nicer if he and Lillian would leave. Val couldn't expect straight information from her grandfather about tonight's dinner if his guests were hanging around. Time to nudge this party to a conclusion. “Junie May and Irene left, Granddad. It's just the four of us for dessert.”

Omar raised his hand as if stopping traffic. “Please, not for me. I have a long drive ahead.”

The wiry Omar didn't look as if he ever indulged in desserts. If he grew a straggly beard, he could pass for a hermit living off vegetation. A well-dressed hermit. His pressed white shirt, though open at the collar, cried out for a tie.

Granddad and Lillian saw Omar out. Val noticed how tidy the kitchen looked. No chowder pots on the stove. No spills, bowls, or glasses on the counter. The dishwasher at full blast. Granddad didn't usually clean up after a meal. Lillian must have done it, but she couldn't have managed it in such a short time without his assistance. Val could never get Granddad to help her clean up. Lillian obviously had more sway with him.

Val cut three slices of Key lime pie. She gave a plate with pie to Granddad and Lillian when they came into the kitchen. “You two go sit down. I'm making decaf coffee for Granddad. Would you like coffee or tea, Lillian?”

“I'll just have water.”

Without hesitating, she opened the cabinet containing glassware, showing how well she knew her way around Granddad's kitchen. She took out a tall glass, filled it with ice, and added tap water.

Val brought the decaf to Granddad, who sat at the head of the table, facing the sitting room. She took her usual spot, the chair to his right. Lillian sat opposite him at the other end of the table. Grandma's chair. Resentment toward the woman taking Grandma's place left a bitter taste in Val's mouth.

Her first bite of the Key lime pie got rid of the bitterness. The pebbly graham cracker crust made the perfect foil for the smooth, sweet-and-tart filling. “I'm eating dinner in reverse tonight. Dessert now, but later I'd like some chowder leftovers.”

“There isn't any leftover chowder. We finished the whole pot of light chowder. As for the creamy chowder—”

“Granddad, I'm not worried about eating the creamy chowder.” She'd tasted it earlier without any bad effects. But Scott had eaten a whole bowl of it, which might make a difference. On second thought, Val would stick with the leftover salad.

Lillian closed her eyes and chewed slowly. “Umm. This is delicious.”

Val opened her mouth to acknowledge the compliment.

Granddad beat her to it. “Thank you. It was easy as pie.”

“Kudos to the chef.” Val raised her plate like a wineglass in a mock toast. “Irene told me that only Scott ate the creamy chowder. I don't understand why. It's usually more popular than other kinds.” Val looked to Lillian for an explanation because Granddad had just stuffed pie in his mouth.

“It was all so confusing. After your grandfather described the two chowders and went into the kitchen to dish them up, I asked who wanted which type of chowder. They kept changing their minds. I couldn't remember who wanted what, so I brought out one of each chowder and asked them to pass the bowls.”

Granddad nodded. “Then they changed their minds again. Irene came into the kitchen to say that she and Junie May wanted a cup of each chowder instead of a bowl of one or the other. I decided to do the same. Irene said we should start with the light chowder because it would be less filling. I left the creamy chowder in the pot so it wouldn't get cold while we ate the light chowder.”

“None of you got around to eating the creamy chowder?”

“When we finished the cups of light chowder, I took them off the table and ladled up the creamy chowder. I was bringing it to the table when Scott said he felt sick.” Granddad chased a piece of pie around his plate with a fork. “Irene said it might be food poisoning. Nobody wanted to eat the creamy chowder after that. We threw out the whole pot in case there was something wrong with it.”

Val lost her appetite. “And now there's no way to prove that there was
nothing
wrong with it.”

Lillian frowned. “We just didn't want to risk anyone else getting food poisoning.”

“Scott didn't have food poisoning.” Val was afraid she'd have to repeat that often in the coming days. “Food-poisoning symptoms don't show up for hours or even days. Something other than the food made him sick.”