Scam Chowder (4 page)

The woman held up her phone to Bethany, who peered at it and shook her head.

Two middle-aged men in athletic shorts and T-shirts seated themselves at a bistro table that gave them a good view of the woman at the eating bar. Val had often seen those same men pass the café alcove without stopping, but today the place had a new attraction. Unfortunately for them, it didn't last long. A minute after they sat down, the spandex woman left without having ordered anything to eat or drink. They followed her with their eyes. Val sprang up to wait on them before they followed the woman out like a pair of dogs. Bethany apparently had the same idea. She reached the men's table before Val did, explained the daily specials, and took their orders.

Val went back to the counter and made Bethany a lunch no caveman could resist—turkey and fresh fruit salad. She put the platter on the eating bar. “Thanks for taking over, Bethany. Go ahead and have lunch while I make the sandwiches those guys want, but don't keep me in suspense any longer. Who was the tall blonde, and why did you shoo me away when you were talking to her?”

Bethany sat on the stool the woman had vacated. “She thought her fiancé might be here playing tennis. When she asked for him at the tennis desk, Yumiko recognized his name and said the woman who runs the café played tennis with him a few times and might know where to find him. That's you, of course, but Blondie assumed I ran the café because I was behind the counter.”

Val sliced an avocado for the sandwiches. “What's her fiancé's name?”

Bethany leaned across the eating bar as if she had classified information to share. “Gunnar.”

Chapter 4

Val tried to digest the news that Gunnar's fiancée had shown up in the café.

Bethany speared a piece of turkey with her fork and gave Val a sympathetic look. “So you didn't know about his fiancée?”

“Gunnar told me he was engaged and his fiancée called off the wedding.” Now that Val had seen the fiancée, she could understand the regret she'd detected when he spoke of that broken engagement. “What did you say when the woman asked for him?”

“I told her I never met anyone by that name. That's true. Of course, I knew you'd gone out with a man named Gunnar, but I didn't tell her that.”

Val assembled the turkey and avocado sandwiches for the men at the bistro table. “Did she actually say they were engaged?”

“She implied it, and that's why I waved you off. I didn't want you walking into something awkward. But after we got to talking, she said she'd had a disagreement with him. She wanted to patch things up, but couldn't find him. He'd moved out of his apartment in Washington and quit his job. Someone gave her a forwarding address for him, a post office box here in town.”

“So she drove here? Why wouldn't she just phone him or send e-mail if she wanted to reconcile?”

“Maybe she did, and he didn't answer. He's probably avoiding Blondie because he prefers you.”

“Right. He prefers me to a woman with a Miss America body. Her hair is luxurious, blond, and obedient, whereas this”—Val tugged at her unruly curls—“has a mind of its own. Of course I didn't see Blondie's face. What word would you use to describe it?” Val hoped for
hideous,
but would settle for
interesting,
which covered a multitude of flaws.

Bethany squeezed her eyes shut, apparently trying to summon a vision of the woman. “Mouth too small, nose too narrow, eyes too close together, but otherwise she's not bad-looking.”

“Describe that face in one word.”

“Well, um, she's pretty. But you're cute.”

“Cute. For most men, that doesn't cut the mustard, to borrow one of Granddad's phrases.” Val heaped fruit salad on the sandwich platters she'd just made. “The two guys over there didn't come into the café for lunch or for cute. They came in for tall, pretty, and encased in spandex.”

“I've never met Gunnar. Maybe he's different from most men, or maybe Blondie's looking for a different Gunnar.”

“If Bayport has two tennis-playing Gunnars with former fiancées, I'll eat that spandex suit of hers.”

Bethany giggled. “She showed me a photo of Gunnar on her phone. Dark hair, nice smile, crooked nose, and . . . well, he's not exactly handsome. No offense, Val.”

“None taken. My ex-fiancé, total eye candy, cheated on me. I don't look for handsome anymore.” Val delivered the sandwich platters to the two men and went back behind the counter.

Bethany finished her turkey and started on her fruit salad. “Tell me about your grandfather's dinner and why Irene talked about food poisoning.”

Without saying she'd cooked the meal, Val described the dinner and its aftermath.

Bethany put down her fork. “I volunteer at Ambleside Village. I might know the two women who went to the dinner. What are their names?”

“Lillian Hinker, Granddad's girlfriend, and Thomasina Weal, who brought her son with her. He's the one who got sick.”

“Haven't met them.”

“What do you do as a volunteer?”

“I take Muffin there for pet-a-pet sessions. Most of the residents don't have pets, but they love playing with other people's dogs. I'm scheduled to be there tomorrow at two-thirty. I can ask the people who show up if they know Lillian and Thomasina.”

Inside information—just what Val needed. “Can I go with you? I've never been to the Village, and I'd like to look around.”

“You can't fool me. You want to find out about your grandfather's girlfriend. Shouldn't be hard. The people who live at the Village all know each other's business and love to gossip.”

Sweet words. Val perked up as two more bistro tables filled with customers.

Val spent over an hour at the café after closing time, cleaning up and getting ready for breakfast the next day. On the way home, she stopped for groceries. It was after four by the time she steered around the corner onto her street. A cluster of neighbors and strangers stood on the sidewalk near the house and blocked the driveway.

Val's heart lurched. Had something happened to Granddad? She parked in front of a neighbor's house, jumped from the car, and skirted the knot of people blocking her view. Her grandfather stood between the sidewalk and the front porch. No EMTs attending to him, just the media.

Granddad wore his Codger Cook apron and beamed at a camera. Junie May, standing next to him, also faced the camera, but with a more somber expression.

At a nod from the cameraman, she spoke into her microphone. “This is Junie May Jussup outside the Bayport home of Don Myer, also known as the Codger Cook, the recipe columnist for the
Treadwell Gazette.
Mr. Myer, tell us how long you've lived on the Eastern Shore.” She put the mike in front of Granddad.

“My whole life. I left to serve my country in Korea and came right back. I've lived in this house for more than fifty years.” Granddad gestured toward the structure behind him, as if anyone could miss the behemoth Victorian.

Junie May tilted the microphone toward herself. “I'd planned to interview Mr. Myer in this house and tape him cooking in his kitchen. Today we're talking to him for another reason.”

Granddad's grin disappeared faster than the Cheshire cat.

“We have breaking news about a man who was visiting his mother at Ambleside Village, located between Bayport and Treadwell. Early this morning, Scott Freaze went to the Treadwell Hospital emergency room, suffering from severe gastroenteritis. This afternoon, Mr. Freaze passed away in the hospital.”

Val gasped. Granddad's jaw dropped. The neighbors murmured. Val wanted to tear the microphone away from Junie May and hit her on the head with it. Under the guise of publicity for the Codger Cook, she'd lured Granddad in front of a camera, only to ambush him.

Junie May held the mike close. “The unfortunate man ate his last meal at this house, a meal the Codger Cook prepared. I was present at the dinner during which Mr. Freaze became ill. One of the other guests suggested food poisoning as the possible reason for that illness. What's your response to that, Mr. Myer?”

Granddad grabbed the microphone from Junie May, his face red and his jaw set. He looked directly into the camera. “First, let me offer my sympathies to Scott Freaze's mother. No parent should have to suffer losing a child. I am very sorry for your loss, Thomasina.”

Bravo, Granddad.
Val would have applauded, except that she didn't want to attract attention and find herself in front of a camera.

Junie May leaned sideways to talk into the microphone, which Granddad held tight. “I second that sentiment. When we report the news, we get so caught up in the story that we sometimes lose sight of the human pain behind it.”

Granddad stepped away from her, taking the mike with him. “Reporting news is not the same as broadcasting rumors. Now about that rumor you brought up, food poisoning can't explain what happened to that man. Its symptoms take longer to show up.”

Junie May wrenched the mike from him. “That's true of the common foodborne illnesses—salmonella, botulism, and E. coli. But toxic-shellfish symptoms show up much faster.”

Granddad closed the distance between them and bent toward her microphone. “I've been eating critters that come in shells for seventy years. Never got sick. Never heard of anyone dying from eating them.”

Junie May nodded. “Improper handling can make fish toxic, but you're quite right. Death from shellfish poisoning is rare.”

Val wondered if she'd heard right. She'd expected a “gotcha” from the reporter, not support for Granddad. But maybe Junie May was trying to lull Granddad before dropping another bombshell.

“According to our local food expert”—Junie May nodded toward Granddad without a trace of sarcasm in her voice—“Scott Freaze couldn't have died from the chowder he ate last night. Then how did he die? What killed him? The doctors must have some idea, but haven't released that information. I can only tell you what I
saw.
Shortly after Scott Freaze died, the police arrived at the hospital.”

The onlookers gasped. Granddad's eyes bugged out.

Harvey, Granddad's sixtyish next-door neighbor, grabbed Val's elbow. “She shouldn't shock an old man like that. And some rubbernecking tourists trampled on my flower bed. Can't you get rid of those TV folks, chase them off the property?”

They would just decamp to the public sidewalk. Val fingered her car keys and fob. Maybe she could get Junie May to leave on her own. “I'm going to set off my car alarm, Harvey. If you turn on yours too, they might not be able to record good audio.” Val pointed the fob toward her car and pressed the red button. Her car emitted raucous beeps.

Harvey reached into his pocket.

Junie May stared straight at the camera. “That noise you're hearing is someone's car alarm going off. Let's get Mr. Myer's reaction to the news—” She broke off as a series of whoops, beeps, and reverberating chirps came from Harvey's driveway, which abutted Granddad's. Junie May's mouth moved, but no one could hear her over the din. She turned toward the cameraman and made a throat-slitting gesture with her index finger. He lowered his camera.

Val caught Granddad's eye and waved her car keys at him. He gave her a thumbs-up. He fumbled under his apron, pulled out his keys, and discreetly aimed his fob at the Buick parked in front of the house. His car emitted a shrill wail. The cameraman near the Buick and most of the bystanders covered their ears.

Granddad disappeared into the house. End of interview. The audience dispersed.

Junie May and the cameraman drove off, leaving only Val and Harvey on the sidewalk.

Harvey silenced his car. “That was fun.”

Val had never before heard him say anything was fun. Most of the time, he complained. “Thanks for helping, even though car alarms get on your nerves.”

“I hate pushy people with cameras even more than I hate car alarms. Just don't set off your alarm at midnight, like you did in June.”

He probably knew the exact date she'd done it. “Aye, aye, sir.” She saluted and went inside. Like her father, Harvey had retired from the navy.

Granddad sat in the easy chair facing the bookshelves near the fireplace. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, his eyes downcast. “Scott's dead. What a disaster.”

“He didn't fake his sickness after all. Why did you think he did?” Her grandfather had avoided answering that question the last time she asked it.

“He was a pro at faking, as crooked as a barrel of fish hooks. Ned invested with him. Now he'll never get his money back. And it's all my fault.”

Val sank into the worn tweed sofa and folded the Codger Cook apron he'd left there in a heap. “I'm sorry Ned lost money on an investment, but how is it your fault?”

“He expected a nest egg from selling his house. He heard Scott's spiel and wanted my advice on investing with him. We checked Scott's business references. He sounded legit, so I told Ned to go ahead.”

“What made you change your mind about Scott?”

“Lillian heard a man lost his life savings after investing with him. Ned doesn't know that. I didn't want to tell him without first trying to get his money back.”

That explained why Granddad had left his buddy off the guest list for last night's dinner. “How were you going to get Scott to give the money back?”

“Shame him into returning it. I figured with a newswoman here and his mother, he'd knuckle under and write a check to prove he'd done nothing wrong.”

“Since when does a con man have shame? Why not report him to the police?”

“A fraud investigation might tie up Scott's money. I planned to go to the police, but not until after I got Ned's investment back.” Granddad sighed. “With Scott dead, I don't know how to get that money.”

“Ned should see a lawyer about that. You did what you could for him, Granddad.” And wound up in a bad spot. He looked so despondent that Val wanted to cheer him up. “How about a piece of leftover pie?”

“I'm not hungry.”

If sweets wouldn't improve his mood, maybe flattery would. “You handled the food-poisoning issue well during that interview and put Junie May in her place.”