Free Scam Chowder by Maya Corrigan

money.”
    â€œDon’t count on it,” Gunnar said. “A smart financial crook would deposit investor checks in a business account and then wire the money to an offshore tax haven. Untraceable. Untouchable.”
    Val saw a glimmer of hope. “The money’s out of reach unless the accomplice murdered Scott, gets caught, and agrees to restitution as part of a plea deal.”
    Granddad grunted. “Let’s hope for that . . . and world peace while we’re at it.”
    She stood up. “Time for dessert. You can have today’s chocolate chunk cookies or yesterday’s Key lime pie.”
    Gunnar opted for pie and her grandfather for a bit of both. Granddad’s order reminded Val of Irene asking for some of each chowder. Did requesting a bit of both at the chowder dinner save others from poisoning, or did the poisoner wait until Scott’s bowl was in front of him? The autopsy wouldn’t answer that question, nor would any evidence from the kitchen, where the dishwasher had sanitized the bowls.
    After dessert, Gunnar insisted on loading the dishwasher and scrubbing the pots, saying the cook shouldn’t also have to clean up. No wonder his gorgeous former fiancée wanted him back.
    Val dried the pans. “What are you doing tomorrow?” She hoped he wasn’t planning to get together with a “friend” from Washington.
    â€œFishing in the morning. You want to play tennis in the afternoon?”
    She nodded. “Late afternoon. I’ll reserve a court for four-thirty.” That would give her plenty of time to get back from the pet-a-pet session at the Village.
    With the kitchen cleanup done, they joined Granddad in the sitting room.
    He was inserting a disc into the DVD player. “A day like this should end with Casablanca. It reminds you that your problems don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world.”
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    The next morning, after Bethany arrived at the café to work, Val drove to the police station, a converted farmhouse at the edge of Bayport. She took the extra muffins she’d baked that morning into police headquarters.
    On her previous visits here, the building had hummed with town police and sheriff’s deputies working on solving a murder. Today the reception area was quiet.
    The calm before the storm?
    While waiting to see the chief, she paced in the reception area and rubbed her bare arms to stay warm. She’d forgotten how cold the building was. It didn’t house a morgue, but if it did, the bodies would stay sufficiently fresh with no extra refrigeration needed.
    Barrel-chested Chief Yardley greeted her with a smile and an outstretched hand. “Good to see you again, Val.”
    â€œSame here, Chief.” She held out a sturdy paper plate piled with muffins. “I brought you some leftovers from the Cool Down Café.”
    He took the plate. “If this is a bribe, I’m taking it.” He started down the hall leading to his office.
    â€œCan we sit outside?” She remembered the bench under the trees behind the police station as more comfortable than the metal guest chair in his office. “I’d like to enjoy the last of the perfect weather. Hot and humid are coming back later today and staying awhile.”
    He pivoted toward the door leading to a fenced yard. For a large man in his fifties, he walked with a light step. “I saw your granddaddy on the news last night. How is he holding up with all this business about the chowder dinner?”
    â€œHe’s upset, but managing.”
    The chief led the way to a shady bench. “What’s he doing this morning?”
    â€œSitting at my computer at home, typing with two fingers. Monday’s his deadline for submitting recipes for the Codger Cook column. It usually takes him most of the day.”
    â€œHe sure never cooked when your grandmother was alive. I’m amazed he goes into the kitchen with you there.”