Death by French Roast

by Alex Erickson

  “Great!” I said, surprised at how easy it was to convince him to help, though, I supposed after Vicki’s comments, I shouldn’t have been. “I’ll be here.”

  Paul rose and headed to the restrooms on the other side of Death by Coffee. The moment he was gone, Vicki appeared, a question in her eye, as well as on her lips.

  “Well?”

  “Well what?” I asked. “He’s going to help me with an interview.”

  “Just like that?” I could tell by her smile, what she really meant was, “I told you so.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said, finishing off my coffee. I didn’t have time to scoop out the soggy cookie, which was a shame. It was often the best part. I settled on tipping back the cup and sliding what little I could into my mouth before rising and tossing the remains away.

  “Mason and I are going to be going on a double date with Charlie Yow and his wife next weekend,” Vicki said, following me over. “You should come and bring Paul. We’d love to have you.”

  “We’d be imposing,” I said. Charlie was Mason’s best friend and had been his best man at the wedding. He’d walked me down the aisle, but otherwise, I didn’t know much about the man.

  “You know that’s not true. Mason told me to invite you, even if you had to come alone. He said he could always hook you up with one of his friends if need be, but now that you’re actually going out with Paul, there’ll be no need.”

  “I’m not going out with him,” I said. “We’re going on a date.”

  Vicki rolled her eyes. “Ask him. Next weekend. It starts at seven.”

  “I’ll ask,” I said. “But I can’t promise he’ll want to come.”

  “He will.” And with that, she spun and headed back behind the counter.

  Paul returned then and scooped up his hat. “Ready?”

  I regarded Vicki a moment before answering with a distracted, “Yeah.”

  We left Death by Coffee and got into Paul’s cruiser. It felt strange riding in the front of a police car rather than the back, but it would make our visit to Arthur Cantrell feel a little more official. I pulled up Arthur’s address on my phone, showed it to Paul, and then sat back for the ride.

  “I was thinking about Geraldo’s for tonight,” Paul said after a few minutes on the road.

  “Geraldo’s?” I asked, surprised. I kind of thought he’d take me to one of his favorite places to eat: J&E’s Banyon Tree. It wasn’t fancy, but he found it comforting. Then again, with my history there, it was no wonder he’d found an alternative.

  “Is that okay? I haven’t been there yet and have heard good things.”

  “Yeah, it’s great. I really like the food.”

  “Good.” He smiled. “A part of me was afraid you might not like it.”

  Not like it? I was through the roof he was taking me to the nicest place in town. Of course, now, I was going to have to plan on something a little more elegant to wear.

  I spent the rest of the ride planning my outfit, mentally dismissing every single one that came to mind. I wasn’t a dress-up kind of woman, which only made it harder. Give me jeans and a T-shirt and I’m good. Ask me to wear a dress, and I suddenly feel awkward and a little like a fraud.

  Paul pulled to a stop in front of a small house just outside of town. A stack of firewood leaned dangerously near the steps. It looked like a stiff breeze could blow it over. It appeared as if the wood had sat there for years; it was almost gray in hue.

  “This is it,” Paul said, getting out of the car. “You ready for this?”

  I nodded, nervous. Paul had yet to meet Arthur Cantrell, but I had, and none of those interactions had been pleasant. Now that I was here, I was questioning the wisdom of asking him about Wade’s murder, even with a cop in tow.

  Paul led the way to the front door and knocked. I was happy to let him take the lead. I stood behind him, hoping I’d be invisible if and when Arthur answered.

  It took a few long seconds before the door banged open and Arthur Cantrell peered out at us. His gaze slid right over Paul and landed on me, as if it had been drawn there. When he saw me meekly hiding behind Paul, he scowled.

  “What do you want?”

  I’d hoped Paul would speak up and draw Arthur’s ire away from me, but instead, he looked at me expectantly.

  It was my investigation, I supposed, but still, I didn’t like being thrust into the spotlight, even if it was my own doing. “I have a few more questions I’d like to ask you about Wade Fink, Mr. Cantrell. Can we come in to talk?”

  “You brought a cop?” His gaze flickered to Paul, then back to me.

  “He drove me over,” I said, smiling for all I was worth. Maybe if I was nice enough, some of it would rub off on Arthur. “I just need a few minutes.”

  Arthur’s eyes narrowed briefly before he sighed, shrugged, and then turned and walked away, leaving the door hanging open.

  “I guess that’s your answer,” Paul said. He sounded mildly amused. “Seems like a nice guy.”

  “He’s a barrel of laughs.”

  I followed after Paul, who led the way inside. I was immediately struck by how, I don’t know, country the house was. I counted at least five shotguns hanging on the wall amid a smattering of animal heads. I wasn’t thrilled by the heads, but was glad to note they were mostly deer and elk. Glassy eyes watched over us as we moved to sit around an unlit fireplace. The furniture was unsurprisingly done in a camouflage print.

  “Speak your peace,” Arthur said.

  I decided to cut right to the chase. I didn’t like the atmosphere in Arthur Cantrell’s house. I felt like I was being watched, even though I knew the animals watching me were dead. Arthur’s attitude didn’t help matters.

  “When we spoke earlier, you didn’t mention you and Wade got into a fight a week or two before his death.”

  “Is that an accusation of some kind?” Arthur asked. “Because, if it is, I’ll kindly ask you to get lost.”

  “It’s not an accusation,” I said, glancing at Paul, who was sitting upright, tense. The humor had left him the moment he got a good look at Arthur’s house. I assumed he felt as oppressed as I did. “It was merely an observation.”

  Arthur ran his tongue over his teeth before he shrugged. “We fought. It happens.”

  “The police were called.”

  “And? It got out of hand. So what? Blood gets hot and the next thing you know, it gets spilled.” He seemed to realize how I might take that, so he added, “I got a few good licks in on him, busted his nose.”

  “What was the fight about, Mr. Cantrell?” Paul asked.

  Those hard eyes swiveled Paul’s way. “Wade liked to rub people the wrong way on purpose. If he could get under your skin, and knew he could get a rise out of you, he’d do it. That night, he did so. I rose to the bait and we scuffled.”

  “Was it about Rita?” I asked.

  “It was always about Rita.” Arthur practically spat her name. “Everything Wade did was about her. He got on my nerves that night and I snapped. Big deal.”

  “You’ve gotten in trouble for violence before, haven’t you, Mr. Cantrell?” Paul asked.

  “And?”

  “I’m just wondering if you ‘snap’ often.” Paul gave all the appearances that we were having a casual conversation, but I could tell he was thinking the same thing I was: If Arthur was quick to temper, could he have gone too far and killed his friend?

  “When people ask me stupid questions, I do,” Arthur said. “Why are you asking me about that? It’s in the past, and quite frankly, none of your business.”

  “What did you get arrested for?” I asked, causing Arthur’s glare to return to me.

  He sat there, fuming, for a good long minute. I was almost positive he wasn’t going to answer when he finally relented.

  “Guy cut me off after I’d had a few too many. I rear-ended him. He called me a few choice names. I returned the favor. When that didn’t feel like enough, we got into it.”

  “You fought?” Paul asked. />
  “Of course we fought! He blamed me for something that was obviously his fault.”

  “You don’t get arrested and sent to prison for a fight,” I said.

  He bared his teeth at me in what I supposed was as close as he could come to a smile. “You do when the guy can no longer walk and when his own mother couldn’t recognize him.”

  “Did you kill him?” Paul asked.

  “No. And I didn’t kill Wade, either. Wade and I might have been on the outs, but I wouldn’t have killed him. If you must know, I’d been thinking about him the night I got arrested. I drank too much because of it, shouldn’t have been behind the wheel, and things got out of hand. As I said, it happens.” He stood. “But I’m not a murderer.”

  Both Paul and I rose. I don’t think either of us were comfortable with this man towering over us, not with his guns hanging on the walls within easy reach. It made me wonder why a man convicted of a violent crime was allowed to have so many weapons lying around.

  “Mr. Cantrell—” Paul started.

  “No, I’m done answering questions. I’d like you to leave.”

  I wanted to object, but Paul nodded his head and moved for the door. I followed after him, not wanting to be left alone in the room with Arthur Cantrell, even for a few seconds. The man seemed to get angrier and angrier every time I saw him.

  “Why didn’t you press him?” I asked once we were back outside. Arthur slammed the door behind us, causing me to jump.

  “He wasn’t going to talk,” Paul said. “And this isn’t an official police investigation. We were guests in his home, asking uncomfortable questions. He had every right to kick us out.”

  I didn’t like it, but Paul was right. “Do you believe him?” I asked, getting into the police cruiser.

  “I don’t know,” Paul said. “But I don’t want you coming back here. He’s volatile, and he’s proven he can’t control his temper.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” I said. “I’m not coming back here.” And if I did, I’d make sure I had an army at my back.

  13

  The rest of the day dragged by. I felt like I should be doing something, but was at a loss as what to do next. I could have kept poking around those who knew Wade Fink, but how long could I do that before someone poked back? I was already worried I’d gone too far with Arthur Cantrell. Did I really want to add any more names to the list of people who might want to do me harm?

  Misfit was snoozing on the couch next to me as I flipped through television channels. I wasn’t actually paying attention to what I was watching, and I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, but it kept my hands busy, while it allowed my mind to wander.

  Who killed Wade Fink?

  And worse: How many people were in on it?

  It seemed like every time I talked to someone, one more suspect got added to the list. A lot of people had disapproved of Wade’s choice in girlfriends, and any number of them could have decided to do something about it.

  “Would someone really kill over a relationship?” I asked out loud. “It wasn’t like he was stealing someone else’s girlfriend.”

  Misfit lifted his head, huffed, and then spun in a circle so his back was to me.

  “Lot of help you are,” I muttered before turning off the television and tossing the remote aside.

  I glanced at the clock and sighed. Paul wasn’t due to pick me up for another two and a half hours. That was a lot of time to wait, stewing in my own thoughts. By the time he got there, I’d be half crazy.

  I’d already gotten cleaned up and dressed for the evening, which had been a mistake. Not only had Misfit tried to sleep on my lap, shedding his orange fur all over my dress, but I also was limited in what I could do with my time. I wasn’t a slob or overly clumsy, but I also knew my luck. The moment I tried to do something potentially messy, I would be wearing whatever I’d touched.

  Needing a distraction, I picked up my phone and dialed. It rang twice before a much beloved, raspy voice came over the line.

  “Krissy! It’s good to hear from you.”

  “Hi, Dad.” I moved to the dining room and sat at the table, some of the tension already bleeding away. “How are you and Laura doing?” Laura Dresden was his girlfriend.

  “Good, good.” He groaned as he settled down for our conversation. “She’s out right now or I’d put her on. She’s been itching to talk to you about coming out this way for a visit.”

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve been home,” I said. It’s funny; I still thought of the place I grew up as home, even though I was now a permanent resident of Pine Hills. I suppose some places would always be home, no matter how far away I went.

  “California is a long way from where you are,” Dad said. “We understand it’s not easy to make time to stop by for a visit. It’s not like you can just pop on over anytime you please.” He laughed.

  “I should do better.” And I meant it. Dad wasn’t getting any younger. While his relationship with Laura had rejuvenated him, it still would be a good idea for me to pay him a visit a little more often.

  But, unfortunately, it seemed like every time we planned on getting together, something always got in the way.

  “It’s fine,” Dad said. “You’ve got a busy life. You don’t need to drop everything for me.”

  “I’ll make time soon. I promise.” And then, because the direction of the conversation was getting me down, I changed the subject. “How’s your writing going?”

  Dad had semi-retired from mystery writing once, but the bug had gotten to him again. He was back to writing near full time, which was probably a good thing. It kept his mind active, and it genuinely seemed to make him happier when he was working.

  “Great, actually. I just finished a new project. I’ve shot it off to Cameron.” Cameron Little was his literary agent, a man I’d met once, who seemed decent enough. He was a huge upgrade over Dad’s last agent, that was for sure. “Here’s hoping I’ve still got it.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  There was a pause where I wasn’t quite sure what to say next. Dad read far more into that little pause than anything I’d said thus far, which was one of the things that made me love him even more.

  “What’s on your mind, Buttercup?” he asked, shifting to my childhood nickname. He’d finally started using my name every once in a while, but I’d forever be Buttercup to him.

  “Nothing.” Even I wasn’t convinced by that.

  “Mmhmm. Tell me. You’ll feel better.”

  “Nothing actually happened,” I said. “Well, I mean, my neighbor, Eleanor Winthrow, passed away. You remember her, right?”

  “The older woman who used to spy on you?”

  “Yeah.” I couldn’t help but smile at the memory. It used to annoy me while she was doing it, but now that she was gone, I kind of missed it. “Anyway, I was helping her daughter, Jane, clean up the house when she told me about a murder that happened over thirty years ago.”

  I could hear the excitement in Dad’s voice when he said, “A murder? Unsolved?”

  “Unsolved.”

  “Well, now, you’re going to have to tell me all about it.”

  I did just that.

  Dad listened attentively as I went through the whole tale—what I knew of it, at least. Talking it through helped ease my mind, but I was no closer to coming up with a solid suspect. Since Dad was a mystery writer, and he would love to solve a mystery of his own, I hoped he’d use that sharp mind of his and would spot something I’d missed.

  “Do you think one of his friends did it?” Dad asked when I was done.

  “I’m not sure. I haven’t had the chance to talk to the police officer who was on the scene, but he was friends with the Coffee Drinkers. It makes me wonder if he knows more about what happened than what he’d let on. I mean, could he really arrest a friend for a murder that all of them thought justified?”

  “It’s hard to say,” Dad said. “Especially in a small town. People are closer together, and
I don’t just mean in proximity. And since everyone tends to know everyone else, things get buried just a little more often.”

  I thought about it. If I found out Vicki kept a body in her basement, would I be able to call the police on her? Or would I try to pretend I’d never seen it? Without actually being in that situation, I wasn’t sure which way I’d lean. “Could it be a cover-up?” I asked.

  “It’s always possible, Buttercup, but be careful about jumping to conclusions before you have all the facts. Just because he was friends with the suspects, it doesn’t mean he would help them cover up a crime. This guy was a man of the law, and some people value their work above their relationships.”

  “I know,” I said, deflating. “I really need to find this Jay Miller and talk to him. The police chief warned me against it, and I’d like to abide by her wishes. . . .”

  “I can hear the but in your voice.”

  “But if he knows what happened, I can’t just let it slide,” I said. “It’s possible he’s no longer friends with the Coffee Drinkers, so perhaps he’d be willing to talk about the murder now that some time has passed.”

  “As I said, be careful, Buttercup. A murder that’s been unsolved for thirty years has baggage that builds up over time. If he did cover up the murder, then it might have weighed on him all these years. He might not like you sniffing around, threatening to bring light to something he’s kept in the dark for decades.”

  “I’ll be careful,” I said, though at this point, I knew I was going to have to find Jay Miller and make him talk to me. The only question would be whether I’d take Paul along with me or go it alone. I knew which would be safest, but would a former cop talk if a current cop was there? I doubted it, especially if he’d committed a crime of his own.

  Dad and I said our good-byes and I hung up feeling much better. I might not know who killed Wade Fink, but I felt I was on the right track. There was a chance he might not have been killed because of his relationship with Rita, but that didn’t mean his friends didn’t know why someone had it in for him.

  But how to make them talk?