Macchiatos and Murder (Cup of Jo 1)

by Kelly Hashway

  “He’s not wrong, Jo.” Mo squeezes my arm. “Do you want to stay at my place tonight?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “Okay, well, I have to get back to work. I’ll call you later, though.”

  I nod, and she gives me a quick hug before hurrying back across the street to her second-floor office. “You should get back to work, too,” I tell Cam. “But I wouldn’t bake anything for Cup of Jo if I were you. I doubt I’ll be allowed to open for a while.”

  “This will all blow over soon. Hang in there.” He squeezes my elbow and then starts his walk back to work.

  I get in my Accord and head to my apartment complex on Drexel Road. It’s only about a mile from Main Street, making my commute extremely short. I love it because it used to be an old resort that shut down and was converted into apartments. That means we have a lot of amenities like tennis courts, swimming pools, and an indoor gym.

  My apartment is on the third floor. It’s a two-bedroom even though it’s just me and sometimes the resident cat that likes to come hang out with me. Her name is Midnight because she’s all black. She was here when I moved in. As in she was literally inside my apartment in the second bedroom. The landlord says everyone takes care of her. Most of the residents leave their doors wide open when they’re home so Midnight can meander in and out of the apartments.

  She’s sitting in front of my door when I get there. “Hey, Midnight. I hope you’re having a better day than I am,” I say.

  She meows in response.

  “You don’t say? Well, how about some tuna? I could go for a nice tuna BLT wrap.” I open the door, and Midnight goes right inside.

  “Hey, Jo,” Jamar calls from his doorway right next to mine. “Did I hear you say something about a tuna BLT?”

  “You did. Care to join Midnight and me?” Jamar is the perfect neighbor. He’s only twenty-five and always invites himself for dinner, but he also brings either drinks, dessert, or hors d’oeuvres.

  He rubs his hands together. “I have bananas, Neapolitan ice cream, chocolate syrup, and whipped cream. You up for a banana split after those tuna BLTs?”

  “You know I am. Bring it over.”

  “Be there in two minutes.” He ducks back into his apartment.

  I leave my door open and head right for the kitchen, where I get the tuna, mayonnaise, celery, mustard, red onion, lemon juice, and black pepper. I put them on the counter and get the bacon from the fridge. Once I have that cooking in the frying pan, I prepare the tuna.

  “What can I help with?” Jamar asks as he steps into the kitchen and puts the container of ice cream in my freezer.

  “You can pull the wraps out of the fridge and put them on plates to warm them up.”

  “Done. So, how did the big opening go? I meant to get down there, but I had the morning shift at the gym.” Jamar works in the gym right here in the apartment complex. He’s the only person I know with a shorter commute to work than I have.

  “I guess you haven’t watched the news,” I say, finishing up with the tuna.

  “No. What did I miss?”

  I fill him in as I cook the bacon and put the BLT wraps together. By the time we’re seated at the kitchen table and ready to take the first bites, Jamar is up-to-date and shaking his head.

  “Man, nothing ever happens in this town, and the day you open your business, a guy drops dead after leaving your coffee shop.”

  “Just my luck, right? I mean, Sherman Cromwell’s luck is much worse, so I can’t complain too much, but still.”

  “That guy was loaded. If he really was poisoned, I’d be looking into his wife.”

  Gwendolyn Cromwell keeps to herself most of the time. She attends all the major town events with Sherman. Or rather, she did. I don’t know much about her, though.

  “I’m still betting on a heart attack,” I say before taking a bite of my wrap.

  “You’re probably right. That cheating ex of yours most likely just wants to make you sweat. I don’t like him, you know.”

  I laugh. “I do know. You’ve told me no less than thirty times since I moved into this apartment.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m a good judge of character. If I’d known you when you were dating the guy, I could have warned you so you wouldn’t have gotten your heart broken.”

  I tip my wrap in his direction. “True. From now on, you can make all the decisions about my love life, okay?”

  “Seriously?”

  “No.” I laugh and take another bite. “Right now, I’m a murder suspect. I highly doubt I’ll have any eligible bachelors banging on my door.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Everyone knows you. No one is going to think you could have killed someone.”

  “Except for Quentin.”

  “You want to know my theory on why he cheated?”

  It’s something I’ve contemplated multiple times, but Jamar doesn’t know Quentin well at all, so I’m curious to hear what he thinks from his limited perspective. “Sure. Why not?”

  “You challenged him too much. Samantha’s dumb as dirt. She’s not going to question him about anything.”

  “You know, I became her friend in fourth grade because people picked on her for being dumb. She’s not dumb. She’s naïve. There’s a difference.”

  He swallows the food in his mouth before commenting. “I bet those kids stopped picking on her after you became her friend.”

  “They did.”

  “And she repaid you by ruining the longest relationship you’ve ever had.”

  I nod and take another large bite.

  “If you ask me, you should thank her. She did more for you than any of your other friends. I mean you might be the one engaged to that jerk right now if it weren’t for Samantha. Can you just imagine the headlines? ‘Police Detective arrests his own fiancée in connection to murder.’” He shakes his tuna BLT wrap at me. “Now that’s some publicity for your coffee shop right there.”

  “You’re insane,” I say with a laugh.

  “And that’s why you keep inviting me over.”

  “To be fair, you invite yourself over, but I don’t exactly object.”

  “What are you going to do?” he asks in a serious tone.

  “I have big plans to finish this wrap and eat my weight in banana splits. Everything else can wait until tomorrow.”

  “You know a friend of mine is in a bad spot thanks to this, too.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Lance Tunney. Sherman Cromwell was investing in Lance’s upscale restaurant. A real snooty kind of place with sushi and those French appetizers that are the size of your fingertip but cost as much as your rent.”

  “I wonder what made Sherman Cromwell think that would be a good investment. I mean, no offense to your friend, but I just don’t see a place like that doing well here.”

  “It wasn’t going to be in Bennett Falls. They decided on putting it in Highland Hills.”

  “Now that’s a rich area,” I say. It’s only about twenty minutes north of Bennett Falls.

  “Yeah, but I don’t think the location is what convinced Cromwell to invest. Lance has had a rough life. His dad walked out on him and his mom when Lance was five. His mom wasn’t working at the time because she was staying home to raise Lance. Suddenly, she had to find a job, and Lance was tossed around from cheap babysitter to cheap babysitter. His dad took all the savings before he left, so Lance and his mom had nothing. Sad story, but they’re survivors. Lance met Cromwell at the bank one day when he was there to see his mom. That’s where she works. They sort of hit it off, and the next thing I know, Lance is telling me his dream of opening that restaurant is going to become a reality.”

  “Poor Lance. He finally thought he was catching a break.”

  “Yeah.”

  Midnight jumps up onto the couch, right onto the remote, and the TV comes on. Monica Cabrera’s face fills the screen. She’s just finishing her report, which happens to be on Sherman Cromwell’s death.

  “…ambitious new
business owner desperate to get some press for her grand opening, or is this the sinister plot of a young woman looking to get revenge on a wealthy man who wouldn’t fund her start-up company? Only time will tell.”

  Jamar gets up and turns off the television. “How about I get to work on those banana splits?”

  “Make mine a double, please.”

  Chapter Four

  Miraculously, I manage to get a good night’s sleep. Most likely because the events of my first day as my own boss wound up being so completely, emotionally draining. I’m trying not to complain too much because a man is dead. My predicament isn’t nearly as bad. Once the autopsy is done, my name will be cleared. Sure, my business will suffer for a little bit, but I should be able to rebuild after that. Of course, most businesses don’t have to rebuild already after one morning.

  I park and pay the meter before walking up to Cup of Jo to unlock the door, but Quentin is already there. I open my mouth, and he cuts me off immediately.

  “Hold on. Before you start, I have a search warrant.” He holds up a piece of paper in his right hand.

  I can’t believe he actually got a warrant. If he wasn’t acting like such a jerk, I would have willingly let the police search the place. “Why are you doing this to me? I can’t believe you’d actually think I’d be capable of such a thing.”

  “You said shellfish. On camera, Jo. What do you expect me to do? You named the exact thing that killed Sherman Cromwell, and you did it on TV.”

  “Please tell me you’re joking. I was just throwing out the name of something a lot of people are allergic to.”

  “You know I wouldn’t joke about this. The cause of death is officially fatal food-induced anaphylaxis brought on by his shellfish allergy. My hands are tied, Jo. I have no choice but to search the premises and take samples to the lab to be tested.”

  I stare at Quentin, wondering where it all went wrong. There was a time when he would have defended me even if he’d caught me injecting poison right into Sherman Cromwell’s veins. Or maybe I was wrong about that, too. Maybe he never cared about me the way I thought he did.

  “Here.” I toss him the key since I have another at home. “You don’t need your warrant. I give you permission to search the premises because I have nothing to hide. I didn’t do anything to Sherman Cromwell. We talked, and I served him. That’s all.”

  “You’re willingly allowing me to search the place?” He stares at the key in his hand.

  “The sooner this is over, the sooner I can get back to my business. So do what you have to do.” I turn and walk down the side street that leads to Cam’s kitchen. He doesn’t have a bakery or anything like that. He rents the space and operates a huge kitchen out of it. Then he sells his products to local bakeries, food stores, and now me.

  I know Mo will give me hell for going to Cam and not her, but she’s my little sister and I don’t want her involved in this. Cam was right when he said we make a good team. And right now, that’s what I need because it’s clear Quentin isn’t going to help me. Even if they don’t—when they don’t find anything incriminating in my shop, they’re still going to assume I did it somehow because it was my coffee cup in his hand. I have to prove my own innocence, and I’m really not sure how to do that.

  I knock on the door before opening it, not wanting to startle Cam, who’s most likely been up for hours baking. “You busy?”

  “Never too busy for you. Come in,” he says, putting a tray of cookies into the oven and shutting the door.

  “They’re searching my shop now.”

  “Oh. Are they pressing charges against you?” He moves toward me.

  “Not yet but I figure if I want to prove I didn’t kill Sherman Cromwell, I need to find out who did.”

  “You mean you don’t think this was an accident?” he asks.

  “The police aren’t saying, but it sure doesn’t seem like they’re leaning toward accidental poisoning anymore.” And given my relationship with Quentin, finding out what the police know isn’t an option. Maybe I should befriend Samantha again just to see if she’ll spill what she knows. Except I’m not cruel enough to do that to someone. Not even someone like her.

  He wipes his hands on a dish towel. “You need a partner to help you figure out who the killer is.”

  “You know me so well.”

  He turns to the stove behind him. “Cookies will be ready in four minutes. We’ll box some up and bring them to the grieving widow.”

  “Why Gwendolyn Cromwell? Do you think she poisoned her husband?”

  “Well, the way I see it, she might have sent him to Cup of Jo to begin with.”

  “You’re right. He was bringing home a dozen cream puffs for her.”

  “So she could have poisoned him before he left the house.”

  “I’m not sure how long it would take the shellfish to affect him, but that seems like too long.”

  Cam furrows his brow. “Shellfish?”

  “Yeah, that’s what Sherman’s allergic to. If it’s really a food allergy, that’s what the police believe it was.”

  He rubs his forehead. “Didn’t you tell Monica you didn’t put shellfish in the macchiatos?”

  “I did. And yes, that makes me look guilty. At least in Quentin’s eyes.”

  “If I didn’t know you, I’d probably agree with Quentin. The problem is Mrs. Cromwell might as well.”

  I didn’t think of that. If everyone in town thinks I really did kill Sherman Cromwell, no one is going to want to talk to me. How will I possibly find the killer if I can’t interrogate anyone who might have had reason to harm him?

  “What am I going to do?”

  The oven timer goes off, and Cam removes the cookies. He turns off the oven and then puts the cookies onto a cooling rack. “We’ll try using the cookies to get in the door. Play it off as you’d just spoken with him and it’s so horrible what happened because he was such a great man.”

  “But I didn’t really know him. Maybe that’s the way to go so she won’t think I had a reason to poison him.”

  “That still keeps the door open for this being accidental.”

  “Why is everyone forgetting a coffee shop wouldn’t have any shellfish? It’s absurd.”

  “You’re right. That means it can’t be accidental.”

  “Oh.” My shoulders sink. “And you think she’ll realize that, so that’s why you want her to think I thought he was a great man.”

  He nods.

  “Worth a shot, I guess. Are you sure you can leave right now to come help me?”

  “Yeah, I worked late last night. I just had a sneaking suspicion that you’d need me today.” He brings the rack of cookies to the walk-in cooler. “Let’s speed up this cooling process a bit.”

  “I’m eager to get moving on this as well. I don’t want to be near Cup of Jo while the police are searching it. It’s too heartbreaking to think of them trashing my brand-new café. I’ve always hated that the police don’t have to return the premises to the way they found it.

  Twenty minutes later, the cookies are boxed and Cam is driving us to the Cromwells’ house. They live in a huge estate on an old farm that isn’t a farm anymore. It’s right on the outskirts of Bennett Falls. They have a horse stable with what appears to be five horses. Since there’s also a six-car garage, there are no cars parked out front other than Cam’s SUV, which looks very out of place here. It’s not in the most pristine condition considering he uses it as a work vehicle to transport all his baked goods. It has a few scratches and dings in the black paint from loading and unloading with the handcart.

  I’m squeezing my hands together as we walk up to the front door.

  “It’s going to be okay. Just try to relax. You didn’t do anything wrong, so there’s no need to look guilty.”

  “Her husband is dead, though. And I was the last person he talked to.”

  “We don’t know that for sure.”

  “It’s the story Mickey Baldwin told Quentin and everyone else in Cup of J
o after it happened.”

  “Here.” He hands me the box of cookies. “Hold these to keep your hands from shaking. Then let me do most of the talking until you feel calmer. Okay?”

  I take a deep breath and release it. “Okay. I can do this.”

  Cam rings the doorbell. It takes about two minutes for Mrs. Cromwell to answer the door. She’s dressed in an all-black designer pantsuit.

  “Can I help you?” Her voice is devoid of all emotion, which could mean she’s still in a state of shock.

  “Mrs. Cromwell, I’m Cam Turner, and this is Joanna Coffee. We wanted to come by to express our condolences and see if there is anything we can do for you during this difficult time.”

  “Anything to do?” She gives one short burst of laughter. “There are so many things to do. I’m canceling business meetings, making funeral arrangements, calling family members. What exactly are you looking to assist me with?”

  “We brought you some cookies,” I say, holding the box out to her.

  “Cookies?” She says it like the word has no meaning at all to her. “Are you the caterers for the memorial service? I thought you were bringing the sample menu later today. Come in.” She steps aside.

  I know I should correct her, but instead I say, “Thank you,” and walk into the house.

  Cam follows me and whispers, “What are you doing?”

  “I have no idea. Just go with it.” I look around. “You have a lovely home. Will you be hosting the memorial service here?”

  “Yes. Did your assistant not explain that to you? I’ve gone through this already.”

  “Yes, sorry. I’m just firming up the details.”

  Cam shakes his head at me. “Actually, Mrs. Cromwell, the caterers are considering using my baking service, but we aren’t from the catering company ourselves.”

  “I see. So you want me to try the cookies to approve them for the menu?”

  I can’t do this anymore. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Cromwell, but I’m Joanna Coffee. I own Cup of Jo on Main Street.”

  Her brows pull together. “Cup of what? I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

  “You didn’t send your husband to Cup of Jo yesterday?”