Macchiatos and Murder (Cup of Jo 1)

by Kelly Hashway

  “I don’t even know what that is.”

  “Are you sure? He was buying a dozen cream puffs to bring home to you.”

  She clutches the cookie box in both hands. “He always brought me cream puffs when he went by a bakery.” She carries the box to the couch and sits down.

  “I’m sorry if this is difficult for you. Your husband seemed like a very nice man. He even gave me some pointers on running my new business.”

  “New business.” She raises her head to look at me. “You’re the woman they interviewed on the news.”

  I was hoping she hadn’t watched the news since she didn’t seem to know who I was. “Yes, that was me. I’m afraid I didn’t come across looking very good in that interview. The truth is, I talked to your husband while I made his macchiato and boxed up the cream puffs. I didn’t know him well at all, and I certainly did not know about his shellfish allergy.”

  “Come now, Ms. Coffee, is it?”

  I nod.

  “Anyone who has been at a social gathering with my husband knew about his shellfish allergy.”

  “I don’t doubt that, but I’ve never been at a social gathering with your husband. Why would I be? I just opened my business yesterday, and it closed right after your husband died.”

  She opens the box of cookies. “I suppose I should worry these are poisoned, but if I’m being honest, I don’t think you had any reason to kill my husband. Nor do I think you knew him. I think it was an unfortunate thing that he died outside your place of business. I mean, what coffee shop has shellfish?”

  “Exactly!” I blurt out. My eyes widen to the size of saucers at my outburst. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. It’s just that everyone seems to be missing that key piece of information.”

  “It’s absurd, really. Why would anyone think you were the guilty party?”

  “He was holding the macchiato I’d made him, and he’d already consumed most of it.”

  “I see.”

  “Mrs. Cromwell, you said your husband’s shellfish allergy was well-known in your circle of friends,” Cam said.

  “Yes.”

  “Would any of those friends have any reason to want to harm your husband?” he adds.

  She shakes her head. “Everyone loved Sherman. They had no reason not to. I mean, the man was a millionaire and donated money to causes left and right.”

  “Donated? I thought he invested in businesses,” I say.

  “All start-ups. Charity case kind of people with no money to otherwise open a business. Yes, Sherman profited from them. He was a wise investor and wouldn’t back anything that didn’t promise to turn a profit. He even got the businessmen to change their direction when need be, and they always did because, like I said, my husband knew what he was doing.”

  “Have any of those businessmen ever resented having to change their vision for your husband’s?” I ask.

  “If they did, they didn’t show it.”

  Of course not, because that would have been an actual lead to follow. Still, with a little digging, we could find out who Sherman Cromwell’s business partners were. Mo works in social media advertising, so she knows her way around computers. As much as I don’t want to involve her in a possible murder case, I might not have any other choice.

  “Mrs. Cromwell, I just have one other question for you,” I say. “When your husband left the house yesterday, where did you think he was going?” Since he obviously never mentioned my coffee shop.

  “He likes to walk around town and scout out businesses. He says it helps him figure out who to invest in. He determines what locals need and where they like to frequent. He calls it research in the best possible form.”

  “And that’s what he was doing?”

  She nods. “I guess your coffee shop was on his list of places to check out. He must have thought highly of either you or the location you chose.” She leans forward. “You say you didn’t know my husband, Ms. Coffee, but I’m willing to wager he knew you.”

  “How would he know me?”

  “Did you take out a loan?”

  “Yes, I had to.”

  “And you’re leasing a prime commercial property, I presume.”

  “I’m located on Main Street, yes.”

  She nods. “As I said, my husband does his research.”

  “I’m just curious, but if he felt that way and knew I was applying for a loan, why would he come see me after my business was open.”

  “Are you asking me why he didn’t invest in your business?”

  “I suppose I am. Not that I would have taken him up on the offer. I don’t know him well enough to accept an offer like that. I’m just curious based on what you’ve said.”

  “You aren’t a charity case, Ms. Coffee. That’s the only explanation I can see. He must have felt that you didn’t need him.”

  I don’t know what to make of any of this. Finding out some millionaire knew me and believed in my business is a little surreal.

  “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Cromwell. We’ll let you get back to all the arrangements you need to make.” I stand up, and Cam follows.

  “Ms. Coffee, the next time those police detectives come by, I’ll be sure to tell them I do not believe you had anything to do with my husband’s death.”

  “Thank you.”

  Once we’re back in Cam’s SUV, he turns to face me. “Did that strike you as odd?”

  “That Sherman Cromwell knew me? Yeah.”

  “Do you think it’s because he knew your parents?”

  “I guess so, but it’s not like they were close friends. I would have thought he’d know my parents had kids but not our actual names or anything about us.”

  “We don’t know that he did know Mo. She’s not a small business owner.”

  My phone rings, and the last name I want to see appears on the screen. “It’s Quentin.”

  “Put it on speaker. If you don’t mind,” Cam adds.

  I answer, putting it on speaker. “Hello?”

  “Jo, I need you to come down to the station.”

  What could he possibly have found that would merit bringing me into the station? “What for?”

  “I’d rather discuss this down here.”

  “Tell me what it is, Quentin.”

  He lets out a loud huff. “We found something on the floor of your coffee shop. It’s a fish oil capsule. We just confirmed with Mr. Cromwell’s doctor that dissolving one of these in a hot beverage would have caused the allergic reaction Sherman had before his asthma kicked in.”

  “Quentin—”

  “There’s a fingerprint on this capsule. We need to fingerprint you right away.” He lowers his voice. “This is most likely the murder weapon. Or one of its kind at least. You need to get down here now, Jo.” He ends the call.

  “They’re going to charge me with murder, aren’t they?” I ask Cam.

  Chapter Five

  Cam spends the drive to the station trying to convince me that this is all circumstantial evidence. My prints won’t be on that fish oil capsule. And the fact that it was found in my coffee shop just means that someone there was carrying the supplement. It might not even be the murder weapon. But as much as I know none of this evidence directly links me to the murder, I feel like things are certainly stacking up against me.

  Quentin is standing outside the police station when we pull up. His gaze goes to Cam, who gets out of the SUV and walks around to open my door. I feel like I’m walking in a fog.

  “I’ll take her from here,” Quentin tells Cam.

  “Are you arresting her?” Cam asks.

  “No. I just need to get her fingerprints and ask her some questions.” Quentin reaches for me, but I shrug off his hand.

  Cam keeps his gaze locked on Quentin even though he speaks to me. “Jo, I’m waiting right here. I’ll drive you home when these guys come to their senses and realize they’re wasting their time talking to you when there might be a killer out there.”

  “Not might be. This wasn�
��t an accident. This is a murder investigation, and I have to follow every lead.”

  “You’re not very good at your job then,” Cam says.

  Quentin opens the door and holds it for me, I’m sure so he can glare at Cam. “Fingerprinting is down the hall this way.” He brings me to a room, and we don’t talk as he takes my fingerprints and then leads me to a bathroom so I can wash my hands.

  When I come out, he motions for me to follow him into an interrogation room. “So this is how it’s going to be?” I ask. “Not even talking at your desk. You’re going to treat me like a criminal.”

  “Jo, don’t make this any harder than it is.” He opens the door and ushers me inside. “Have a seat.”

  I sit down and stare at the mirror, wondering who’s watching from the other side.

  “I need to know if you take fish oil capsules,” he begins.

  “No.”

  He pulls a capsule from his pocket. “Have you ever seen this before?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see anyone taking fish oil at your coffee shop?”

  “No.”

  “Come on, Jo. Help yourself out here. You’ve got to give me more than one-word answers.” He places the capsule in the middle of the table separating us.

  “Stop asking one-word questions then.”

  “Fine. When was the last time you saw this?” He gestures to the pill.

  “When it was in your hand a few seconds ago.”

  “This isn’t the time for jokes,” he says, clearly not amused.

  “I’ve never seen it before that, just like I told you when you asked if I’d seen it before and I said no.”

  “Did you put fish oil in Mr. Cromwell’s macchiato?”

  “No.”

  “Here we go again.” He throws his right hand in the air in frustration.

  “Fine. No, I did not put fish oil in Mr. Cromwell’s macchiato. Better?”

  “You’re not doing yourself any favors.”

  I lace my hands in front of me on the table. “I don’t need to. I didn’t put anything other than espresso and milk in that macchiato.”

  “You can’t prove you didn’t.”

  “You can’t prove I did. I’m quite sure of that since I didn’t do it.”

  “Look, Jo. I don’t want to see you go to jail.”

  “Really? Because it sure seems like you’re trying to put me there.”

  “You need to help me out. Give me something I can work with,” he says.

  I try to think back on everything that happened when Sherman Cromwell was in the coffee shop. My gaze lands on the fish oil capsule, and a memory does surface. “You’re sure this is the murder weapon?” I ask.

  “Yes, why?”

  He’s not going to like this one bit. “Then I have a little story for you. Yesterday, when Mr. Cromwell was in my coffee shop, he dropped his multivitamins.”

  “Multivitamins?”

  “Yes, my back was turned because I was making his macchiato at the time. I didn’t hear them fall or anything, so I don’t know what they were in.”

  “Go on.”

  “Someone picked them up and gave them back to him. He then said they were what kept him so healthy. That’s how I know they were multivitamins. He called them as much.”

  Quentin sits forward in his seat. “Who picked them up for Mr. Cromwell?” When I don’t respond, he says, “Come on, Jo. The killer was clearly in your coffee shop that morning. Whoever picked up the vitamins could have slipped the fish oil capsules in there with them, not knowing when Cromwell would take them.”

  “I agree. One hundred percent.” It’s possible the killer hoped Sherman Cromwell would be long gone before he took the wrong pill, placing the killer far from the actual death. That would almost be the perfect crime.

  “Did you see who picked them up?”

  “No, like I said, my back was turned because I was making the macchiato. But I heard them because they told Mr. Cromwell he’d dropped the vitamins.”

  “Jo, just give me the name already! Are you trying to protect someone? Cam maybe?”

  I stiffen in my seat. “More like you, though for the life of me I can’t figure out why.”

  He shakes his head. “I wasn’t there when Mr. Cromwell was in the coffee shop, so I don’t know what you’re trying to…?” His voice trails off. “No.”

  “I’m afraid so, Quentin. You can ask my other customers if you don’t believe me. I’m sure one of them saw Samantha pick up the vitamins as well.”

  He leans forward. “Is this your way of seeking revenge or something? Are you trying to frame Samantha?”

  I jerk back in the seat as if he just sucker punched me. “You know, it’s sad to think I loved you and that means nothing. She might have killed a man, but you’ll go down defending her.”

  “Samantha didn’t harm anyone. She couldn’t.”

  “It would be nice if, for just one second, you’d show some uncertainty about my guilt. If some part of you would think, ‘No, not Jo. She’d never do that.’ I don’t know what I ever did to make you hate me enough to cheat on me and think me capable of murder.”

  “You didn’t do anything to make me cheat. Why would you think that?”

  “What am I supposed to think? You never gave me a reason. Your exact words were, ‘It’s Samantha.’ That’s it.”

  “Because that was it. I’ve always loved her. It was always about her, Jo. She just wouldn’t give me the time of day, and you and I hit it off, so…”

  Oh God. I didn’t think this could get any worse, but there it is. “So you dated me because I was there? Is that it? I was the placeholder until Samantha finally acknowledged your existence?” I stand up. “Are we done here? You have my fingerprints, and I’ve answered your questions.”

  He waves his hand in the air. “We’re done. Go.”

  I start for the door, but he stops me. “Jo, wait. I know I have no right to ask, but will you keep this between us? Let me talk to Sam?”

  I gesture to the microphone in the center of the table. “Are you telling me you weren’t recording this? Because I’m pretty sure this isn’t just between us. Apparently, nothing ever was just between us.” I open the door and storm out.

  When I exit the station, it’s not just Cam waiting for me. Mo is there, too.

  “Don’t be mad. She called me,” Cam says.

  “I’m not mad. Can we go somewhere to eat? I’ll fill you both in while we’re there. I haven’t eaten yet today, and now that I think I might have actually gotten some blame removed from me, I could devour a nice big burger and fries.”

  “Ride with me,” Mo says, linking her arm through mine.

  Cam gives us a nod. “I’ll follow you.”

  “How bad was it?” Mo asks once we’re on the road.

  “Well, the part where Quentin told me he never loved me and was just with me until Samantha agreed to go out with him royally sucked.”

  “Whoa! He did not say that.”

  “He told me he was always in love with her but since she wasn’t interested in him and I was there…”

  “God, I hate that man so much.” She slams her hand against the steering wheel.

  “Get in line. I get to hate him the most.”

  “Fine. I’m second though, so tell Cam he can be third. Speaking of Cam and people loving other people, you know he’s totally into you, right?”

  “You’re crazy. Cam is Cam.”

  “Don’t hit me for saying this, but now you’re acting like Samantha. Don’t be too blind to see what’s right in front of your face.”

  Ouch. That hurt. “Not the time to compare me to her, Mo.”

  “I’m sorry, but it’s ironically similar. Sam didn’t see that Quentin was in love with her, just like you’re not seeing that Cam is completely in love with you.”

  “Because Cam has been one of my best friends for my entire life. He can’t… It would be weird.”

  “Forget how long you’ve known him. If you’d
just met him, would you date him?”

  “Now? No. I’m in the middle of a murder investigation.”

  “You’re impossible and totally avoiding the question, which means you would date him but you don’t want to admit it to yourself.” She holds up her hand the second I open my mouth to protest. “It’s fine. And know that the more you protest, the more I’m going to believe I’m right.”

  “You’re infuriating.”

  “That’s what younger sisters are for.”

  Mo parks in front of our favorite Chinese food restaurant. I have no idea what the name of the place is because it’s written in Chinese, but the food is fantastic so I don’t complain that she totally dismissed my request for a burger and fries. My stomach growls, and I can practically taste the egg rolls and wonton soup now.

  Cam meets us at the front door, holding it open for us. “Why am I not surprised Mo went where she wanted to go instead of where you wanted to eat?” he whispers to me, and the way he smiles combined with what Mo just said has me wondering if he does view our relationship as more than just friendship.

  The hostess seats us at a table in the back and immediately pours hot tea for us, which I sip right away. While I love coffee of every kind, tea is my second favorite beverage. The waiter comes to take our orders, and then we dive into the details of this case.

  “Do you really think Samantha poisoned Sherman Cromwell?” Mo asks me. “I mean, she doesn’t seem the type.”

  I grip my teacup with both hands. “She doesn’t. And there’s no way it’s an act. I’ve known her for too long. She couldn’t have pulled off a deception that big for all those years.”

  “Agreed. Unless someone used her to do it and she has no idea,” Cam says.

  “If it were anyone else, I’d say that’s impossible, but I could see Samantha not having a clue she was being used as an accomplice to murder.” Though that’s not sitting right with me either. “I have to be missing something. The problem is I don’t know Sherman Cromwell.”

  “It’s strange to think he knew about you,” Cam says.

  “Well, Mom and Dad do know him from the business world, and Jo is part of that world now, so it’s not totally odd,” Mo says.

  The waiter brings our soup as an appetizer, and all three of us dig right in.