Macchiatos and Murder

by Kelly Hashway

  “Is there a reason you’re trying to ditch him?” Cam asks.

  “I think the killer tried to murder Mr. Cromwell at that restaurant.”

  “Okay, but why aren’t we telling Quentin that? It’s a good lead to follow. We can find out who was working there that night and see if they were in your coffee shop or near it Monday morning.”

  “Quentin is only going to slow us down. He has to follow police procedures. We don’t.”

  “Do you think Mrs. Cromwell kept this from us on purpose? Maybe because she tried to poison him at that restaurant?”

  I glance at him quickly before returning my gaze to the road. “I don’t really know. She wasn’t at Cup of Jo, and if she was on Main Street, someone would have seen her.”

  “That’s true. Whoever did this made sure they weren’t seen. But how?”

  That’s what I want to know.

  “You’re back,” Mrs. Cromwell says when she answers the door.

  “Yes, we’re sorry to bother you again when we know you’re very busy, but we were hoping you could tell us what restaurant you went to on Saturday with your husband.”

  “I see you’ve been asking around about Sherman.” She opens the door wider. “Come in. I’m happy to answer your questions.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  She gestures toward the living room. “Can I get either of you something to drink?”

  I sit down on the couch. “No, we’re fine. We really don’t want to take up too much of your time.” I look at the stack of papers on the coffee table. “You seem very busy.”

  She takes a seat in the armchair. “I’m going through my husband’s financial records. I’m afraid he’s always taken care of the bills and such, and I don’t really know where to begin.”

  “Mrs. Cromwell, we spoke with Rachel Whitaker. She said her father wanted to get together with your husband Saturday evening, but Mr. Cromwell was ill.”

  “Yes. We went out for a big lunch, and by the time we got home, Sherman said he didn’t feel right.”

  “Did he describe what was wrong?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “He barely touched his food at the restaurant, so if it was food poisoning, it couldn’t have been very bad.”

  “What restaurant did you go to?” Cam asks.

  “La Cena, the Italian restaurant Sherman invests in.”

  What are the chances she’d name that restaurant when the owner, Salvatore Ricci, is on our list of suspects?

  “Did your husband and Mr. Ricci have a good relationship?”

  She laughs. “If you’re asking if Sal could have poisoned my husband, the answer is no. Never in a million years. Those two were as thick as thieves. Sal moved here from Italy without a penny to his name. Sherman met him on one of his research walks.” She rolls her eyes. “Of course, he took Sal under his wing. He put him up for a few nights at the bed and breakfast and asked him what skills he had. Sal said he could cook. So Sherman leased a restaurant that had just gone out of business. The equipment was for sale and everything, so Sherman bought it all and turned it over to Sal. Jump ahead ten years, and here we are. Sal has a thriving business.”

  “What did you think when he came home and told you he was doing all of this for a complete stranger?” I ask.

  Mrs. Cromwell sits up straighter. “There was only one thing in this world that made my husband happy, and that was giving away his money. Yes, he made more in return.” She laughs. “Then he’d give that away, too.” Tears form in her eyes. “But only to those he felt really needed it.”

  “Not his son,” I say. “Is that why Gabe is so angry with his father?”

  She nods. “Not his son or his wife. Sherman made me sign a prenup. He wanted to make sure I was marrying him for the right reasons, and he assured me he’d take care of me so I needn’t worry about money. Well, look at me now, Sherman!”

  A thought strikes me. “His will. Do you know what it says?”

  “Oh, yes. The will. This house is mine and so are the cars. Gabe gets the house he’s living in. But the money, that’s going to be distributed equally among all his investments.”

  “So everyone he invested in is getting a substantial amount of money?” I ask.

  “You got it.”

  “Who knew about the will?” Cam asks.

  “Who didn’t? Sherman told his business partners what would happen when he died. If you ask me, he put a giant target on his head.”

  “Forgive me, but you don’t seem all that upset your husband is gone, Mrs. Cromwell,” Cam says.

  “That would probably make me look guilty, wouldn’t it? But when you consider I have nothing, and I mean nothing to gain from my husband’s death, it sort of clears my name, don’t you think? I’ll have to sell the house because I can’t afford to keep it. I have nothing with him gone. He took it all away and gave it to perfect strangers.”

  No, he gave it to his family. That’s what Mary Ellen Reede said. I don’t think he believed his wife or son truly loved him. He provided for them because he felt it was the right thing to do, but in the end, he gave his millions to his real family.

  “Do me a favor,” Mrs. Cromwell says. “Find the person who killed my husband. It has to be one of those investors. Find him and lock him up, and then give me their share of Sherman’s money. It should go to his family, after all.”

  We leave Mrs. Cromwell in a state I can’t even put into words. I think she might be having a mental breakdown.

  My phone rings, and Mo’s name and picture pop up on the screen on my dashboard. “Hey,” I say. “Where have you been? I expected to hear from you hours ago.”

  “Awful day at work. I was swamped. Are we still doing dinner at that Italian place?” she asks.

  “Yeah, meet us there?”

  “How did I know you’d be with Cam?” she says, making my cheeks warm since she’s on the car’s Bluetooth.

  “Hi, Mo,” Cam says.

  “Oh! Hi, Cam. Didn’t know Jo was driving.” She gives a nervous laugh. “So what time should I meet you, and just so you know, I’m starving and already on my way there, so say as soon as possible.”

  “As soon as possible, Mo. See you in a few.” I end the call using the button on my steering wheel.

  “Your sister knows me too well,” Cam says.

  “Yeah, well, she does like sticking her nose in other people’s business.”

  “That might be a Coffee family trait. You are butting into Quentin’s case right now.”

  “As are you, Mr. Turner.”

  “Clearly you’re a bad influence on me.” He gives me a smile, and I keep my gaze on him a little too long. “Red light!” he says.

  I jam my foot on the brake. “Sorry. I haven’t had enough caffeine today. Actually, did I even eat today?”

  “That’s not good, Jo.” He reaches over and pats my stomach. “We need to get some food in that belly of yours pronto.”

  I’m pretty sure he’s always done little things like this, but for the first time I’m taking notice of them.

  I try to act normal for the rest of the drive and through the uncomfortable silence until Mo arrives, which is only five minutes after us but feels like an eternity.

  “Hey, tell me you ordered calamari. I need food this very instant.” She reaches for the basket of bread and plate of herbs and oil.

  “We did,” Cam says. “It should be here shortly.”

  “So what did you find out?” Mo asks with her mouth full.

  I fill her in on everything we learned today. The waitress brings our food and overhears us mention Sherman Cromwell.

  “Not to be nosey, but are you guys talking about that millionaire who was killed? Because I was his waitress last Saturday when he was here with his wife, and those two were not happy. He looked sick, and she was ready to spit fire, if you know what I mean.”

  “They were arguing?” I ask.

  “More like she was. He just sat there and moved his food around on his plate. It looked like he
was deep in thought and not even paying attention to what she was saying. That only made her angrier.”

  “Were they talking about money?” Mo asks.

  “Not sure. Maybe though. I kept hearing the word will. I assumed they were talking about a person. Anyway, enjoy your meal.”

  “Maybe she was so angry about the will she didn’t care about the money. She just wanted him dead,” Cam says.

  “Or maybe she found another way to get her hands on it,” Mo says.

  “You mean by having an affair with one of the business partners?” I ask.

  “Possibly one who was here visiting that weekend,” Cam suggests.

  “Rachel’s dad checked out Monday morning. He could have been at my coffee shop midday, and I wouldn’t have known who he was. He could be the killer after all.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Mo googled Alec Whitaker at dinner, but I didn’t recognize him. He could have been in Cup of Jo on Monday with the rest of the crowd, but he didn’t stand out to me. It’s also possible that Alec never came inside the shop at all. He could have slipped that fish oil into Sherman’s drink outside on the street under the pretense of holding the drink for him or even hugging Sherman. Though that wouldn’t explain the capsule that was found on the floor of Cup of Jo. Really, I can’t make sense of any of it.

  So this morning, I’m driving to Cam’s kitchen so we can go talk to Rachel again and see if she met up with her dad before he left town. But as I’m driving down Main Street, my eyes go to the police tape in front of Cup of Jo and then to Bouquets of Love, Samantha’s flower shop, next door. I pull into a parking spot and cut the engine.

  Samantha is wearing a green apron over her stylish satin top and black pants, and she’s arranging a bouquet in a crystal vase. She looks up and smiles at me. “Oh, hi, Jo. Did they let you go back to work? Quentin didn’t mention it to me.”

  “No. I’m on my way to meet Cam, but I wanted to come by and see you first.”

  “That’s nice.” She keeps working as if our conversation is over.

  “Did Quentin say anything to you about the case?”

  “Which case?” she asks, finishing the bouquet and walking back to the register. She sniffs a bunch of flowers beside the register. “He bought me flowers. How sweet is he?”

  Yeah, because working in a flower shop, she never has any of those. “Nice,” I say. “So he didn’t talk to you about Sherman Cromwell and who might have murdered him?”

  “Nope. Quentin doesn’t like to talk about work at the end of the day.”

  Funny, he used to give me more details than I ever wanted. Maybe he didn’t know what else to talk about with me. I whip out my phone and pull up the picture of Alec Whitaker. “Samantha, do you remember seeing this man in Cup of Jo with you Monday morning?”

  “Not in your shop, but he was here.”

  “He was?”

  She nods. “He ordered a bouquet of lilies in assorted colors.” She rifles through some sales slips. “I remember because he didn’t want his receipt, and he paid in cash.” She shows me the receipt.

  “Do you know who he ordered the lilies for?” I ask.

  “Yes, I do. I wrote out the card.”

  I wait, but she doesn’t supply any more information. “Great. Can you tell me?”

  “Oh, sure. It was for Gwen.”

  “As in Gwendolyn Cromwell?”

  She bobs her head.

  “Did you tell Quentin about this?”

  “No. Why?”

  I can’t believe I have to spell this out for her. “Don’t you think it’s strange that he sent a bouquet of flowers to a woman right before her husband was murdered?”

  “Not really. I mean everyone knows Alec Whitaker only met Sherman Cromwell through Gwen.”

  “What? How do you know this?” Does she actually know Alec Whitaker even though she’s been acting like she doesn’t?

  “Not everyone skipped town for three years, Jo. You really should have stuck around.”

  I squeeze my hands into fists and try to remain calm. “Samantha, were Alec Whitaker and Gwendolyn Cromwell having an affair?”

  “I don’t know about that, but every time Alec comes back to town, he orders lilies for Gwen. I think it’s like a thank you for her introducing him to Sherman. He wouldn’t have been able to open that casino if not for that introduction.”

  “Then this wasn’t the first time he did it?”

  She waves her hand in the air. “Heavens no.”

  “Does he ever send a gift to Mr. Cromwell as well?”

  “Yes.” She nods and smiles.

  Here we go again. “Can you tell me what it is?”

  “Usually those steak of the month things or some fruit baskets. Oh, Mr. Cromwell loved chocolate-covered strawberries. Mr. Whitaker sent those a lot because, really, what do you buy a man who already has everything?”

  “So they had a good relationship?”

  “Absolutely. Mr. Cromwell was such a great guy. I always liked him.”

  “Do you know anyone who didn’t like him? Maybe someone who was hoping Mr. Cromwell would invest in but didn’t?”

  She scrunches her face in thought. “A lot of people say they wish he’d help them, but Mr. Cromwell tends to only help those who really need it. Not people like me or even you.”

  The way she said “even you” rubs me the wrong way, but I don’t think she realizes it, so I let it go.

  “There is his son, though. Gabe wanted to open a casino right here in Bennett Falls, but Sherman wouldn’t help fund it because he said this isn’t a gambling town, and it wouldn’t do well here.”

  “That’s the falling out those two had?”

  She nods. “Gabe was so angry. He found Sherman on a walk here on Main Street one day and ranted and raved about how his dad would pick a bum off the street and write him a check but he wouldn’t give his own son a dime. I don’t think that’s really true. I mean Gabe is a Cromwell. How strapped for money can he really be? He lives in that nice house, and he drives a brand new car. It’s hard to feel sorry for him.”

  But apparently that wasn’t enough for Gabe. Did he stand to gain anything by killing his father, though?

  “Well, I’m glad no one thinks you were the one to slip that fish oil pill into Mr. Cromwell’s vitamins,” I say.

  She cocks her head at me like I just said the most absurd thing in the world. “Why would anyone think that?”

  “I don’t think anyone would. It’s just that you were the one who picked up Mr. Cromwell’s vitamins when he dropped them.”

  “So?” She’s clearly not seeing a connection.

  “So, it would be easy to slip a fish oil capsule in with those vitamins. That’s what caused his death, you know. They found a capsule on the floor of Cup of Jo right where you and Mr. Cromwell were standing.”

  “They did?”

  How did Quentin not tell her any of this? At the very least, he should have questioned her about it. He told me he did. “Didn’t Quentin talk to you about this?”

  “No. Like I said, he doesn’t like to discuss cases with me.”

  Not even when they involve her, apparently. “Well, I should go. You’ll be opening soon.”

  “I can’t wait until you open again. I could really use a coffee this morning.”

  “You and me both.” I get back in my car and drive to Cam’s kitchen. Even though it’s not really called that, it’s the way I always refer to it. I like the way it sounds. I keep telling him he should open his own bakery and stop selling to other people. Or maybe he should go into business with me full-time. His baked goods are already in my coffee shop. Of course, who in their right mind would want to go into business with me after all this mess?

  I park and knock on the door. Cam answers wearing a white apron with frilly lace on the sides.

  “Manly,” I say.

  He looks down and laughs. “Yeah, I know. It was my grandmother’s. She taught me how to bake when I was only four years old. She use
d to wrap this apron around me. She had to fold it and tie it around my waist more than once to make it stay.” He smiles at the memory. “When she died, my mom gave it to me because she knew Nana would want me to have it. I wear it every once in a while when I’m feeling nostalgic.”

  That might be the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard. “I remember your grandmother. She made the best oatmeal raisin cookies, and I don’t even like raisins.”

  “She had a way of making people like things they didn’t like anywhere but in her baking.” He lets out a puff of air and turns back toward the cooling racks, which are full of pastries. “These are just about ready to box up.”

  “Take your time.”

  “Have you eaten breakfast?”

  “I had coffee before I left my apartment. Does that count?” I ask, sitting down on a stool by the steel island Cam uses to prepare the baked goods.

  “Not even close.” He grabs a crumb muffin from the cooling rack. “Here. It’s mocha crumb.”

  “Yum!” I say, taking it from him. “Thanks.”

  “We’ll deliver Rachel’s pastries last. That way we don’t have to rush through questioning her.”

  “Speaking of questioning people, I talked to Samantha this morning. Do you know Quentin never asked her about the fish oil or Mr. Cromwell’s vitamins? He lied to me.”

  Cam looks over his shoulder, pausing in boxing up a container of muffins. “Are you really surprised Quentin is capable of lying to you?”

  I shake my head. “I’ll never fully trust Quentin again, which is why I went to see Samantha in the first place. I guess I wanted to see if she remembered anything I didn’t.”

  “Not likely,” Cam says.

  I take a big bite of muffin. “These are delicious, Cam.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Samantha did mention that the falling out between Sherman Cromwell and his son was about Gabe wanting to open a casino here in Bennett Falls.”

  Cam places a stack of boxes onto his handcart. “Who would open a casino here? That’s a terrible idea.”

  “Sherman Cromwell thought so, too, but I guess Gabe felt his father should have been more supportive of his son’s business venture.”