Macchiatos and Murder

by Kelly Hashway

  “No crushed tomatoes?” Quentin asks.

  “Nope. This is a cheat, and it adds flavor, so I prefer it.”

  He nods.

  I grab a can of black beans, strain them, and add them to the pot. Then I grab a jar of banana pepper rings and fork about half the jar into the pot as well. I give it a few stirs, turn the heat to low, and then exhale loudly. “Where does the investigation go from here?”

  “We know what killed him. We have to find out who would want to kill him and how they pulled it off. We were only able to pull a partial print from the capsule, and it yielded no results in the system. So that was a dead end.”

  “Who else came into contact with his drink? Someone must have. The same someone who dropped one of the fish oil capsules on the floor.”

  “You didn’t see anyone else with him?”

  I shake my head. “He came in alone, and as soon as he left, I took a bathroom break. Samantha offered to watch the counter for me while I was away.”

  “I’ve talked to Samantha. She didn’t see anyone leave when Sherman did. She also didn’t see any vitamins on the floor when she picked up the bag Sherman dropped. She said the bag was sealed.”

  “Then the fish oil might not have been mixed in with his multivitamins. The two could be completely unrelated.”

  My apartment door opens, and Mo and Cam come walking in.

  “Look who I found in the elevator,” Mo says, but she stops short when she sees Quentin in my kitchen with me. “What’s going on?”

  “I came to discuss the case with Jo.” Quentin moves toward the door. “I guess I should go. If you remember anything at all, no matter how small, call me.”

  “I will.”

  Quentin gives a small nod to Cam as he walks out. Cam doesn’t bother shutting the door since I usually leave it open. I’m sure it seemed strange to Mo and Cam that it was closed when they got here.

  “Anything we should know?” Mo asks.

  “No. No leads. Quentin said he’s trying to keep me from being arrested. That’s why he wanted to talk here.”

  “That was oddly nice of him,” Mo says, her tone skeptical. She brings the bottle of margarita mix she’s carrying over to my blender.

  “He finally apologized to me. I think he’s doing it out of guilt. And possibly because he doesn’t want me to point the finger at Samantha anymore.”

  “That last part I believe,” Cam says.

  “No matter what his motivation is, he’s trying to help me. I can’t reopen Cup of Jo until this is over, though.”

  “So that means we’re tracking down leads again tomorrow,” Cam says with a nod.

  I stir the chili. “No. You’re going to work. You can’t keep missing work to help me. Besides, I can talk to a few people on my own.”

  “I just came from work,” he says, grabbing ice from the freezer and bringing it to the blender.

  “I thought you were going home to shower.”

  “I did. After I made a few dozen pastries.”

  Cam makes the margaritas while I put the chili into bowls for us. Mo grabs a bag of tortilla chips, and we’re ready to eat.

  “I got a list of Sherman Cromwell’s business partners,” Mo says, grabbing a paper from her purse and handing it to me.

  I scan the names. “Why are these two highlighted?”

  “They’re the only two with businesses here in Bennett Falls,” Mo says.

  “Mary Ellen Reede owns the bed and breakfast in town, and Salvatore Ricci owns La Cena, the Italian restaurant on Third Street.”

  “I could go for Italian food for dinner tomorrow,” Mo says.

  “Okay, then I’ll talk to Mary Ellen on my own during the day.”

  “I wonder why Sherman Cromwell would invest in a bed and breakfast,” Cam says. “I can’t imagine that makes him much money.”

  “We’re a small town. Most visitors stay at the B&B,” Mo says.

  “It still seems odd.”

  “Did Cromwell know Mary Ellen? Maybe he was doing her a favor because she’s a friend.” I scoop some chili onto a tortilla chip. “Oh, I forgot the shredded cheddar cheese.” I jump up, grab the cheese from the fridge, and add a heaping portion to the top of my chili. “Much better.”

  “I just had a thought,” Cam says. “Remember when Gabe said he didn’t know if his father had a mistress. What if it was Mary Ellen?”

  Mo whips out her phone. “Unless he liked older women, I doubt that. Mary Ellen is eighty-two years old.” She turns the screen to face us.

  “That’s right. Her daughter runs the place, doesn’t she?” I ask.

  “Oh, yeah. I remember hearing something about that a few years ago,” Mo says.

  “So maybe he was having an affair with the daughter,” Cam suggests. “She’d still be a little older than Sherman, but not by much.”

  Mo’s on her phone again. “Oh, wow. You guys are not going to believe this.”

  “What?” I ask, moving closer to try to read Mo’s phone screen.

  “I found an article with an interview by Mary Ellen Reede. The reporter asked her how she remains so lively at eighty—that’s how old she was when she finally handed the B&B over to her daughter, Elena. Guess what she said.”

  Cam shakes his head. “No clue. What?”

  Mo reads from the screen. “‘I take one fish oil capsule every day. It’s the secret to my youthful appearance.’”

  “You think an eighty-two-year old woman killed Sherman Cromwell?” Cam asks.

  “No, but her daughter might have,” I say.

  Chapter Eight

  I’m heading out the door with Midnight, who dropped by last night after Cam and Mo left, when I run right into Cam.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m coming with you. There’s no way I’m missing out on this,” Cam says.

  “But, Cam, I already told you I can handle this on my own. Besides, I don’t want you missing out on orders because of me.”

  “I already dropped off all of today’s orders. I’m ready to go.”

  “What time did you get up?” I ask, heading for the elevator.

  “Two. I was at the kitchen by two-thirty, and all my deliveries were done by six. Then I went home, showered, ate breakfast, and here I am.”

  I can’t say I’m not happy to have him come along. If Elena Reede did kill Sherman Cromwell, I don’t really want to be alone with her. “Thank you for getting up early to do all that just so you can come with me today.”

  He smiles and wraps an arm around my shoulders. “Of course. You know I’d do anything for you, Jo.”

  We take the elevator downstairs, and I head for my car.

  “You want to drive?” he asks.

  “Do you mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  Just as I suspected, we’re barely in the car for a minute before the soft vibrations of the engine have Cam sleeping like a baby in the passenger seat. I smile at him. “Sweet dreams, Cam.”

  The Reede Bed and Breakfast seems to always have cars parked in the lot. But in addition to being a B&B, they have a dining room that serves as a restaurant to the public as well as overnight guests. They serve breakfast, lunch, and dinner. From what I hear, the food is quite good.

  I park and gently nudge Cam’s arm. “Cam, we’re here,” I whisper so I don’t startle him.

  “Huh?” He opens his eyes and looks around. “I fell asleep?”

  “Yeah, you did.”

  “You knew that would happen, didn’t you? That’s why you offered to drive.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Thanks.” He gives me a smile before we both get out of the car.

  “How should we approach this?” I ask him as we walk up to the front door.

  “Offer our condolences, I suppose. Or we could pretend we’re interested in staying here.”

  “Yeah, two locals looking to book rooms, that’s not suspicious at all.”

  “I doubt she’ll know who we are. I think we could pull it
off.”

  I’d rather not lie to get information, though. “Let’s stick with the truth.”

  Cam reaches for the doorknob and opens it. Directly in front of us is a foyer and a staircase. To the left is the check-in desk, so we start there.

  “Good morning,” says a woman in her sixties. “Are you here for breakfast?”

  “Yes,” I say, deciding I could definitely eat, and this might be a good way to get inside without arousing suspicion. “But we were actually hoping to speak with either Elena or Mary Ellen Reede first.” I’m guessing the woman is Elena, but I don’t want to make the assumption.

  “I’m Elena Reede. What can I do for you?”

  “Nice to meet you, Elena. I’m Joanna Coffee.”

  She cocks her head to the side, and I can tell she’s pondering something. “Your name sounds familiar.”

  Yeah, because she probably saw me on the news in connection with Sherman Cromwell’s murder. “Most people call me Jo,” I say, trying to steer her away from that connection.

  Her expression softens, and then she laughs. “Oh, like coffee. You’re the woman who just opened that coffee place on Main Street, right? And your name is Jo Coffee. That’s adorable.”

  Yeah, that never gets old. I force a polite smile. “Yes, that’s me. My parents have quite the sense of humor.”

  “They do. I get a kick out of some of the names parents come up with. Let me guess; you had two pets growing up and their names were Cream and Sugar.” She laughs again.

  “No, no pets. I’ll keep that in mind if I do get any, though. Anyway, Cam and I wanted to come by and offer our condolences. We understand Mr. Cromwell invested in your bed and breakfast. I’m sure the news of his death came as quite a shock.”

  “Oh, it did. I’m afraid Mother hasn’t gotten out of bed since we heard.”

  “Is she ill?”

  “Physically, no. I think it’s more a broken heart. Mr. Cromwell used to come here often. He has one room permanently reserved. Or rather, he did.”

  “He did? May I ask for what reason? He lives in town. Why would he need a room here?”

  Elena smiles. “I think it was for Mother’s benefit. You see, Mr. Cromwell’s parents died when he was young. About sixteen I believe. Mother found him wandering the street one day near our house. She invited him in for tea and cookies, and he told her his parents had died in a plane crash. It was a private plane. Only four people on board. He didn’t want to have to move out of his house or go into foster care until he was eighteen, so Mother told him not to worry. She packed up and went to live with him.”

  “You lived in Sherman Cromwell’s house?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “No, I’m a bit older than Mr. Cromwell. I had already moved out of Mother’s house and into a place of my own.”

  “How long did they live together?” I ask.

  “Oh, until Mr. Cromwell was twenty. Then he helped Mother buy this place. She lives on the premises. In the room right next to the one Mr. Cromwell reserves.”

  “Do you know why he’d reserve a room? It just seems odd.”

  “It’s a constant source of money for Mother, but more than that, it was a place for him to come and escape. He said being in that big house often felt lonely.”

  “What about Mrs. Cromwell?” Cam asked.

  “As far as I know, they had a good marriage. He and his son had a bit of a falling out a few years back, but Gabe was already living in the other house on the property by then. I think Mr. Cromwell liked it here because he could talk to Mother. She became like a mother to him.”

  “That’s nice,” I say. “It sounds like they had a great relationship.”

  “They did.”

  “Is your mother well enough to have visitors for a few minutes?” I ask. “I would really like to offer my deepest sympathies. I promise we wouldn’t stay long.”

  Elena squints at us as she debates it. “I don’t know. I really don’t want to upset her.”

  “I promise we wouldn’t.”

  “Okay, but if she’s asleep or if she gets upset in the slightest bit—”

  I hold up my hands. “We’ll leave. You have my word.”

  She nods. “Follow me.” She brings us up the stairs and to the second door from the end of the hall on our right. “This is the room Mr. Cromwell rented. Mother’s in the corner room.” She lightly knocks on her mother’s door. “Mother, are you awake?”

  “Yes, dear. Come in.”

  Elena opens the door. “Mother, two of Mr. Cromwell’s friends are here to see you.”

  “Oh, how nice,” Mary Ellen says, sitting up in the bed. She’s a tiny woman, but she doesn’t look her age at all. Maybe there is something to be said for fish oil. As long as you aren’t allergic to it.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Reede. My name is Joanna, and this is Cam.” I step around Elena into the room. Elena gives me and then Cam looks before retreating back downstairs.

  “Good morning to you both. You were friends with my Sherman?”

  “I admit we didn’t know him well, but he was a very nice man.” I step toward the bed. “I spoke with him Monday morning.”

  Mary Ellen’s face falls. “He was like a son to me.”

  I reach for the box of tissues on her bedside table and hand her one. “We know. You were both very lucky to have each other.”

  “I always told him family doesn’t have to be blood. Sometimes family is the people you choose. And you know, that’s how he decided who to invest in.”

  “You mean which businesses to invest in?” Cam asks.

  Mary Ellen shakes her head. “Oh, no. It was never about the business. It was about the people. They were his family. His chosen family. There was a boy who lived in the room next door for a while so he could get back on his feet. Sherman paid the bill, of course. That’s just the kind of person he was. He had all that money, and he wanted to do good things with it.”

  “That’s very admirable,” I say.

  “I told him, ‘You take your vitamins, and you’ll be able to help a lot of people before your time is up.’” She wags a finger in the air. “He couldn’t take fish oil. Said he was very allergic to seafood. But he took his multivitamins every day like a good boy.” She moves the tissues on her bedside table. “Speaking of fish oil, where did I put that bottle? I can never seem to find it anymore.”

  Cam and I exchange a glance. “What do you mean? Is your bottle missing?”

  “Elena found it downstairs yesterday in the kitchen. I don’t know how it got there. I must have been sleepwalking.”

  “Do you sleepwalk often?” I ask.

  “Only when I’m particularly upset.”

  Would she have sleepwalked before Sherman Cromwell was killed? I can see his death upsetting her, but what about before that? It’s more likely someone else took her pills and left them in the kitchen. “Did Elena maybe move the pills?”

  “Oh no. She never touches them. She took them once and said they made her burps smell like mackerel.” Mary Ellen laughs. “She was kidding. I think.”

  But maybe she’d take the bottle of pills because she wanted to use the fish oil on Sherman Cromwell. Maybe she resented how close he and her mother were.

  “Did Sherman get along well with Elena?” I ask.

  “Elena was out of the house when I went to live with Sherman. Once she took over running this place, she had to start working with him, though. About a month ago, they had a little spat about changing the look of the bed and breakfast. Elena wanted to modernize the place, but Sherman told her to leave it be. I agreed with him.”

  “That was a month ago?” That’s plenty of time for Elena to plot her revenge, but would she contemplate murder over something as small as design.

  “Yes. She approached me last week about buying Sherman out now that she’s here. I told her family doesn’t do that to family.”

  “So Elena didn’t want to be partners with Sherman anymore?”

  “Elena’s a good girl, but she has
her own opinions. I told her as long as I’m alive, Sherman will be part of this business. She didn’t argue.”

  No, but did she find another way to sever that business partnership? And did she use her own mother’s pills to do it?

  Chapter Nine

  “Elena’s certainly looking like a suspect to me,” Cam says on our way back downstairs after saying goodbye to Mary Ellen.

  “She had motive and means, but I didn’t see her in Cup of Jo Monday morning. So how did she get the fish oil capsules into Sherman Cromwell’s drink?”

  “Maybe she was working with someone else,” Cam says.

  Elena is helping a guest when we get back downstairs. She holds up a finger to us as she finishes checking out the guest. Then she walks over to us, where I’m pretending to be interested in the paintings on the wall.

  “I trust you didn’t upset Mother.”

  “Not at all. She’s an amazing woman,” I say. “Oh, she did want me to ask you if you’ve seen her fish oil pills. She doesn’t know where they are and mentioned you found them in the kitchen the other day.”

  Elena laces her fingers in front of her and looks down at the ground. “I’m afraid she’s been sleepwalking again. I’ll look around for them.”

  “Have you seen her sleepwalking, or are you assuming that’s what’s happening?” I ask, trying my best not to sound like I’m interrogating her even though I definitely am.

  “I’m assuming. It’s happened before. She probably came downstairs to get water to take the pill and left the bottle down here.”

  “Wouldn’t she just go to the bathroom attached to her room?” I ask.

  “No. Mother never drinks tap water. She only drinks bottled.”

  “Oh, I see. Has Mrs. Cromwell come by to get her husband’s things from his room here?”

  “No. He didn’t keep anything here. Like I said, he really just rented the room as income for Mother. They liked to take care of each other.”

  “I’m sure it was a comfort to you as well to know someone else was looking out for your mom,” Cam says.

  “It was. I wish Sherman and I were closer in age so I could’ve gotten the chance to get to know him better when we were younger.”