Macchiatos and Murder

by Kelly Hashway

  Chapter Fourteen

  I’m not sure which is worse, being accused of killing Sherman Cromwell or being accused of having an affair with him. Everyone is staring at me like they think maybe I really did have an affair with the late millionaire. I can’t believe it. Most of these people have lived in the same town as me all my life. Why are they so quick to assume the worst of me? Is it because I left for seven years between college and my three-year hiatus?

  “I know most of you haven’t seen me since I was in high school, but I’m still the same Joanna Coffee. I didn’t murder anyone, and I’m not the type of person who would have an affair.” My gaze flits to Quentin, who immediately looks away. “This is a memorial, in case you’ve all forgotten. A man is dead. A man who helped every person in this room. No matter what you might think of me, you have to know Sherman Cromwell would never have an affair.”

  “That’s not exactly true,” Gwen says. “My husband disappeared for hours on end each day, and he had a room at that deplorable B&B he invested in. Tell me that doesn’t add up to having an affair.”

  Mary Ellen Reede looks horrified. She raises a shaky finger in the air. “How dare you? Sherman was a good man. He rented that room to help me. And then he let that boy stay there on his dime because he couldn’t afford a room and needed a place to stay.”

  “What boy?” Gwen asks.

  “Me.” A man in his mid-twenties raises his hand. He’s thin, and I realize he’s the only one wearing jeans. “Mr. Cromwell helped my mom and me after my dad split with all our money. Mom was working so hard just to pay the bills. She couldn’t afford to feed me, so Mr. Cromwell offered me a room that came with three meals a day.”

  “Lance, right?” I say. “You’re Jamar’s friend.”

  He nods. “You his neighbor?”

  “Jo. I’m planning to come to your grand opening in a few months. With Jamar, of course.” Trying to reconcile the image of Lance in jeans and a black T-shirt with someone opening an upscale restaurant isn’t easy, but maybe he wants to run an upscale restaurant so no one ever suspects what he’s been through. By the looks of it, he’s only using the money Mr. Cromwell invested for supplies for the restaurant. He’s not skimming any off the top to dress the part.

  He nods. “Jamar’s a good guy.”

  Gabe moves toward Lance. “No way did my dad actually give money to a piece of garbage like you.” He grabs the front of Lance’s shirt, and Lance pulls away, raising his fists in anticipation of a fight.

  “Hey!” Quentin yells. “Both of you outside! Now!”

  “No problem. I’ll be right back, Ma. I’m taking out the trash.” Gabe tries to grab Lance again, but Lance fights back. The two wind up in a heap on the floor, and Quentin and Cam have to pull them apart.

  I turn to look at Gwen, who seems like a completely different person than the first time I met her. She raises her glass toward the ceiling. “What do you think, Sherman? Are you happy with what you’ve caused?”

  This memorial is pretty much over, which is a shame because a man like Sherman Cromwell deserved better than this. Quentin has to cuff Gabe because he’s out of control and won’t stop trying to hit Lance. Quentin hauls Gabe out to his patrol car and tells Lance to stay put.

  “Maybe you should call someone before you go to the police station,” I tell Lance.

  “Nah. My mom’s busy working. She doesn’t need to know I’m going to be thrown in a jail cell.”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m sure Detective Perry just wants to see if you’d like to press assault charges against Gabe.”

  “I’m thinking I might need a restraining order.”

  “That might not be a bad idea,” I say. “Maybe you should call Jamar. He should be getting off work soon anyway.”

  Lance nods. “Thanks.”

  Quentin comes back inside. “I’m going to take Gabe in and let him cool off. Mr….?” He waits for Lance to provide his last name.

  “Tunney,” Lance says.

  “Oh, your mom works at the bank, right?” Quentin asks.

  “Yeah, that’s her.”

  Quentin nods. “You don’t need to come to the station. We all saw Gabe hit you first. You acted in self-defense. Just let me know if you want to press charges.”

  “Nah. He’s got enough problems. He probably would have taken it out on anyone. I was just closest to him at the time. Glad it was me and not someone else.”

  I can see why Jamar likes Lance. The poor guy was given an awful hand in life, yet he still keeps his cool and thinks of others first.

  Quentin claps his hand on Lance’s shoulder. “Take care then.”

  I turn to see Gwen passed out on the couch. How did Sherman ever end up in this family? Or was it the money that caused Gwen and Gabe to become like this? Greed can really change a person. I take a deep breath and make a decision.

  “Lance, I’d like to invest the money Mr. Cromwell left to me in your restaurant.”

  His eyes widen. “What? But why?”

  “I didn’t know Mr. Cromwell. He left money to all the local business owners who grew up here, but I don’t need it. I took out a loan, and while it will take me a while to pay it back, I want you to have the money. If you own an upscale restaurant, you’ll need to buy some fancy clothes, right?” I offer a small smile.

  He looks down at his clothes. “Mr. Cromwell told me to buy everything else first. Then worry about how I look last. He said appearances weren’t all they were cracked up to be.”

  “He was good at giving out free advice, wasn’t he?” I ask.

  “I really don’t know what to do without him. I can cook, but I don’t know anything about running a business.”

  “Then use the money to hire someone to do the books for you and help you advertise. Actually, my sister is a social media analyst. She might be able to help you, too.”

  “That would be me,” Mo says, coming up behind me. “I’m Maura, but you can call me Mo.”

  Lance actually blushes in Mo’s presence. “Hi, Maura. That’s a pretty name.”

  People are clearing out now that Gabe’s gone and Gwen is passed out. And that means I’m not going to get to question anyone else.

  “I want to head to the station,” I tell Cam. “Will you drive me, please?”

  He nods.

  I hug my parents, who tell me once again that I should steer clear of Quentin. “Believe me, if I didn’t have to clear my own name, I wouldn’t be helping him with this case, but I have to do this, guys. I just want to get my life back.”

  They nod and hug me again before letting me go.

  Once we’re on the road, Cam says, “I should tell you your dad made me promise not to leave you alone with Quentin.”

  I shake my head. “Don’t worry. He’ll never know if you keep that promise.”

  “I didn’t agree just to get him off my back, Jo. I don’t like Quentin. You might have moved on from what he did to you, but I haven’t forgotten.”

  “What makes you think I have? I meant it when I told my parents I’m only helping him to clear my own name. Quentin never put me first. I know I have to look out for myself because no one else will.”

  “Really? You think no one else will look out for you? What about your parents? Mo? What about me, Jo?”

  “I meant no one working the case.” I turn to face him. “I know you always have my back. Just like Mo does. We’re practically family.” That must be how he views our closeness—friends to the point of being family.

  He’s quiet. “You know what’s really tripping me up?”

  “What?”

  “We don’t know how this person got the fish oil pill inside the macchiato.”

  I’m a little relieved he’s directed our conversation back to the case. “Same here. I’m convinced this is someone Mr. Cromwell knew well, though. Well enough that an interaction between them wouldn’t have drawn the attention of anyone passing by.”

  “Yeah, that makes sense. Honestly, this person could
have punctured the capsule and squeezed it into the drink or dropped it in. It would only take a second.”

  “What do you mean squeezed it?”

  “Remember when we were kids, and I cut my face on that metal fence? I had to get stitches.”

  “Yeah, I remember. I went to the emergency room with you, and we had to wait for hours for a plastic surgeon to arrive because the gash was on your face and none of the other doctors would touch it since they thought you’d scar if they did.”

  “Right. Well, after I was stitched up, my mom bought vitamin E capsules. She used to stick a pin in one end and then squeeze them so the gel came out, and she’d rub that gel on my face to keep me from scarring.”

  “I see. So someone could have had the fish oil capsule punctured and just dropped a bit of it in the drink.” I contemplate it for a minute. “No. I don’t think that’s what happened.”

  “Why not?”

  “For one, it would take too long to squeeze out enough to cause such an intense and fast-acting reaction. And then there’s the fact that I don’t think it was just one fish oil tablet. I think this person tried that at the restaurant on Saturday, and that’s what made Sherman Cromwell sick.”

  Cam parks in front of the police station. “So, they tried using a small amount in his food, and when that didn’t work they came back with a much larger dose.”

  “I’m just hypothesizing, of course.” I start to get out of the car but stop. “You know what? Let’s go back to Le Cena. I want to talk to the chef.”

  “Why?”

  “Because maybe that was an accident. I mean kitchens make tons of different foods. What if something was made with fish, and one of the wait staff or the cook touched Mr. Cromwell’s food?”

  “It could have been a coincidence that he got sick on Saturday from the same thing.”

  “I think so. We might have just jumped to conclusions because Mr. Cromwell invested in the restaurant.”

  Cam starts the car again and heads for La Cena. It opens at noon, so we don’t have any problem getting in. The hostess grabs two menus. “Table for two?”

  “Actually, we’d like to speak with the chef who was cooking on Saturday night. If he’s here, that is,” I tell her.

  “Um, I’m not sure who was here Saturday night. I only work on weekdays. I can ask, though. Hold on.” She puts the menus down and disappears into the kitchen. She returns a few minutes later with a man wearing a chef’s uniform.

  “Hi, I’m Charlie Marcel. I was the chef on duty Saturday night. Lydia tells me you want to speak to me.”

  “Hi, Charlie, I’m Joanna, and this is Cam. We were curious if you were serving any fish dishes Saturday night.”

  “Um, actually we were. We don’t usually have fish on the menu, but there was a special pasta dish that had shrimp in it that night. The owner, Mr. Ricci, wanted to try it out.”

  Did Mr. Ricci know Sherman Cromwell would be in the restaurant Saturday evening?

  “I see. Well, one of the men dining here that evening has a shellfish allergy and became ill after leaving the restaurant.”

  Charlie’s jaw drops. “We’re supposed to be notified of food allergies before we prepare the meal. We take extra precautions. But I wasn’t told anyone had a shellfish allergy.”

  “You’re saying it’s entirely possible that Mr. Cromwell’s food came into contact with something containing fish oil?”

  “This is about Sherman Cromwell? The millionaire?” Charlie’s face turns white, and he looks like he’s going to be sick. “Oh my God. I didn’t kill him, did I?”

  Two days later? “No, Mr. Marcel, it’s nothing like that. According to Mr. Cromwell’s wife, her husband wasn’t very ill. He didn’t eat much of his food at all.”

  “Oh, thank goodness. I’m so relieved. I don’t know what I would have done if… I can’t even think it.” He wipes a few beads of sweat from his forehead.

  “Since you’re a chef, can you tell me if there’s anything else, other than fish or fish oil vitamins that might trigger such an allergic reaction?”

  “Anything that comes into contact with fish oil and that could absorb it, really.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Marcel. You’ve been very helpful,” I say.

  We leave and head to the police station where Quentin is pacing.

  “Why is your phone off?” he asks me as if I’ve been deliberately avoiding him.

  I pull it out of my purse. “I turned it off after I spoke to you right before the memorial. I guess I forgot to turn it back on.”

  “Gabe Cromwell is accusing Lance of killing his father. He says his father backed out of the investment before he died.”

  “What? But Lance said he was using the money to buy everything for the restaurant. What money could he be talking about then?”

  “Maybe the money everyone got in the will,” Cam says.

  I shake my head. “No, we haven’t gotten those checks yet. Besides, Jamar is friends with Lance. He knows him. There’s no way Lance killed Sherman Cromwell. It’s just not possible. He couldn’t have known about the will, for starters, so he’d have no idea he’d get money if Mr. Cromwell died. It just doesn’t make sense.”

  “Yeah, well I’ve got a really pissed off son of a late millionaire screaming another story in interrogation room one, and I do mean screaming.”

  “I want to talk to him,” I say.

  Quentin cocks his head at me. “What reason could I possibly give for allowing you to interrogate him here? This isn’t like going to the man’s house and asking him questions, Jo. You’re not an officer of the law. I can’t allow this.”

  “Okay, fine. You said interrogation room one, right?”

  “Yeah, why?” He crosses his arms and squints at me, trying to figure out what I’m up to.

  “You should let him cool off in there for a while, just to be sure he won’t go swinging at anyone else any time soon. And since everyone left the memorial before we got to question them, you should get on the phone. Contact those business partners who didn’t show up at the memorial, too.”

  “None of the out-of-town business partners showed up today, but they all have alibis. I’ve been talking to them over the past two days.” Quentin shrugs. “It’s all dead ends.”

  “So is La Cena. We just spoke to the chef, who said they had a special with shrimp in it. He was never notified of a fish allergy, so he said it’s entirely possible Sherman Cromwell’s meal came into contact with fish oil in some way.”

  “Then I should talk to the server and find out if he or she forgot to ask about fish allergies or if they just forgot to tell the chef,” Quentin says.

  “Good thinking, and you should do that now before the restaurant gets busy.”

  “What are you up to, Jo?”

  “Me? Nothing. I’m just going to use the restroom. Cam, didn’t you say you had to use the restroom, too?” I wave him along. “Your desk is that way, Detective Perry.” I point in the opposite direction.

  I walk by interrogation room one, check to make sure no one is watching, and duck inside, pulling Cam with me.

  “Hey, I thought you wanted to talk to me in private,” Gabe says when he sees me. “What’s he doing here?”

  “We hear you think Lance Tunney killed your dad,” I say, keeping myself positioned behind the door and out of view of the small window.

  “That’s ’cause he did. I heard my dad on the phone Monday morning. He said he needed to put a stop on a check. He’d changed his mind about investing. That’s all I heard, so I waited until my dad left the house, and then I took his checkbook and looked up the number he gave the bank.”

  “And it was for Lance’s restaurant?” I ask.

  “That’s right.”

  “At your parents’ house, Lance talked about the money. How is that possible if your dad stopped payment on the check?”

  “You tell me. It’s crap. That money never should have made it into Lance’s account. If you ask me, Lance found another way to get th
at money from my dad. Maybe he forced him to write a new check, and then he killed him.”

  Lance isn’t a big guy. I don’t see how he could force anyone to do something like that. Unless… Could he have threatened Mr. Cromwell at gunpoint? He could have even made Mr. Cromwell poison his own drink that way.

  “I overheard some people at one of my parties talking about how Lance has a gun. It’s not registered either. Ask him about it. The guy doesn’t have much, but he does have a gun.”

  “I didn’t think you attended your own parties,” Cam says.

  Gabe shrugs. “I wander downstairs every once in a while.”

  I bite my lower lip as I contemplate what Gabe is telling us. It makes sense. Lance has nothing. And that means he had nothing to lose, too. Did I just offer my share of the money from the will to the killer?

  Chapter Fifteen

  “We will ask him, Gabe,” I say. “Thanks.”

  I step out of the interrogation room and get a strange look from one of the police officers. I force a laugh. “This place is like a maze. I can’t find the restroom.”

  He points down the hall. “It’s over there.”

  “Thanks, but I see Detective Perry is free now. The bathroom can wait.” I march past him to Quentin’s desk.

  “Did Gabe tell you Lance Tunney has an unregistered gun?” I ask, keeping my voice low and taking a seat.

  “No, he didn’t.” He grabs his desk phone. “I need someone to bring Lance Tunney in here ASAP.” He hangs up. “You believe Gabe?”

  “I don’t know. He told us some interesting things, though.”

  “Odd what you can learn while using the bathroom, Jo.” Quentin gives me a disapproving look.

  “Isn’t it? Like I told the officer I saw on my way out of the interrogation room, this place is like a maze.”

  He shakes his head. “As far as I know, you just used the bathroom. Now go on.”

  “Apparently, Sherman Cromwell called the bank to stop payment on a check. Gabe went snooping in his father’s checkbook and discovered the check was issued to Lance.”

  “Lance never got any money from Cromwell. I’m sure that made him angry.”