Macchiatos and Murder

by Kelly Hashway

  “Except he did get the money. Something happened. Gabe thinks Lance threatened Sherman and made him write a new check.”

  “Then I need to get to the bank and find out for sure.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t think my invisible badge would get me that information,” I say.

  “No, it wouldn’t.”

  “But we should talk to Lance first. Find out when he got the money. It can easily be confirmed by the bank after he tells us.”

  Quentin picks up a pen on his desk and starts turning it end over end. “You think he’ll confess, don’t you?”

  “I don’t think Lance is a cold-blooded killer. If he did kill Mr. Cromwell, it might have been in a heated moment.”

  “You could be right about that,” Cam says. “While he didn’t instigate the fight with Gabe at the memorial, he didn’t hesitate to fight back either.”

  “And if he felt he was backed into a corner when Mr. Cromwell stopped payment on the check, he could have lashed out to protect himself from winding up on the streets with no money.” I really don’t want to be right about this because it would mean having to tell Jamar that his good friend is actually a felon.

  The front door of the station opens, and Lance walks in with one of the other officers. He looks completely confused. I’m glad they didn’t handcuff him, because who knows if Gabe is telling the truth. From the looks of it, Lance came willingly. The officer brings him right over to Quentin.

  “Thanks, Stiles. I’ll take him from here,” Quentin says.

  “Am I in trouble for something?” Lance asks.

  “Follow me,” Quentin says, bringing Lance to interrogation room number two. Of course, Cam and I follow.

  When Quentin turns and glares at us, I say, “Oh, you didn’t mean us, too? I thought you did, seeing as we might have information as well. You probably want to question all three of us.” It couldn’t be more obvious that I’m leading him, but my acting skills aren’t the greatest.

  “All of you, inside,” Quentin says, playing along.

  “What did you two do?” Lance asks us.

  I just shrug. Call me crazy, but he doesn’t strike me as a murderer.

  “Sit,” Quentin says. There’s one chair on one side and two on the other, so Cam and I sit on the side with two and leave the third for Lance. He sits, looking rather nervous.

  “Lance, we’ve recently learned that Mr. Cromwell attempted to stop payment on his check to you. What can you tell us about that?” Quentin asks, not realizing that he just said “we” and “us” when Cam and I are supposed to be pretending to be suspects.

  Lance furrows his brow. “I don’t know anything about that. My check cashed just fine. The money went into my account no problem.”

  “And when was that?” Quentin asks.

  “I don’t know. Monday morning, I think.”

  “So right before Mr. Cromwell was killed?” Quentin asks.

  “I suppose so.”

  “And he sent the check directly to you prior to that?”

  “Yes. I signed it and everything.”

  “When did you receive it?” Quentin asks.

  “Saturday afternoon. The bank was already closed for the day, so I couldn’t deposit it until Monday.”

  “And you had no idea that Mr. Cromwell called the bank to stop payment?”

  “No. Like I said, the money was in my account. I’ve been using it to purchase things for the restaurant. I ordered menus just yesterday.” Lance looks to me. “Why is he asking me this?”

  “Gabe Cromwell said he overheard the conversation between his father and the bank. He said you weren’t supposed to get that money after all.”

  “But why? Mr. Cromwell and I had an agreement.”

  “Did you and Mr. Cromwell have any disagreements?” Quentin asks.

  “No. Mr. Cromwell was always so nice to me and my mom.”

  “And you can’t think of any reason why Mr. Cromwell would suddenly decide not to invest in your restaurant?”

  “No. He was very involved in all of it. He was helping to choose the name and the menu items. He said it was fun working with me. And he’d already leased the space and bought the equipment.”

  Then what would make Sherman Cromwell change his mind like that?

  I look up at Quentin. “I want to talk to Gabe. Something isn’t right here.”

  “He’s still here?” Lance asks.

  “Yeah,” Quentin says. “And he tells us you have an unregistered gun. Care to explain that?”

  Lance holds up his hands. “Some guy gave me that. It was when my mom couldn’t afford to feed me. Right before I met Mr. Cromwell. I needed it for protection. I was sleeping on the street.”

  “Why didn’t you stay at your mom’s? Did she kick you out?”

  “No.” He shakes his head. “Nothing like that. My mom loves me. She’d never kick me out. But when I was there, she was giving me all the food. She got so thin, and she had to get up to work every day. She needed the food more than I did, so I told her I found a place of my own. She didn’t know I was living on the street until Mr. Cromwell set me up at that bed and breakfast.”

  “I’m going to need that gun,” Quentin says.

  Lance nods. “It’s at my place. Under my mattress. You have my permission to search the place. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  Smart move if he’s innocent, and I really think he is.

  “Bring the gun in tomorrow,” Quentin says.

  I guess it’s not a top priority since it isn’t the murder weapon. I stand up. “Lance, it’s going to be okay. We’ll figure this out.”

  Cam stands up and follows me out. Quentin is right behind us.

  “Gabe’s lying about something. The guy is full of anger, and I’m sure he’d be happy to pin his father’s death on Lance.”

  “Gabe was telling the truth about the gun,” Quentin says. “He could be telling the truth about the rest, too.”

  Cam is remaining quiet, so I have no idea what he thinks of all this.

  “Say something,” I tell him.

  “I’m processing. Lance doesn’t seem like a killer, but Gabe doesn’t either. He’s a jerk, definitely, but I don’t think he’d murder his father.”

  Quentin huffs and runs a hand through his hair. “Do you still want to talk to Gabe again?”

  “You mean for the first time, don’t you, Detective? I just used the bathroom earlier.”

  He shakes his head. “Let’s go. And if you ever find yourself with some spare time, consider taking a few acting lessons.” He holds the door open for me.

  Gabe looks up, annoyance all over his face. “How long do you plan on keeping me here? Are you charging me with assault? If so, just get it over with already. I’ll pay the bail.”

  “With the money your father left you?” It slips out before I can stop myself.

  “What did you just say?”

  “I said, I’m sure your father’s death upset you.” Is there any chance he’s still drunk enough to buy that? “Anyway, what time did you say your father called the bank?”

  “I think it was right when they opened at nine o’clock. Why are we going through this again? Did you arrest Tunney?”

  “Do you remember the check number?”

  “No, I read it from the checkbook.”

  Interesting. Earlier he said he looked the number up in the checkbook. I decide to change tactics. “Oh, of course. I’m sure your dad writes a lot of checks. The number was probably long.”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “So you had to read it to the woman at the bank, right?”

  “Right.” He stops. “Wait. What?”

  “When you called. You had to read the number of the check, right?”

  Gabe stares at me. “You mean when my dad called.”

  “Do I? Your dad was a smart business man. I’m willing to bet he was really good with numbers. So good he’d remember the number of the last check he wrote. But you, on the other hand, would have to
look it up and read it to the bank when you called to put a stop on the check.”

  “You’re crazy, lady. Seriously crazy.” He sits back and crosses his arms.

  I move a step closer. “Do you remember the day we met? At the party you threw at your home the day after your father died? I said something that reminded you of your father. Something he always said, and you did a rather convincing impression of him. I’d wager that over the phone, you could sound just like him.”

  Quentin leans down, resting his hands on the table in front of Gabe and getting right in his face. “Did you call the bank Monday morning pretending to be your father and try to put a stop on the check made out to Lance Tunney?”

  Gabe laughs. “Prove it.”

  “See an innocent person wouldn’t tell me to prove it,” Quentin says.

  “I’m assuming you made the call from the landline in your father’s office. Am I right?” I ask.

  Gabe just snorts.

  “Of course, you did because you wouldn’t have been stupid enough to call from your own house or your cell phone. But then that means your fingerprints will be on the phone in your father’s office.”

  “Easy enough to pull,” Quentin says.

  “You know what else I’m willing to bet on?” I lean forward. “That your dad left the house before the bank opened for the day.”

  “Oh, yeah. Why don’t you prove that, too?”

  “Okay. I’m sure your mother knows when he left the house.”

  “She was asleep. Mother likes to sleep in.”

  “Where did your father go the day he died?” I ask.

  “To your coffee shop from what I hear.” He smiles widely at me.

  “What about before that? Was he on one of his walks?”

  “Beats me.”

  Someone had to have seen Sherman Cromwell that morning. It doesn’t make sense that they wouldn’t. I lean toward Quentin and whisper, “Did you check Sherman’s phone records to see who he might have spoken to that morning?”

  Quentin nods. “No one.”

  That can’t be right. He talked to someone. “Which car did he take into town?” I ask.

  “Probably the Benz,” Gabe says. “He always parked it in the lot behind Main Street and then walked around.”

  That’s the lot shared by the post office and bank. Someone in either of those places could have seen him.

  “I didn’t kill my father.”

  “I don’t think you did,” I say. “But I do think you tried to stop payment on that check. The question is why?”

  “Why?” Gabe says it like it’s obvious and I’m an idiot for not figuring it out. “You’ve seen that kid. He’s a moron for one. He dresses like he still lives on the streets. You know when I turned eighteen, Dad gave me the house I live in now and told me to find a job I loved. I said I wanted to work with him. You know what he told me?”

  “I’m going to guess no,” I say.

  “He said I didn’t have a mind for business.”

  “What did he think you had a mind for?” I ask.

  “Nothing, apparently.”

  If he wanted to work with his dad at eighteen, then he had no plans of going to college. “You’d need a business degree,” I say. “Did you get one?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I was born into money. Why should I?”

  And that’s why Sherman Cromwell didn’t leave his wife or son any money. They both thought it was owed to them. They didn’t want to work a day in their lives. “Sherman Cromwell believed in helping people who were willing to work hard. You never showed him you were willing to do that,” I say.

  “There you go again, sounding just like him. ‘You have to be willing to get out there every day and bust your hump, or you’ll never get anywhere in this world.’ Yeah, well when did he ever work hard? He spent money to make money. It’s the easiest game there is.”

  “That was a great impression of your father,” Cam says. “You sounded just like him.”

  “I have to agree,” Quentin says.

  “Why did you try to stop payment on the check, Gabe?” I ask.

  “You’re all unbelievable. Someone killed my dad, but you’d rather spend your time getting me to confess to trying to stop my father from making a huge mistake.”

  “Then you thought you were protecting him and his money because Lance’s business would fail.”

  “Of course, it’s going to fail. Any moron could see that, but Dad was leasing the space and bought all the equipment, and then he wrote that check, which was for more money than he’s ever given me. I wasn’t having it. Yeah, I called the bank. Those idiots over there screwed something up though, because Lance got his money anyway.”

  “You are aware that false impersonation is a crime,” Quentin says.

  “Whatever,” Gabe says. “I’m a prisoner in that house. Why not be a prisoner in a jail cell?”

  I scoff. “Yes, let’s feel bad for the rich kid whose father bought him an expensive house and car and was trying to teach him the value of working hard to earn a living. You do realize most parents don’t buy their children houses or cars.”

  “Do you know how many parties I threw to try to get his attention? To show him I could bring a crowd of people if he’d just fund my business venture? But he never showed up. Not once.”

  Sherman was the one Gabe was throwing the parties for. I never would have guessed that. “One thing I do know about your father is he liked to talk to people. Did you ever think to have a genuine conversation with him? One that didn’t involve asking him to write you a check?”

  Gabe looks away, which is answer enough.

  I stand up. “I’m done here.”

  Quentin opens the door for us. After a brief conversation with Officer Stiles, he joins us again. “Let’s go to the bank and find out what happened.”

  “We’ll meet you there,” I tell him.

  “What are you thinking?” Cam asks me on the drive.

  “We have to be getting close. But it bothers me that we don’t know where Sherman Cromwell went Monday morning. Or who he saw. I have a feeling when we get that answer, we’ll know who the killer is, even if Mr. Cromwell didn’t die until after he left my shop.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The bank is getting ready to close for the day, but Quentin’s badge gets us through the doors.

  “Hi, Jo,” one of the tellers I usually go to says on her way out. “I hope they let you open Cup of Jo again soon. I don’t know how you did it, but I swear that was the best macchiato I’ve ever had.”

  “Thanks, Jill.” She’s almost out the door when I call after her. “Oh, Jill, wait up a second.” I step outside so she doesn’t have to come back in. “I was wondering if you saw Mr. Cromwell on Monday morning. I know he likes to park his car in this lot here, and I was hoping someone saw which direction he went in after he parked.”

  “No, sorry. His car is usually here before I get to work. I know he likes to go sit in the park, though.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, Amanda told me that. She said that’s how he clears his mind before he walks around town. He eats breakfast there too some mornings.”

  “Thanks, Jill. Enjoy your weekend.”

  “Oh, I will. It’s my first weekend off in a long time. I have big plans of sleeping in and reading.”

  “Sounds great,” I say before going back inside, where Cam is waiting for me.

  Quentin is talking to the manager, a tall man I recognize.

  “Hello, Mr. Englert,” I say.

  “Joanna, nice to see you. I’m afraid you’ve missed most of my staff.”

  “Yeah, I ran into Jill, but it looks like most of the others have already gone for the day.”

  Quentin clears his throat. “Mr. Englert, I plan to come back in the morning, but I’m wondering if you can tell me whether or not you know of a phone call made Monday morning from the Cromwell residence.”

  “I don’t handle incoming pho
ne calls, I’m afraid.”

  “Of course. I just figured I’d ask.”

  “I’ll walk you out,” Mr. Englert says, extending a very long arm toward the door. If I had to guess, I’d say the guy is six foot eight.

  “Well, that wasn’t helpful,” Cam says. “It almost seemed like he wanted to get rid of us.”

  “It did,” Quentin says.

  “Mr. Englert is a big man. If he was with Mr. Cromwell Monday morning, someone would have seen him. He can’t exactly hide in a crowd.”

  “No, he can’t.” Quentin’s phone rings. “Perry. Yeah, go ahead.” He pauses. “I see. Good work. That might actually be very helpful.” He hangs up. “We got more results from the autopsy,” he says. “The full report is still weeks out, but something struck me as odd based on what you told me more than once.”

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “You said all that was in your macchiato was espresso and milk, but we found more in Sherman Cromwell’s stomach.”

  The thought of digging around in a dead man’s organs churns my stomach, but I ask, “What?”

  “A chocolate-covered strawberry.”

  “Like Alec Whitaker sometimes gave Sherman Cromwell when he was in town to visit,” I say.

  “Yes,” Quentin says.

  “You know about that?” I ask.

  “Sam did. She’s the one who told me.”

  I nod. I guess he finally started questioning her about the case. I remember what Mr. Marcel, the chef at La Cena, said about foods that can absorb fish oil. “Then it’s possible Whitaker gave Mr. Cromwell the chocolate-covered strawberry laced with fish oil before he left town. That way Mr. Cromwell would die when Whitaker was already long gone.”

  Quentin nods. “That’s what I’m thinking. It explains why no one saw Whitaker with Cromwell Monday morning. The plan was designed to kill Cromwell after Whitaker had made his escape.”

  “I assume you’ll be bringing Whitaker in for questioning,” I say.

  “You assume correctly.” He looks at his watch. “All right. I’m late for meeting Sam for dinner. You two head home. Good work today. It was really impressive how you figured out Gabe made the call to the bank, Jo.”

  “Call me Sherlock Jolmes.” I shake my head. “Never mind. I heard how awful that was. Just forget I said it.” I turn and walk to Cam’s car.