SIXTY-FOUR

“WHAT can I do to help my husband, Clare? Tell me!”

The words I used to comfort Sophia were a salve for my own racked conscience.

“First, try not to worry. All of these facts about Hunter will come out as detectives interview him. And the search of your home will yield nothing incriminating—no guns, no fireworks, no evidence of any involvement with the shootings here in the city. They’ll check his phone and any digital messaging account and see that he’s innocent, not only of plotting to hurt police but of plotting to hurt Gus. I’m sure they’re looking at you, as well, to see if you colluded with him to kill your father so you could inherit the business—you see where I’m going?”

“Yes, and none of it’s true.”

“I know that now. Clearly, Hunter is a victim of circumstance. But the police won’t know that for hours, and because of his association with Eduardo De Santis, they’ll be questioning him for the next twenty-four, pressing him for any information he can give them on Club Town Eddy and his business in the city.”

“I should tell my lawyers all of this.”

“Yes, you should . . .”

As Sophia made the call to her attorneys, I sat back and now considered (ironically enough) how to prove Hunter’s innocence. By the time she was done, I had an answer.

“Sophia, Detective Soles told me the police found Hunter’s fingerprints on Gus’s glass of poisoned coffee while his own drink was untouched—”

“It was untouched because Hunter can’t drink coffee. It makes him ill.”

“I know that. But the police didn’t, which is another reason they picked him up today.”

“What about that person who knocked you down, the one in the black raincoat?”

“My Phantom?”

Sophia nodded. “Why aren’t the police tracking him down as a suspect?”

“It’s possible they already did—and dismissed him. By now, a routine investigation would have included interviews with your father’s employees and close associates. But the forensics yielded Hunter’s fingerprints. He had opportunity, proximity, and motive since Gus’s death would mean you’d inherit the business and as your husband he would profit. So my next question is important. Did your father know that your husband is allergic to caffeine?”

“No. There’s no reason he would. I’m sure Hunter accepted the glass of cold brew out of politeness. He was already on pins and needles facing Dad. I know how tough my father can be.”

“So there’s a valid reason Hunter’s glass went untouched. And a good lawyer would say that just because Hunter’s fingerprints are on Gus’s glass doesn’t prove that he put the poison in it. Your husband could have held or moved Gus’s glass for any number of reasons. And maybe the poison wasn’t put in the glass at all. Maybe the poison originated from somewhere else.”

“His forge?”

“No. His cold brew jars. I saw them lined up in the refrigerator when I visited last week.”

Sophia finished her second Irish coffee. “I don’t follow.”

“Cold brew can take anywhere from twelve to twenty hours to make, depending on the type of coffee and the batch size. You add ground coffee to cold water and place it in the refrigerator to steep. After the flavor is extracted, the grounds must be filtered out. Your father made his cold brew in quart-sized Mason jars. He staggered the steeping and clearly labeled each jar. Some jars were just started, a few were in the middle of the steeping process, and others were already filtered and ready for drinking.”

“And you think someone poisoned one of the jars?”

“Yes. You can store cold brew coffee for up to a week, but Gus went through his much quicker than that. That’s why I think the person who poisoned Gus’s coffee could have been someone who visited him a day or two before we found him poisoned. It’s ingenious because whoever did this would be long gone by the time Gus drank it.”

“So what can we do?”

“Well, a logical investigation has to start somewhere. So let’s check your surveillance cameras again. Hopefully, they go back a few days—”

“They go back seven days.”

“Good. If we see any possible suspects who visited Gus in the hours—and days—leading up to his drinking the poison, then we show them to your lawyers.”

Sophia thumbed her phone and cursed. “The battery died.”

“The Village Blend has Wi-Fi. Can you hook up your surveillance system to any device?”

“Sure. The passcodes are in my head.”

Tuck returned, glanced at the empty cups and shot glasses. “Would you like more Irish coffee?”

“Just bring the bottle,” Sophia replied. Suddenly embarrassed, she covered her mouth. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t have a liquor license.”

“Oh, don’t you worry about that,” Tuck said with a wink. “We never make a liquor sale here—just complimentary service for family and friends.”

While my assistant manager fetched Sophia’s bottle, I went to my office and grabbed my laptop.

She was logging on when Tuck got back.

“Here you go. For the ladies who liquid lunch.”

Not only had Tuck delivered the Jameson, he’d dug tumblers out of our catering closet, and brought water and a bowl of ice, too. Sophia passed on the amenities and downed a quick shot.

“You know, honey,” Tuck said, “my mother was quite the drinker. And her mother, Granny Chestnut, used to warn her: ‘People who drink to drown their sorrow should be told that sorrow knows how to swim.’”

I arched an eyebrow at my assistant manager. “That wasn’t your grandmother, Tuck, that was Ann Landers.”

“And Granny read that column every single day!”

“It’s all right,” said Sophia, French-tipped fingers hovering over the computer keys. “I may have had a few, but I’m not about to drown—or let my family sink. Now, let’s get started.”