“Did she have any English friends?” I ask.

“Not that I ever saw.”

“Did she have a desk or locker here at the shop we could take a look at?” Tomasetti asks.

“We don’t have anything like that here.”

The bell on the door jangles. A group of golf shirt–clad, fifty-something tourists wander in.

“Thanks for your time,” Tomasetti says and we head toward the door.

“Fruit didn’t fall far from the tree in that family,” I mutter beneath my breath.

He gives me an amused look. “Rotten fruit?”

“Putrid.”

“Oh, Chief Burkholder?”

At the sound of Evelyn’s voice, we stop and turn.

She speaks to us from her place behind the cash register. “I have Mary’s final paycheck here. What should I do with it?”

“You might give it to her brother, Aaron,” I say. “He may want to put it toward the cost of the caskets.”

I’m thinking about Mary’s diary as I get into the Tahoe. “The guy in the car could be our killer,” I say. “In her journal, she mentioned meeting her boyfriend for lunch.”

“Maybe we could get a couple of your officers to canvass the area.”

“Okay.”

“Not much to go on.” Tomasetti starts the engine and pulls away from the curb. “I should probably read the journal. Can I get a copy of it?”

“I’ll have Lois make you one.”

“Might give me some insight. You know what they say. Two brains are better than one.”

“That’s a scary thought, Tomasetti.”

CHAPTER 15

Tuscarawus Coffee Roasters is located in a small office complex on the north side of town. The barrel-tile roof and stucco façade cascading with English ivy lends it the ambience of an Italian villa. It shares space with two dentists, an insurance company, a photo studio and a high-end nail salon called Elegante.

We park in the only empty space and take the sidewalk to an arched entry. Beyond, I spot the sign for the coffee company.

“Nice digs,” I say.

“Must sell a lot of coffee.”

The door opens to a trendily decorated reception area with turquoise walls and mahogany colored molding. A black and silver sofa lines the wall to my right. The coffee table in front of it is piled high with Coffee Lover Magazine. To my left, an African-American woman sits behind an Art Deco–esque desk, tapping a sleek keyboard with long pink nails. A name plaque in front of her reads: Director of First Impressions.

“May I help you?” she asks.

I cross to the desk and show her my badge. “Do you have a route driver named Scott? He delivers to the Carriage Stop in Painters Mill.”

“Oh. Wow. Cops.” Her eyes dart from my badge, to Tomasetti and back to me. “Carriage Stop is part of Scott Barbereaux’s route. Is he in some kind of trouble?”

“We just want to speak with him,” Tomasetti says. “Is he in?”