Hot Fudge Murder

by Cynthia Baxter

  “That’s great,” Jake said. “How old were you again when he died? I know you were pretty small . . .”

  “I was five.”

  And I still haven’t gotten over it, I thought, feeling my throat thicken and my eyes burn.

  “I guess we never really get over losing someone who matters to us,” Jake said, almost as if he’d read my mind.

  I just shook my head. I was afraid if I tried to speak, I’d end up crying instead.

  There was a long silence as we both dug into our ice cream. The cold, creamy chocolate ice cream and the way it contrasted with the stark sweetness of the marshmallow ribbons running through it seemed especially tasty tonight. Somehow, no matter what else was going on, ice cream always made the world seem like a slightly better place.

  It was Jake who broke the silence. His voice was strained as he said, “I guess we never really forgive ourselves for hurting the people we care about, either.”

  I looked up at him. But he was keeping his eyes on his ice cream.

  “I still think about that night, you know,” he went on, putting his spoon down on the table. “The night of the prom.”

  I bit my lip. I’d spent fifteen years waiting for the chance to rail at him, to tell him how hurt I’d been that night. But now that I knew the truth about what had happened, I remained silent.

  I certainly wasn’t about to add to his misery. Not when his feelings about the events of that night apparently remained a demon that continued to hover over him, unwilling to leave him alone.

  “It was a long time ago,” I said softly. “It’s time for us both to put it behind us.”

  Instinctively I reached over and took his hand.

  His eyes met mine. As he squeezed my hand, his expression was apologetic, regretful, and above all, relieved.

  “You’d better eat that ice cream before it melts,” I said, taking my hand back and trying to change the mood. “If it goes to waste, I’m going to be offended.”

  He picked up his spoon. Looking at me meaningfully, he said, “The last thing I want, Kate, is to do anything that offends you.”

  From that point on, we kept the conversation light. It was as if we’d tacitly agreed that we’d both had as much baring of our souls as our still-wobbly relationship could handle. Instead, we ate our ice cream, meanwhile brainstorming about different flavors that might be worth trying. Some of the ideas we came up with were absolutely hilarious. In fact, I laughed so hard at Jake’s suggestion of Thanksgiving ice cream— gravy-flavored ice cream dotted with pieces of turkey, stuffing, sweet potato, and cranberry—that I actually choked on my ice cream, something I’d never known was physically possible.

  When he drove me home, he pulled into the driveway and kept the car running. The awkward time was suddenly upon us.

  “I’ll walk you inside,” Jake offered.

  “You don’t have to,” I insisted.

  “Hey, chivalry isn’t totally dead,” he teased. “Besides, it’s the least I can do after you fed me all that incredible ice cream.”

  We were silent as we walked the few steps from the car to the porch, then up the wooden steps. The night sky was unusually light, thanks to both a nearly full moon and about a million stars. All around us I could hear the crickets chirping, one of my favorite sounds of summer.

  And then we found ourselves standing at the front door.

  It was the moment I always dreaded. A moment that, for me, anyway, looms over every first date like a gloomy rain cloud.

  To kiss or not to kiss?

  That’s always the question.

  With Jake, it was a huge question.

  A kiss wasn’t just a kiss, after all. And the vibe I was getting from Jake was that he was ready to make the move to the romance level. I, however, was not.

  So I laid on the friendship stuff, big-time.

  “That was really fun!” I said, as cheerful as a camp counselor. “Thanks again for inviting me to come along.” As I chattered away, standing a good three feet away from Jake, I unlocked the front door. Predictably, Digger came dashing out.

  I immediately scooped him up.

  “Good night, Jake,” I said with that same forced cheerfulness, still grasping the scruffy, squirmy terrier mix in my arms.

  Poor Digger. I was using him as a shield.

  Of course he didn’t mind in the least. Or even notice. He was too busy licking my face, overjoyed that I’d reentered his universe.

  As for Jake, he didn’t seem quite as happy. In fact, he looked crestfallen.

  “Good night, Kate,” he replied, already turning away.

  I watched him walk back to his car, not sure how I felt. Or at least not sure which one of the mishmash of emotions that was rushing over me was the strongest.

  All in all, the evening had turned out to be a lot more intense than I’d expected. It had felt good to have someone to talk to. Someone who had known me for so long that it wasn’t necessary to explain things or make excuses or try to be anyone aside from who I really am.

  At the same time, I was aware of how very dangerous it felt to make myself so vulnerable.

  Especially with Jake.

  Chapter 10

  “In the 1920s, officials at Ellis Island became convinced that serving new immigrants ice cream ‘was an efficient method for making our future citizens more at home in their new environment.’ Ice cream was, these immigration officials believed, the ultimate American experience.”

  —http://www.ultimatehistoryproject.com/ice-cream-and-immigrants.html

  On Wednesday morning, I awoke with an excited Christmas-morning fluttering in my stomach. Today was the fashion shoot at Wilderstein. And if things went the way I hoped, I’d be getting a behind-the-scenes peek at the glamorous world of modeling.

  Not that I was a complete stranger to going behind the scenes. When I worked in public relations, my job involved learning as much as I could about the companies my PR firm represented.

  At one point, we’d had a theater company as a client, and I was given a backstage tour. My eyes were wide as I took in rooms full of wigs, racks of costumes sitting in the middle of the hallway, and the surprisingly tiny, grungy dressing rooms that even big-name Broadway actors had to use.

  We’d represented a candy company, and I visited its factory in Pennsylvania. I was amazed by the sight of Dumpster-sized containers filled to the top with colorful pieces of sweetness in every color of the rainbow.

  Over the years, I’d also gone to a few food shoots—photography sessions for magazine ads for food companies or restaurants—in which the food had to look as irresistible as possible. I’d learned something about the tricks routinely employed by the food stylists, the people who arrange the food before it’s photographed.

  Ice cream, for example. Because it melts so easily, especially under the hot lights photographers require, food stylists substitute mashed potatoes for ice cream. When it’s photographed, it looks just like the real thing. The stylists usually use instant mashed potatoes, dyeing it as they whip it up to make it look like chocolate or strawberry or any other flavor. As for whipped cream, shaving cream is a great substitute.

  There are dozens of tricks to enhance the appearance of the foods being photographed. Hairspray or deodorant make it gleam so it’s more appetizing. White glue is substituted for milk because it doesn’t make other foods like cereal get soggy. Motor oil is used instead of syrup because it’s so shiny that it looks better in pictures. And, of course, plastic ice cubes behave much better under hot lights than real ice cubes do.

  I’d always found it fun, being an insider. And today I’d be getting a firsthand look at what really went on at a fashion shoot.

  That is, if I managed to get myself in the door.

  Which remained a big “if.” But for now, I was focused on making myself look the part.

  Even though I’d decided to use ice cream as an excuse to sneak into the photo shoot, I still wanted to look a little more presentable than usual.


  I stood in front of my closet, frowning as I tried to decide what to wear. When I lived in Manhattan, my closet was full of the latest, trendiest clothes that a woman on a budget could buy. Over the years I’d lived in the city, I’d become a regular at the upscale consignment shops on Madison Avenue. Shopping in places like that was always hit or miss. But if you went in often enough, you might find a top-of-the-line Stella McCartney dress or a Calvin Klein jacket for about the same price you’d pay for lesser brands at Marshall’s or T. J. Maxx.

  Since moving to Wolfert’s Roost, however, my “nice” clothes had been pushed to the back of the closet, along with my heels and designer purses. For an ice cream mogul like me, jeans and T-shirts were much more practical.

  As I surveyed my big-city clothes, I was surprised to find that I was actually looking forward to dressing up. Especially when I spotted a pair of pants I’d always loved. They were a soft dove gray, made from a fabric that was a silk-and-linen blend. I’d worn them a lot, partly because of the material’s fine quality but also because I always thought they made me look pretty darned good—even with the ten or twelve extra pounds I’d put on since high school.

  I couldn’t wait to put them on and feel, well, stylish again. So I stepped into them, pulled them on, and started to zip them up.

  And discovered that I couldn’t come close to doing so.

  Did they shrink? was my first panicked thought. Maybe the dry cleaner messed up somehow?

  The telltale stain on the left thigh, a barely noticeable blob, reminded me that I hadn’t had these cleaned since the last time I’d worn them.

  It wasn’t that they’d shrunk. It was that my waistline had expanded.

  My stomach clenched, making me feel as if I’d just eaten a scoop of lead ice cream.

  I had no choice but to face the fact that despite all the planning I’d done before opening Lickety Splits, despite all the flow charts I’d drawn and all the Excel spread sheets I’d laid out, there was one important detail I’d forgotten to consider.

  And that was that eating ice cream day and night, living it and breathing it and devouring as much of as I wanted any time I felt like it, was bound to have an effect. A negative effect.

  Of course, I was aware that eating ice cream at least once a day—and that’s on a bad day—was not the best way for a person to keep her weight at a consistent level. Especially since I’d never been a natural string bean the way Willow was.

  Yet I’d always managed to strike a balance. Some days I gorged on ice cream, but other days I was too busy or too distracted or simply not hungry. All in all, I had managed to keep my weight from getting out of control.

  Now that I ran an ice cream business, spending my days surrounded by three-gallon vats of Cappuccino Crunch and Chocolate Fudge Swirl and Pear with Blue Cheese, I was going to have to do some rethinking.

  In the end, I threw on a pair of nondescript black pants and a loose-fitting, pale blue top that was stretchy enough to hide all kinds of secrets. I didn’t exactly feel fashionable in it, but I looked nice enough. As an afterthought, I draped a long silk scarf covered with colorful swirls of blue and purple around my neck. Surveying my reflection in my full-length mirror, I decided that I’d created what appeared to be a carefully thought-out outfit.

  Even so, as I drove to the photo shoot, I was in a bit of a funk. Maybe I’d solved my immediate problem by putting together an acceptable ensemble. But that didn’t take away the basic problem I was now confronting.

  And then a light bulb flashed on in my head.

  I’m hardly the only one who’s struggling with those evil laws of physics or biology or whatever it is that persistently wants to put weight on us, I thought. Which means that there are lots of people who find themselves having to just say no to ice cream.

  Obvious, of course. But what was less obvious, or at least had been up to that moment, was that it wouldn’t be a bad idea for Lickety Splits to offer other options.

  Lighter options. Options that were less likely to make people unable to zip up their favorite jeans or button the jacket they’d counted on wearing that night.

  I decided to look into it right away. And rather than seeing my sudden burst of fleshiness as a curse, I could now consider it inspiration.

  A new concept called Lickety Light had just been born.

  * * *

  While I could hardly wait to get to the photo shoot at Wilderstein—or, to be more accurate, to crash the photo shoot at Wilderstein—first I had to stop at Lickety Splits to pick up the magic ingredient that was designed to get me in the door. I figured I’d drive over to the shop with Emma, pick up my cold, creamy bribe, and make sure she was settled in before I headed over to Rhinebeck.

  My niece shuffled into the kitchen as I was finishing up breakfast. I was about to lay out my plan but changed my mind when I saw the expression on her face. It was clear that her conflict with Ethan over his upcoming grand tour of Europe was still under way.

  “You look like you need coffee,” I greeted her. “Or, even better, a big scoop of Cappuccino Crunch. I’ll set you up as soon as we get to Lickety Splits. A little caffeine and a little sugar and you’ll be your old self in no time.”

  She cast me a mournful look. “Kate, I’m dealing with something that even coffee and sugar can’t take care of.”

  I sighed. “So things are still rocky on the Ethan front?”

  “He’s impossible!” she wailed. “He expects me to drop everything in my life and just run off to Europe with him! And he can’t accept the fact that my reluctance to do that isn’t a statement about how much I value him! He’s simply not seeing this the same way I am.”

  Welcome to the world of relationships, I thought cynically.

  But I knew better than to get involved. “I’m sure you two will figure this out,” I told her.

  Given how upset she was, I hoped I wasn’t asking too much by leaving her alone in the shop. But I figured the distraction of having to throw herself into her work might cheer her up. Especially since around here, “work” meant dishing out the absolute best food on the entire planet—literally.

  I quickly forgot about Emma’s little soap opera. I was too focused on my commitment to investigating Omar DeVane’s murder—and, I’ll admit, a bit giddy over the prospect of going to the fashion shoot.

  When I got to Wilderstein, I spotted a big handwritten sign on the front lawn that said, CLOSED TODAY FOR PRIVATE EVENT. I breezed right past it and up the driveway.

  The brick-red Queen Anne–style country home, built in the mid-1800s, looked like an illustration in a children’s book. I’d always found the three-story house absolutely charming, thanks not only to its famous towering turret but also its various peaked roofs, its multisized and multishaped windows, and its ornate wraparound verandah.

  I parked my truck and walked purposely toward the front door. By that point, I was actually starting to believe that I belonged there.

  The good news was that there was no security guard or bouncer guarding the entrance. The bad news was that, instead, a young woman holding a clipboard was stationed there. While she was petite enough that she didn’t look capable of strong-arming me, she did appear to have been charged with keeping interlopers out.

  Fortunately, I was ready, having anticipated that getting myself into the photo shoot was going to take a little creativity. And a little creativity is something I happen to possess.

  So not only had I made a point of showing up wearing the best outfit I could put together, I was also carrying two giant tubs of ice cream, one of Chocolate Explosion and one of Berry Blizzard. If there was one thing I’d learned in my first thirty-three years of life, it was that very few people could resist ice cream.

  I sashayed over to the woman at the door. “Hi-i-i-i,” I greeted her, plastering on my biggest smile. “I’m Kate McKay from the Lickety Splits Ice Cream Shoppe in Wolfert’s Roost. I’m here to set up a snack area. I brought everything I need, so if you can tell me where I can f
ind a nice big table . . .”

  She glanced at me warily. “I don’t know anything about an ice cream delivery,” she said.

  “That’s because it’s supposed to be a surprise,” I replied, acting like the picture of confidence. “Pippa Somers arranged this. She said something about wanting only the best for Gretchen Gruen.”

  “Pippa arranged this?” the woman exclaimed, her hard expression melting as fast as a scoop of Chocolate Mint Chip that had been put into a microwave. “How thoughtful of her!”

  Amazing what a little name-dropping could accomplish. And fortunately, the irony of the editor of one of the fashion industry’s most important magazines sending a gift of ice cream to one of the world’s top models went unnoticed.

  “You’d better get that ice cream inside before it turns to mush,” the woman said. “It’s hot out there.”

  I could practically hear her mouth watering.

  “I’m on it,” I said, sailing inside.

  At least, I’d intended to sail. Instead, as soon as I stepped into the front room, which appeared to be the center of the action, I was confronted by a maze of thick cables and wires and other scary electrical equipment that snaked across the thick Oriental carpets. Huge cameras and oversized lights were positioned throughout the room, a startling contrast to the old-fashioned surroundings: dark wood paneling on the walls and ceiling, ornate stained-glass windows, and an intricately carved wooden fireplace that covered an entire wall. Personally, I’d always found it kind of fussy. But I could certainly understand how it would make an intriguing background for fashion photos.

  I stopped the first person I spotted who didn’t appear to be completely frazzled, a thin young man wearing a white T-shirt and jeans. But his T-shirt was very chic-looking, while his jeans had been strategically torn in all the right places. It was as if Giorgio Armani had decided to dress James Dean.

  “Excuse me, I’m the caterer,” I told him. “I need a place to set up.”

  “Just grab whatever you need,” he replied with a shrug. “But we’re about to get started, so if I were you I’d keep out of the way.”