Hot Fudge Murder

by Cynthia Baxter

  He took off before I had a chance to ask any more questions. I glanced around the room, which appeared to be a front parlor. I quickly spotted a good-sized antique end table that was relatively free of knickknacks. That table was probably worth as much as Grams’s house, but I decided that today it would have to serve a more practical purpose than simply being a work of art. I covered the top with plastic, plunked down the two tubs of ice cream, and headed out to the truck to get the rest of my supplies.

  It was on my third and final trip back into the house that I spotted Gretchen. She looked like a page in a magazine come to life. Her makeup was perfect, her hair was arranged in a complicated twist, and she was wearing a short purple dress with sleeves shaped like two cube-shaped cardboard boxes.

  “Kate!” she cried, clearly surprised to see me. “Gott im Himmel, what are you doing here?”

  “Ice cream, of course,” I replied with a shrug. “I just set everything up over there. Please, help yourself. Or I can bring you some—”

  “Maybe later,” she said with a wave of her hand.

  Right, I thought. Like in forty years.

  Anxious to engage her in conversation, I said, “I’m actually pretty excited to be here. I’ve never been to an actual photo shoot before.”

  “You’ll probably be bored silly,” she said, sighing. “There’s so much waiting around while they adjust the lights and rearrange the furniture and change the pocketbook or the shoes . . .”

  “I had no idea it would be such a big production,” I commented, gesturing at all the equipment and the masses of people standing around. “Who are all these people, anyway?”

  “Crazy, right?” Gretchen replied. “Those women over there work for the magazine, and that group over there by the big camera represents some of the designers whose clothes we’re photographing today. Then there are the photographers, their assistants, the lighting people, the hair people, the makeup people . . . and of course the models.”

  The models were the easiest to pick out, since they were all so thin that I desperately wanted to hand each one a huge dish of ice cream.

  “It’s not as if the model just throws on the outfit and the photographer starts clicking away,” Gretchen went on. “In fact, the most important people at a photo shoot—aside from the photographers and the models, of course—are the hair stylists, the makeup artists, and the clothing stylists.”

  “How long does it take to put makeup on a model?” I asked. In my life, it took about two minutes to put on some blush and eyeliner and maybe splurge with a little lip gloss.

  “Usually a half hour to an hour,” Gretchen replied. “But it can take even longer if it’s a close-up. And especially when it’s a print ad for a cosmetics company.”

  “And I bet the makeup artists have all kinds of tricks,” I prompted, curious about how photographing beautiful people compared with photographing beautiful food.

  “They do,” she agreed. “Like putting lip gloss on eyelids to get a real shine. Or putting lipstick on the model’s cheeks. Still, a lot of their effort goes into keeping the model’s faces from getting too shiny under the hot lights. They’re constantly retouching the makeup.

  “And getting the right look is crucial,” she added. “For a seductive look, like for an evening gown or clothes that are dramatic or extreme, the makeup artist has to put on really heavy makeup. But for an innocent look that goes with something like sportswear, simple makeup works much better. The same goes for the hairstyle.”

  “What does the clothing stylist do?” I asked. I could tell that we’d found a subject she loved to talk about, and I was hoping to use it to establish as good a rapport with her as I could.

  “The stylist’s job is to make the clothes as attractive and enticing as possible,” Gretchen replied. “And the stylist we’re using today, Gabrielle, is one of the best. She always has a style kit with her, and she generally ends up using everything in it.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “One of the most important things is a steamer,” she explained. “When a model puts on an outfit, there can’t be a single wrinkle anywhere. After steaming every garment, Gabrielle goes over it with a stiff brush. That’s especially important with suede and velvet. The nap—that’s a term that refers to the texture—has to all be going in the same direction. She uses a lint roller, too. There can’t be even the tiniest speck anywhere on the fabric. That especially matters with dark clothes.”

  I didn’t mention that I hadn’t used an iron since I’d moved out of the city. These days, laying my clothes out flat on the bed while they were still warm from the dryer and smoothing them out was about as good as it got. As for specks on one’s clothes, I wasn’t going there.

  “Gabrielle has also got every type of pin you can imagine in her style kit,” Gretchen went on. “She has boxes of safety pins, bobby pins, straight pins . . . She uses them to make the clothes fit the model perfectly. And it’s best to put the pins inside the garment. That way, the photographer can snap away, taking pictures from any angle, without stopping to adjust the model’s clothes.

  “And if pins don’t do the job, there are always clips,” she continued. “Binder clips work best. And then there’s tape. Gabrielle always brings all kinds of tape. Scotch tape, duct tape, double-sided tape. There are lots of uses for tape, like holding the clothes in place. Like keeping shoulder straps from slipping down or keeping plunging necklines from revealing too much . . . Tissue paper is useful, too. It can give volume to puffy sleeves, for example. Or make a collar stick out.

  “And there are plenty of other tricks the stylist uses. Like nipple concealers and breast-lift tape . . . Of course, there are more obvious things a fashion stylist does, too,” Gretchen noted. “Like making sure the accessories for each outfit are absolutely perfect. The wrong shoes or handbag can ruin a look. And adding the right accessories, like fabulous earrings or a scarf or some textured item like a jacket, can make any garment look amazing.”

  My head was spinning. And I’d thought photographing food took a lot of patience and creativity!

  I couldn’t wait to tell Willow about all of this. Emma, too. Even Grams would get a kick out of it. Maybe none of us subscribed to Flair or any other fashion magazines, but that didn’t mean we were above devouring them while we were in line at the supermarket or waiting in a doctor’s office.

  But one thought stood out: How were the rest of us supposed to come even close to looking like the beautiful, perfectly put-together women in the magazines if even they required so much help?

  Before I got too discouraged, I was distracted by a stylist, presumably the legendary Gabrielle, who rushed over with an evening gown draped over her arm. It was absolutely gorgeous, made of flowing silk in a shade of silver that was so pale it bordered on white.

  “This one’s next,” she told Gretchen. “We should be ready to shoot in about five minutes.”

  “Danke, Gabrielle,” she replied.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Gretchen pulled the purple minidress over her head and wriggled into the gown. The shimmering fabric spilled over her curves like water. Yet when she studied her reflection in the full-length mirror that was propped up in front of a bookshelf, she frowned.

  “If I were working with this fabric,” she said, “I’d drape it over the shoulder like this, and put a few embellishments here. Nothing too showy, maybe a few rhinestone buttons to add a little sparkle . . .”

  I was surprised. I’d assumed that Gretchen simply put on whatever clothes were handed to her and then did her best to make them look good. I’d never even considered the idea that she might have had a creative streak of her own.

  I guess my shock showed.

  “You don’t think I could be a fashion designer?” she challenged.

  “Of course you could,” I replied. “It just never occurred to me that you were interested in fashion. From a design perspective, I mean.”

  “I’m passionate about designing clothes,” she
said, still staring into the mirror. Wistfully she added, “One day, I’d love to have my own line of clothing. What I envision is separates that all go together so you can mix and match. Each piece would be exceptionally comfortable and flattering, tops and bottoms that are made of really great fabrics. But I’d want them to be priced so that the average woman could afford them.”

  “Maybe you’ll be the next Omar DeVane,” I said.

  “Oh, no!” she insisted, looking positively horrified. “I could never be that good. And I’d never want to be seen as one of ODV’s competitors, even now that Omar is gone. After all, I owe him so much. If it weren’t for that man, I’d still be working at that horrible factory.”

  “It sounds as if Omar was a really good person,” I commented.

  “He truly was,” she replied. “And I’m not the only person to benefit from Omar’s generosity. When I think about all the people who’ll be helped by his foundation . . .”

  “His foundation?” I repeated, startled. “Omar had a foundation?”

  “It was brand-new,” Gretchen explained. “He started it a few months ago, so it was just getting off the ground. I’m not surprised that you don’t know about it since he never wanted it to get much publicity. Omar was much too modest for that. When it came to his fashion business, he wanted all the exposure he could get. But when it came to his philanthropic activities, he was positively secretive.”

  “What were his plans for the foundation?” I asked.

  She looked at me blankly. “To help people, I suppose. Isn’t that what foundations are for?”

  Before I had a chance to ask her any more questions, the stylist came back. “It’s time, Gretchen,” she said. “Dan is ready.”

  Gretchen flashed me her million-dollar smile. “Got to run,” she said. “Thanks for helping me kill some time!”

  As I watched her float away, my brain was fixed on this new piece of information. I couldn’t help wondering if the fact that Omar had recently started a foundation had something to do with his murder. After all, things that involved money often did.

  Of course, it was just as likely that it didn’t mean a thing.

  “Beautiful! Simply beautiful! You’re absolutely amazing. There’s no one like you! Now look over here . . .”

  I snapped out of my reverie, whirling around to seek out the source of such loud praise. The words were being spoken by the photographer who had just started snapping pictures of Gretchen.

  She was standing in front of the elaborate fireplace, posing. But rather than jerking from one position to another, she moved fluidly, almost like a dancer. She was holding the skirt of her gown in both hands, giving the impression that she was totally in love with it. Her eyes had a dreamy look, and her expression was one of pure joy.

  I realized that as she stood in front of the camera, Gretchen was transformed into an entirely different person.

  I suddenly understood why she was considered one of the top models in the world. She had the ability to make the clothes she was wearing seem like—well, much more than simply clothes. She somehow managed to make it seem as if that gown had the ability to turn the woman who was lucky enough to be wearing it into someone spectacular.

  But Gretchen’s talent for morphing into someone else also made me uneasy. To me, it meant that she was a very good actress. While she seemed like a golden girl whose beauty had blessed her with a storybook life, there were clearly other layers beneath the surface.

  And that meant that if she had a dark side, she was undoubtedly capable of hiding it.

  Chapter 11

  The most popular flavor of ice cream is vanilla, accounting for 29% of sales. Other popular flavors are chocolate (8.9%), strawberry (5.3%), butter pecan (5.3%), and Neopolitan (4.2).

  —http://www.derinice.com/news/15-most-popular-ice-cream-flavors

  First thing Thursday morning, instead of whipping up an original flavor of ice cream, I tried making something really really new.

  At least it was new for Lickety Splits.

  My heart was pounding and my palms were actually sweating as I dipped a small spoon into the finished batch and tasted it, letting the frosty glob dissolve in my mouth.

  Its surprising yet delectable flavor made me moan with pleasure.

  I had just created my very first sorbet. Something to mark on my calendar as a cause for celebration for years to come.

  And Peach Basil Bliss sorbet was definitely going to be the first item on my brand-new Lickety Light menu. It was only mildly sweet, which allowed the fresh flavor of the real peaches I’d used to come through. The basil added another flavor altogether, a contrast that was the perfect complement to the icy fruitiness.

  Emma came rushing in shortly afterward, the dismayed look on her face telling me she was about to apologize for being three minutes late.

  “Kate, I’m so, so sorry!” she cried. “It’s Ethan. Again. We were up until two a.m. texting about this Europe thing. And then I was so upset about it that I couldn’t fall asleep—”

  I waved my hand in the air dismissively. “Emma, we can talk about all that later. At the moment, I have something much more important to tell you about.”

  A shocked look crossed her face. “Something bad?”

  “Something fabulous!” I told her. “Something amazing, something life-changing. Something—well, try this.”

  Warily she studied the spoonful of the concoction I’d handed her, peach-colored but dotted with tiny bits of dark green. She raised it to her lips, stuck out her tongue to taste it, and then shoved the whole thing into her mouth. For three or four seconds, she kept her eyes closed.

  And then, her eyes snapped open, and she smiled dreamily.

  “Oh, my,” she said, her voice a near-whisper. “Kate, that is everything you said it was. Fabulous, amazing, life-changing. . . You have to let me have more!”

  “You can have all you want!” I told her, laughing. “As long as you leave a little for the customers!”

  “What is this?” she demanded as she devoured a few more spoonfuls, acting as if she hadn’t been near a morsel of food in days. “It’s heavenly!”

  “It’s sorbet,” I said. “Peach sorbet with a hint of basil. I call it Peach Basil Bliss. Somehow the light texture makes me feel, well, blissful.”

  “What other flavors of sorbet do you plan to make?” she asked eagerly. I wasn’t sure if she was asking for the sake of the store or for her own purposes.

  “I’ve got a whole list,” I told her. “Watermelon, Coconut Banana, Pink Lemonade . . .”

  Emma was nodding enthusiastically. “Each and every one of those flavors screams summer, too. So does the texture. It’s so frosty, and it’s amazing the way it magically melts on your tongue.”

  “I came up with some more exotic ideas, too,” I said, glancing at my list. “Strawberry Champagne, Lemon with Raspberry Balsamic Vinegar . . . And those are just the result of fooling around on the Internet for half an hour this morning, looking at what other shops offer. I’m sure that if I dig a little deeper and think a little harder I can come up with all kinds of unusual flavors.

  “And the best part—well, aside from the flavor and texture—is that there are lots fewer calories in sorbet than there are in ice cream. It has no fat, either. And while a lot of the recipes I’ve seen call for more sugar than in ice cream, I tried cutting it down a bit, and it seems to work fine. Of course, I don’t think there’s anything that’s good enough to totally replace ice cream. But for people who want something lighter, this will be part of the new Lickety Light menu.”

  “Lickety Light!” Emma repeated, savoring the words in the same way she’d savored that first spoonful of Peach Basil Bliss sorbet. “That’s so perfect.”

  Letting out a loud, contented sigh, she added, “Aunt Kate, you are an absolute genius.”

  I only hoped my customers would feel the same way.

  * * *

  As eleven o’clock drew near, I left Emma in charge of Lickety Splits and
headed over to Pippa Somers’s house.

  The nervousness about my appearance that I’d felt before the photo shoot paled beside my near-panic over the prospect of showing up at the weekend home of the editor-in-chief of Flair. I’d had to resist the urge to squeeze in a last-minute shopping spree.

  In the end, I’d opted for the same outfit I’d worn the day before: the flowing blue top, the purple and blue scarf, and the black pants. Still, I made a mental note to add a few new items to my wardrobe the very first chance I got.

  Since Omar DeVane and Pippa Somers were part of the same social set, I simply assumed that Pippa’s house would be a lot like his. After all, she’d told me herself that he had been her inspiration for buying a weekend getaway in the Hudson Valley in the first place.

  As I drove up the winding road that led to the address she’d given me, I tried to imagine what the hideaway of one of the most important and influential people in the world of fashion would be like. Elegant, stylish, tasteful . . . I was picturing an English version of Omar’s estate, meaning it would have a rose garden, plenty of cobblestones, and perhaps a vine or two crawling up an exterior wall. In other words, I just assumed that Pippa’s place would look like a set from a movie based on a Jane Austen novel.

  I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  At the end of the driveway stood an architectural wonder. The modern white building was all sharp angles and offset levels and glass windows that covered entire walls. It was a building that appeared to defy all the laws of engineering.

  Not that I know much about engineering. Or anything at all about engineering, to be more accurate. But the place was astonishing enough that it looked as if it deserved to be on the cover of Architectural Digest.

  I suspected that it had.

  After I parked, it took me a couple of minutes to locate the front door. I finally spotted it tucked between a towering sculpture made of tiny silver balls all stuck together and a spiky, six-foot-tall bush that looked as if it was perfectly capable of accompanying the plant from The Little Shop of Horrors to an all-you-can-eat-buffet.