Hot Fudge Murder

by Cynthia Baxter

  Marissa’s cheeks immediately turned pink. “We met the night Omar was killed. I know it sounds crazy, given everything that was going on, but somehow we liked each other from the first moment. But it wasn’t until a few days later that Pete called me. He asked me to go see a Spanish movie at the Rhinebeck Cinema.”

  Grinning, she added, “We never got there. We were so busy talking and laughing and just getting to know each other that we decided to skip the movie and go out for coffee instead. The next night, we went out for dinner. And the day after that—”

  “I certainly owe both of you,” I told her sincerely. “The next time you two are out on the town, please stop by and I’ll force-feed you so much free ice cream you won’t be able to move.”

  She laughed. “It’s a deal.”

  As soon as I went back into the butler’s pantry to pick up where I’d left off, my heart sank. It looked as if there’d been a chocolate explosion in there. The entire room was covered with splatters of dark brown sauce. The floor, the walls, the counters, the cabinets . . .

  But I was even more dismayed by the sight of a huge batch of hot fudge sauce that by now was so badly burned it was hardly recognizable.

  Fortunately, I’d brought along a lot more.

  Chapter 18

  Chocolate syrup is the most popular ice cream topping in the world.

  —www.icecream.com/icecreaminfo

  Goodness, it felt good to be home.

  As soon as I got inside, I threw myself on the couch, facedown. I was suddenly exhausted and shaken and exhilarated and overwhelmed—and totally confused by all those emotions that had finally decided to set themselves free.

  Gram and Emma both gave me plenty of space. So much space, in fact, that when there was a knock at the door, no one but me was around to answer it.

  Standing on the threshold was Jake, his face tense with concern.

  “Jake!” I cried. Sure, I was surprised to see him. But I was even more surprised by how happy I was that he was here. “You’re not going to believe what happened—”

  “I know all about what happened,” he interrupted. “Word travels fast in this town. Especially when one of your oldest friends is Pete Bonano. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I replied, even though I wasn’t sure that was true.

  As he came inside, he held out a jar.

  “I brought you this,” he said. “More hot fudge sauce, but one made by a different company this time. I figured you might as well learn everything you can about the competition.”

  “I’m always looking for a chance to eat ice cream,” I told him. “And you’ve just given me one.”

  “I’m up for ice cream, too,” he said. I wasn’t sure if he was kidding or not as he added, completely deadpan, “Especially if there are hot fudge sundaes on the menu.”

  Ten minutes later, Jake and I were sitting at the kitchen table. It turned out he’d been serious, and in front of us sat two of the most beautiful hot fudge sundaes I had ever created. Mine consisted of a huge scoop of Classic Tahitian Vanilla and a scoop of Dark Chocolate Hazelnut topped with a generous slathering of gooey hot fudge sauce. Maybe the sauce he’d brought wasn’t as good as the one I made, but it was certainly in the Exceptional category. Then came the requisite mountain of whipped cream, an avalanche of chopped pecans, cashews, and almonds, and of course a cherry, so shiny you could practically taste its sweetness just by looking at it.

  Jake’s hot fudge sundae was identical, aside from the ice cream flavors. He’d opted for strawberry and Chocolate Marshmallow, two choices that showed excellent taste on his part. It was a good thing I kept a nice big selection of flavors at home for emergencies like this one.

  “Quite a day, huh?” he said once he’d tasted his sundae and agreed that life didn’t get any better than this.

  “That’s what we call an understatement,” I agreed. “I’m so glad that Omar DeVane’s murderers have been caught and Wolfert’s Roost can go back to being its normal self.”

  He looked at me earnestly. “And I’m glad you came through this without getting hurt.”

  Once again, I had to agree.

  “I admire your spirit, Kate,” he continued, “and I know you felt that you had to do everything you could to find out who killed Omar DeVane. But now that it’s over, is there any chance I can get you to promise that you’ll stop doing dangerous things like investigating murders?”

  I gave him a funny half-smile. “Honestly, Jake, what are the chances that there’ll be another murder around here anytime soon?”

  “Good point,” he said. “Even so, I worry about you.”

  I immediately felt my blood pressure rise. “I don’t need you or anybody else to worry about me, Jake!”

  “I can’t help it,” he replied with a little shrug. “That’s what happens when you care about someone.”

  This time, I was at a loss for words.

  He, too, suddenly seemed tongue-tied. He put down his spoon, folded his arms, and leaned forward.

  “I get the feeling you’re not sure you’re interested in seeing anybody right now,” he said, looking at me so intensely that it was difficult not to squirm.

  “I never said that,” I insisted. At the same time, I was wondering how he’d managed to read my mind.

  “Maybe not in so many words,” he said. “But I know you, Kate. Even after all these years, I can still read you pretty well.”

  I just stared at the cherry perched on top of my sundae.

  “Then there’s that guy,” he said, practically spitting out the words. “Brody or whatever his name is.”

  “He’s very nice,” I said, unable to resist the impulse to make Jake even more jealous than he already seemed to be.

  “The guy is obviously into you,” Jake said. “But there’s something I want you to think about.”

  I glanced up, blinking. “What’s that?”

  With his blue eyes fixed on me in that same intense way, he said, “The fact that I’m the one who’s here.

  “You had a horrible thing happen today, Katy,” he continued. “Two men—two murderers—tried to make you their next victim. And it’s me, not that Brody character, who came to your house to be with you.”

  In a soft voice, I said, “I noticed.”

  Jake’s voice was thick with emotion as he said, “The way I feel about you has never changed.”

  “Jake, I—”

  “Kate, let me say this before I chicken out.” He paused to take a breath. “I just want you to know that whenever you decide you’re ready—if you decide you’re ready—I’ll be here. I’m not going anywhere. I made that mistake once, and I’m not about to mess up like that again.”

  That, I decided, was information that was worth filing away.

  * * *

  Even though I slept surprisingly well that night, the next morning I decided not to rush into Lickety Splits.

  Not today. I needed time to decompress.

  Besides, while I was looking forward to business finally picking up for the rest of the summer, chances were that it would take a day or two for the news about Omar DeVane’s murder having been solved to spread.

  So I slept wonderfully late. Then I lingered over my breakfast coffee, luxuriating in the simple act of just doing nothing. My relaxed mood was improved even further by the fact that Chloe was curled up in my lap, purring happily. And Digger was at my feet, mainly hoping for random table scraps to fall but also offering companionship and an impressive amount of cuteness.

  I was also enjoying the quiet of the house, not to mention the rarity of having it to myself. I’d only slept until ten, yet both of my human roommates had apparently rushed out before then. What they were up to, I couldn’t imagine.

  The stillness was beginning to wear thin when I heard footsteps on the front porch. Digger dashed over to the door to greet Emma, who came bounding into the dining room seconds later, sketch pad in hand.

  “You’re here!” she cried when she spotted me lou
nging at the table. “I figured you’d be at the shop by now.”

  “I’m taking the morning off,” I said. “And gearing up for what I hope is going to turn out to be a crazy-busy week.”

  “You definitely earned the chance to play hooky,” Emma said.

  “And what have you been up to?” I asked, noticing that there was a streak of charcoal on her cheek. “You have that intense Frieda Kahlo look, as if the creative wheels are turning in your head.”

  “I’ve been working on a drawing I want to give Ethan,” she replied. “I was just down by the river, making some sketches.”

  Ah, Ethan.

  “So I take it things between you two have been smoothed over?” I asked cautiously.

  Emma was grinning as she plopped down in the chair next to mine. “Things couldn’t be better, Kate. Last night, after we got home, Ethan called to tell me that he’s decided to postpone his trip to Europe until I’m free to come with him.”

  Her big brown eyes were bright as she added, “He said it just wouldn’t be any fun without me. He even recited this quotation: ‘In life, it’s not where you go, it’s who you travel with.’ ”

  “Seneca again?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Charles Schulz.”

  I could picture Snoopy saying those exact words to Woodstock.

  “That’s great, Em!” I told her. “I’m so glad the two of you found a way to resolve this.”

  “That’s not the only thing I wanted to tell you about,” Emma went on, suddenly sounding a bit nervous. “This might not be the best time to bring this up, but if it’s okay with you, I thought I might sign up for a couple of courses in the fall. I’ll check with Mom and Dad, too, of course. But after I talked to Ethan last night, I couldn’t sleep, so I started looking at the community college’s web site. They have some cool studio art classes starting in September. Sketching, oil painting, watercolor . . . Some great computer classes, too. I could even sign up for evening classes so they don’t interfere with me working at Lickety Splits during the afternoon—”

  “Emma, I’m sure I can work around your schedule,” I assured her. “I’m absolutely thrilled that you want to take some classes. I know your parents will be happy about it, too.”

  My niece was still beaming as Grams came through the front door. When she strolled into the dining room with Digger prancing around at her feet, I immediately did a double take.

  “Wow!” I cried. “You look like . . . like a model on the cover of Flair or Elle . . . or even Vogue!”

  She laughed. “Or at least the cover of the AARP magazine.”

  Grams positively exuded elegance in the pink linen suit she was wearing. The jacket was short and boxy, with slight padding in the shoulders that gave it a crisp, tailored look. The skirt was A-line, falling mid-knee. Maybe it hadn’t actually been designed by Chanel, but it had certainly been designed by someone who was a fan.

  She also wore beige pumps with a little heel, along with a tasteful string of pearls and matching pearl studs. Her gray pageboy had been carefully styled, making me wonder if there was a can of hairspray lurking in her bathroom cabinet somewhere. While she often wore a touch of blush, pink lipstick, and a bit of eye makeup, today she was wearing much more of all three than usual.

  With a sly smile, Emma said, “I bet the way you’re dressed has something to do with a gentleman friend. Perhaps someone you met at the senior center?”

  “Not at all,” Grams replied, looking indignant.

  I folded my arms across my chest. “Okay, so spill it. There’s obviously something going on. I want to hear all about what the special occasion is.”

  “It’s not a special occasion at all,” Grams insisted. “It’s more like a special mission.”

  “Now you’ve really got my curiosity up,” I told her.

  “I still think there’s a guy behind this,” Emma quipped.

  “Some white-haired hottie, probably with a fancy sports car . . .”

  “You couldn’t be further from the truth,” Grams said. “My special mission had nothing to do with anything remotely connected to my social life. Or any aspect of my own life at all.”

  Emma and I exchanged an exasperated look.

  “Okay, Grams, enough with the woman of mystery act,” Emma said. “Tell us where you went today.”

  “I paid a visit to a friend of Kate’s,” she said, pulling out a chair and joining us at the table. “Pippa Somers.”

  “Pippa Somers!” Emma and I repeated in unison.

  She and I exchanged another look—but this one was of complete astonishment.

  “I dropped in at her weekend house,” Grams went on. “And as soon as I explained to her housekeeper that I was the grandmother of Kate McKay, the famous ice cream entrepreneur and amateur sleuth who had just solved the mystery of Omar DeVane’s death—and risked her own life in the process, I might add, despite her grandmother’s disapproval—”

  “Go on,” Emma urged, waving her hand in the air impatiently. “Did Pippa actually let you in?”

  “Of course she did!” Grams replied. “And she couldn’t have been nicer. She said I reminded her of an aunt of hers, a woman who lives in Cornwall and is an expert rose gardener and has had a huge crush on George Harrison throughout her entire life. Pippa even invited me to come visit her at Flair’s headquarters the next time I’m in New York.

  “And she insisted on serving me tea,” she continued. “My goodness, it was like something out of the Victorian era. Her housekeeper, Katarina, brought us a tray with a silver tea set and tiny sandwiches and the most delicious scones . . .”

  “I’m so pleased that you have a new friend,” I commented dryly. “But surely there’s a reason why you decided to drop in on one of the most famous, influential women in the world.”

  “Of course there’s a reason,” Grams replied. “Money. I went to Pippa Somers’s house to ask for money.”

  It took a few seconds for her response to register. Once it did, I was horrified.

  But before I had a chance to say a word, Grams calmly said, “Oh, not for me, of course. For the senior center.”

  I was still confused.

  “You know that I’ve been complaining about how wasteful I find it that all those lovely, experienced people who have so much to offer are wiling away their days playing bingo and gossiping over coffee,” she said. “One of the men who’s a regular there used to be a professional basketball player. And one of the women I’ve gotten to know ran an entire hospital. Our group consists of artists and psychologists and businesspeople and people who have decades of experience in just about every field you can imagine.”

  With a shrug, she added, “And it occurred to me that there had to be a better way for them to spend their time. At least some of it, when they’re not relaxing and flirting and trying to beat each other at bridge.”

  “You’ve got a point,” I said. I was finally beginning to see where Grams was going with this. And I definitely wanted to hear more.

  “So I came up with the idea of forming an organization,” she explained. “Some sort of outfit that enables retired people to work with local youth. There are so many different things we could do! Go into high schools and tutor. Supplement instruction in elementary school classrooms by working with the children one-on-one, reading to them or having them read to us for practice. Use our connections in the community to arrange internships at local businesses, or even part-time jobs . . .”

  I had a sneaking suspicion that Grams would be setting me up with Emma’s replacement sometime soon.

  “I don’t think we’d need a lot of money to make all this work,” Grams went on. “But we’d need some. I figured we’d certainly have to hire someone to run the organization. That person would have to coordinate with local schools and libraries and community organizations like the Girl Scouts and Boy Scouts . . . community centers all over the Hudson Valley, too, since many of them offer programs for children and teenagers that we could help out with.
And down the road, people who go to other senior centers might also want to get involved. We’d also have to offer some kind of instruction to all the volunteers, I imagine. Possibly transportation in some cases, as well.”

  By that point her eyes were bright and her cheeks were flushed. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen Grams so excited.

  “There are so many details to work out!” she exclaimed. “I’ve been lying in bed awake for the last few nights, playing with all kinds of ideas. And when I read about Omar DeVane’s foundation in the paper this morning and discovered that he had been trying to find ways to use his money to help people who were less fortunate than he was, all the pieces started coming together. The article also mentioned that Pippa Somers was handling his estate. So I figured I had nothing to lose by talking to her. I wanted to see if she might consider funneling some of the funds into the region he loved enough to make it his second home. And to make a long story short, she said she would definitely make it a top priority!”

  I felt like giving her a hug. So I stood up and did exactly that.

  “Grams, you are absolutely amazing,” I told her.

  Then it occurred to me that she wasn’t the only woman in the room who deserved to be told that. I leaned over and gave Emma a big hug, too. “You’re amazing, too.”

  “What did I do?” she protested. But she was clearly pleased.

  I realized that this was one of those rare moments in life when it feels as if everything in life is right and nothing is wrong.

  Emma was going back to school in the fall, taking classes in the two different fields that interested her most. She had also faced her first real challenge in a relationship that was important to her and worked through it.

  Grams, meanwhile, was about to start a new chapter of her life, getting involved with a community-outreach program that was going to pull together all kinds of people, from senior citizens to kindergarten students to local business owners to teenagers.

  As for me, I was looking forward to going back to my daily routine at Lickety Splits, scooping out Cappuccino Crunch and Honey Lavender and concocting Bananafana Splits and Hudson’s Hottest Hot Fudge Sundaes and just generally making the world a better, sweeter, creamier, tastier place. I’d created the ideal job for myself. Actually, one that was much more than a job. It was living out a dream.