Murder with a Cherry on Top

by Cynthia Baxter

  On the dining room table were the remains of that morning’s breakfast. Boxes of Rice Krispies, half-eaten pieces of toast sitting in a nest of crumbs, a puddle of milk that, so far, hadn’t quite made it to the edge of the table. A pair of tiny pink underpants was lying in the doorway to the kitchen, and a turquoise sneaker was on the upholstered chair.

  “Sorry about the mess,” Lindsey said, not missing a beat. “I could make up some excuse, like my babysitter just quit, but the truth is that it’s always like this. And I don’t even have a babysitter.”

  A little girl sat cross-legged on the floor, glued to the Sesame Street characters frolicking on the TV screen. I was relieved to see that her face was dry, and that her T-shirt had a picture of Dora the Explorer, rather than some testosterone-filled action figure hell-bent on saving the world through creative violence.

  “This is Violet,” Lindsey said, leaning over to put Boy Number One into the playpen set up in the corner. Then she lifted his twin and put him in, too. I gave them both about three minutes before they broke free. “Say hello to our visitor, Violet. Kate, isn’t it? Kate runs the new ice cream store in town, so she’s an important lady to know!”

  Violet checked me out for a few seconds, her blue eyes big and round. Then she went back to Big Bird.

  “Can I get you anything?” Lindsey asked, turning back to me. “I have Diet Coke, iced tea . . . a glass of water?”

  “Thanks, I’m fine,” I assured her.

  Darn, I thought. She’s really nice. It’s going to be hard to consider her a possible suspect in a murder.

  I decided that instead, I’d look at her as a source of information.

  “Let me know if you change your mind,” she said. She moved a few toys off the couch, enough to make room for both of us, and sat down. “So tell me about the parties.”

  I realized that Lindsey was actually pleased to have a visitor. I was somebody to talk to. A grown-up. And a way to break up the day. Maybe I was going out on a limb, but I got the feeling that having one child, Violet, had been a breeze. Then came the twins—twin boys, no less—and all hell had broken loose in the Mather household.

  I brought out the flyer once again and handed it to Lindsey.

  “Lickety Splits can host parties of up to fifteen kids,” I said, trying to sound as if I’d given this spiel a hundred times before. “The kids can play games, like the Ice Cream Memory Game, where they have to remember funny flavors. They can make basic do-it-yourself sundaes, or else they can try their hand at what we call ice cream sculptures. That means the crazier they get, the better. And we give out prizes. . . .”

  I took a moment to feel grateful that Emma had stumbled into my life, along with her limitless imagination. Not only had she made up these fabulous flyers, she had come up with most of the ideas I was pitching.

  “Wow, all this sounds terrific,” Lindsey said, scanning the flyer. She swatted at a strand of dark blond hair that had fallen into her eyes.

  “We can make up ice cream cakes with any theme you’d like,” I went on. By this point, I was really getting into the sales pitch thing. In fact, I’d all but forgotten about the real reason I was here. “We could do Big Bird, Dora the Explorer, Ninja Turtles. . . .”

  As long as the people who own the rights to those characters didn’t sue me, I suddenly thought. I’d better ask a lawyer about that one.

  Jake? I immediately thought, experiencing an annoying jolt of excitement. No, a saner part of me immediately shot back. Not Jake. Anyone but Jake.

  “I’m definitely interested,” Lindsey said. “These guys are too little to have a serious birthday party,” she said. “Aside from having the family over for a barbecue or whatever. But Violet is turning five in August. I’d love to throw her a really nice party. And as you can probably imagine, doing that here at home would be kind of complicated.”

  Involuntarily I scanned the chaos that surrounded me. And as if on cue, the Ninja Turtle twin, who appeared to be the more vocal of the two, began wailing again.

  I got the feeling this was all simply business as usual. I decided to follow Lindsey’s lead and simply ignore him.

  “So Violet is starting kindergarten in the fall?” I asked.

  Lindsey rolled her eyes. “Thank heaven! At least I’ll get a bit of a break during the day. Although with these two, that’s practically impossible. Would you believe that Jason and Justin never take a nap at the same time? It’s like they insist on doing it in shifts.”

  I did believe it.

  “Then maybe we should see if we can find a date that works for both of us,” I said. I was actually flabbergasted that not only had my kids’ birthday parties ploy gotten me in the door and onto the couch, it had also gotten me a nice bit of business.

  “Of course, I need to talk it over with my husband before I commit,” Lindsey added. “As you can imagine, things are a little tight these days. Money-wise, I mean.”

  “Having three kids must cost a small fortune,” I said.

  She laughed, without exhibiting much levity. “More like a large fortune.”

  “Still, I think you’ll find that the prices for our children’s parties are quite reasonable,” I said, snapping back into my sales persona. “And the location is so convenient. There’s plenty of parking on the street—or that big public lot right behind Sweet Things. You know, that bakery on Hudson Street with the pink-and-white striped awning . . . ?”

  I kept my eyes fixed on Lindsey’s face as I said those last few words, curious to see how she’d react.

  She reacted, all right.

  “Oh, goodness,” she said, immediately tearing up. “I’m sorry for getting upset. But I’m sure you heard about what happened to Ashley Winthrop. She is—she was—the owner of Sweet Things.”

  “Yes, I did hear,” I said. I was glad we’d already gotten down to talking about the topic of conversation I’d come here for in the first place. “Did you know her?”

  I held my breath, hoping she’d be honest with me. But I got the feeling Lindsey Mather had a hard time being dishonest about anything.

  “Not only did I know her,” she said, “I worked for her.” The tears that had filled her green eyes began streaming down her cheeks.

  I pretended to look surprised. “Really? Oh, my. Then you must really be devastated. Did you work at the bakery? I’m sorry I never noticed you there, but I’ve only been in Wolfert’s Roost for a few months, and as you know I only opened my ice cream shop last week.”

  “I didn’t actually work there,” Lindsey said, sniffling. Mechanically I reached into my purse and pulled out a tissue. She accepted it gratefully and immediately put it to good use. “I was one of her suppliers. What I mean is, I made baked goods here at home and brought them to Sweet Things so she could sell them.”

  “Really! I had no idea Sweet Things was a bakery co-op,” I said. I gave myself an imaginary pat on the back, commending myself for how good I was getting at this pretending thing.

  Lindsey made a face. “Ashley didn’t actually want anybody to know about it. You see, the laws in this state make it illegal for a commercial business like Ashley’s to sell food that isn’t made in a kitchen that’s been inspected and approved by the health department. In other words, we were both kind of breaking the law.”

  “I see.” Glancing over in the direction of the kitchen, I said, “So you made baked goods here at the house and brought them over to her?”

  “Exactly,” Lindsey said. “It was really convenient, you know? With the kids here at home and all? I didn’t have to pay for babysitters or anything. I didn’t even have to get out of my pajamas! I could do my baking while the kids were playing or glued to the TV. Or my husband could watch them while I did whatever needed to be done. Shopping for ingredients, doing the baking, wrapping everything up just so . . .”

  “But that had to have been at night,” I observed. “After your husband came home from work, I mean. That sounds really tough, because I’d think that with three sm
all children at home all day you’d be pretty wiped out by then.”

  “But here’s the thing,” Lindsey went on. She looked around, as if wanting to make sure her children weren’t listening in. Violet was still enthralled by Big Bird, not the least bit interested in anything that was going on around her. And the two little boys were miraculously quiet in their playpen, one of them pulling the ear of a teddy bear and the other turning the plastic wheel on one of those touchy-feely plastic contraptions that has all kinds of activities to get tiny fingers ready for the computer age.

  “My husband, Rob, is between jobs right now,” she said in a low voice.

  “Ah,” I said. “That’s a shame.”

  Lindsey laughed coldly. “That’s putting it mildly. Things have been really tough around here for quite a while. Financially, I mean.”

  “How long has your husband been out of work?” I asked.

  “A little over a year.”

  I kept myself from gasping. That was tough. Especially with three kids to take care of.

  As if she had read my mind, Lindsey said, “And it’s not as if we actually planned to have three kids. We figured we could manage two. When we found out I was having twins . . .”

  “Twice as much work, I suppose,” I said.

  “Yeah, and twice as expensive. Two of everything. Two car seats, two high chairs, twice as many diapers and twice as much baby food . . .

  “It wasn’t so bad when Rob was still working. He was making pretty good money in construction. The man is an absolute genius at putting up drywall.”

  I thought for a few seconds. “If your husband—Rob—is out of work, it sounds as if a birthday party at Lickety Splits might not be manageable for you this year,” I said gently. “Money-wise, I mean.”

  “Actually,” Lindsey said, “I’m hoping his parents will help out with that. They’re crazy about their grandkids, of course. In fact, I don’t know how we’d be managing without them. Ever since the boys were born, they’ve done everything they can to help.”

  “I guess you’re lucky to have them.”

  Lindsey shrugged. “I guess. I’d rather we could do it on our own. Especially since they think that paying for things gives them the right to make decisions about how we’re supposed to use it. Like when they offered to pay for a second bathroom to be added, guess who picked out the color scheme, the tile, even the faucets?”

  I smiled sympathetically. “I see your point.”

  “But something like this . . .” She shrugged. “Maybe my mother-in-law won’t insist on making every decision. Besides, I don’t see any other way.”

  Lindsey let out a deep sigh. Speaking more to herself than to me, she said, “Boy, losing the income I made from working for Ashley is going to make things really tough around here.”

  “How long had you been working for her?” I asked.

  “I started right after Rob lost his job,” she replied. “I began looking for work right away. Most of what I found looked pretty grim. You know, receptionist in a dentist’s office or light factory work, that kind of thing. That’s why I was so thrilled when I found Ashley’s ad online and found out she was looking for local women to work for her. Women with a flair for baking, I mean, which is definitely me.

  “What Ashley was offering was perfect,” she continued, brightening. “Making money by working from home . . . it was great. I didn’t have to go to Rob’s parents about every little thing. They could pay for the extras and I could still run my own life, and my kids’ lives, the way I wanted.”

  Her face crumpled. “Now that Ashley’s gone and the bakery gig has come to an end . . . well, we’ll just have to see.”

  “I’m sure you two will figure something out,” I said. “Maybe you’ll find similar work. Baking, I mean. What kind of things did you make for Ashley’s bakery?”

  “Cheesecake,” Lindsey replied. “That was my specialty.”

  “I love cheesecake,” I said. This time, I didn’t have to pretend. Cheesecake, after all, is pretty much the closest you can come to eating ice cream without actually, well, eating ice cream. Sweet, luscious creaminess gently sweetened and flavored with vanilla . . . Aside from using cream cheese instead of milk and cream, and aside from freezing it, cheesecake was ice cream’s first cousin.

  I resolved to look into creating a Cheesecake ice cream the first chance I got.

  “All kinds of cheesecake?” I couldn’t help asking. My mind was already racing with the possibilities. “Chocolate cheesecake? Strawberry cheesecake? Kahlua cheesecake?”

  “Whatever Ashley wanted,” Lindsey said vaguely, waving one hand in the air. “After all, I was working for her. She was the boss.”

  I was starting to get the feeling that Lindsey had had enough of playing the role of hostess to an ice cream salesperson. As if on cue, the Ninja-loving toddler had just found a new use for the hard plastic touching toy he’d been playing with: using it to bonk his brother on the shoulder. Hard, given the reaction he got.

  “Agh-h-h-h-h!” he yelled. “Mo-o-o-m-e-e-e-e!”

  His twin immediately began a screamfest of his own.

  “Be quiet!” Violet yelled. “I’m trying to watch TV!”

  It was definitely time for me to be on my way.

  “I should be going,” I said, standing up. “You’ve got the flyer, and I hope you’ll stop into the shop sometime so we can talk more about what kind of party we can put together for Violet. Or you can always call me. My cell number is on the bottom here. Why don’t you give me your number, too . . .”

  Lindsey cast me a look of silent desperation, as if she was thinking, “Take me with you! Please!”

  As I walked back to my car, accompanied by the screams of three unhappy children, I thought about how badly the Mathers needed Lindsey’s income from baking for Ashley.

  No cheesecake money translated to no income in that household at all. It also brought about more interference from in-laws who felt whoever paid the bills got to make the decisions.

  Which meant it was highly unlikely that Lindsey had had anything to do with Ashley’s death.

  Not exactly the most encouraging start, I thought grimly as I drove away. Still, I tried to take heart in the fact that I still had a long list of other suspects to question. In fact, I reminded myself, I’d barely gotten started.

  Chapter 9

  Missouri designated the ice cream cone as its Official State Dessert in 2008.

  —StateSymbolsUSA.org

  On Wednesday morning, I followed my usual routine of going into Lickety Splits early to whip up a couple of the new flavors I was so anxious to try. This time, it was Avocado and Carrot Cake, carrot-flavored ice cream made with plenty of cinnamon and swirls of cream cheese. They both came out surprisingly well, despite their unlikely ingredients. I was constantly amazed by just how versatile ice cream was.

  By the time Emma showed up, right before we were scheduled to open our doors, I was ready to let her take over. With amazing speed, she had become my alter ego, doing as good a job of running the shop as I could ever do.

  But for now, I left her to scoop and schmooze, spreading ice cream joy to anyone who ventured into Lickety Splits. And I took off to run some errands.

  While most of them were for Grams, I had a few things of my own to pick up. I started by visiting two different farm stands, buying a normal amount of fresh strawberries and blueberries and a few other fruits for Grams—plus huge quantities of the same things for my shop.

  Another luscious batch of Berry Blizzard, coming up. I could practically taste it as I piled the baskets into the back of my truck: strawberry ice cream with locally grown organic strawberries, raspberries, and blueberries at their peak, and of course that distinctive touch of cardamom and cinnamon that made it one of Lickety Splits’ signature offerings.

  Yum.

  Next stop was the market, where I bought basics for Grams like eggs, sugar, and milk. I also stocked up on dog food and cat food, wishing I could turn Digger and Chlo
e on to the wonders of ice cream.

  After making a few more stops, at the pharmacy, the dry cleaner, and the shoe repair shop, I dropped everything off at home and checked on Grams.

  Instead of driving back into town, I decided to walk. It was a beautiful June day, with a cloudless sky, a big yellow sun that looked like something out of a kid’s drawing, and a barely noticeable breeze wafting off the Hudson. But it wasn’t just the perfect weather that caused me to leave my car at home.

  As I strolled toward Hudson Street, I made a point of walking along River Road, the meandering side street that led from the riverbank up to Hudson Street. It also happened to go right past Greenleaf, Tad Patrick’s restaurant.

  I’d driven past it a few times in the months I’d been back in Wolfert’s Roost. Every time I did, I told myself that I really should try it one of these days. But it was common knowledge around town that the sophisticated newcomer had a waiting list as long as the Hudson River itself, with foodies from New York City and the Hudson Valley and even beyond making reservations weeks in advance.

  Somehow I never thought to plan that far ahead. Not for food that had nothing to do with ice cream.

  Today, however, as I walked past the restaurant, I looked at it with new interest. It was located in a small Victorian with white shingles and green shutters. On the front porch sat a few rocking chairs, also painted green. The only indication that this wasn’t just another cute house was a modest sign above the door. Written out in flowing leaves—green, of course—was the restaurant’s name.

  Greenleaf looked pretty sleepy this early in the day. At least, from the outside. Knowing what I did about the food service business, I was sure the kitchen was hopping, with plenty of chopping, dicing, slicing, mixing, sautéing, and every other food-related verb imaginable going on.