Murder with a Cherry on Top

by Cynthia Baxter

  Still, with no one watching the front of the restaurant, I was able to step onto the porch to get a better look.

  Peering through the windows, I saw that the room that had once been a parlor now had six tables in it, each one covered with a pale green linen tablecloth. Dark green linen napkins, folded like nurse’s caps, were placed at each setting. The dishes were stark white, like the walls. Even so, the place looked inviting, thanks largely to the huge stone fireplace and the large gilt-framed mirrors on the walls.

  I checked out the menu hanging next to the door. I figured if anyone noticed me casing the joint, I’d claim that this was the reason I was loitering on the porch at eleven o’clock in the morning. Just as I expected, it was full of flowery phrases and obscure edibles. I scanned the listings, amused by the incorporation of the ever-popular flavors of harissa and carambola and mahleb and bondon.

  I admit, part of me wondered if there was anything there I could turn into new ice cream flavors.

  The menu wasn’t the only thing that was posted. In the front window was a copy of the New York Times article, complete with the long row of stars it had bestowed upon Greenleaf, turning it into an instant success. There were reprints of more rave reviews from other newspapers and magazines, as well.

  But the one that interested me most was a simple yellow square that read, “Member, Wolfert’s Roost Chamber of Commerce.”

  The wheels in my head were turning. Chamber of Commerce, Greenleaf, Lickety Splits . . .

  I’d just come up with another way of finding out a little bit more about Ashley.

  * * *

  I was strolling toward Lickety Splits, still ruminating about Wolfert’s Roost’s star chef and his possible role in both Ashley’s life and her death, when my cell phone rang. Glancing at the screen, I saw it was Emma.

  “What’s up, girlfriend?” I answered cheerfully.

  “Hi, Kate.” She’d only uttered two words, yet I could already hear the distress in her voice.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, already tensing up.

  Even so, I was expecting her response to be something along the lines of, “I’m so swamped with customers that I desperately need you to come help.” Or maybe, “Hot fudge sundae sales are going through the roof and I can’t find the extra supply of maraschino cherries.” Or worse yet, “The freezer has started making funny noises.”

  Instead, my niece’s voice sounded similarly shaky as she said, “There was kind of a . . . thing that happened just now. A few minutes ago, actually.”

  I instantly felt a rush of heat course through my entire body. This sounded a lot more serious than missing fruit or even a freezer that was acting up.

  “What do you mean, ‘a thing’?” I asked anxiously. “What kind of ‘thing’?”

  Emma hesitated. “Things were kind of slow this morning, but I figured it was just the usual ups and downs of running a business. But finally a couple of little girls came running in. They were, like, eight and ten, somewhere around there. Sisters, I figured, given how similar they looked. Anyway, they came rushing over to the counter, clearly excited at the prospect of getting some ice cream. . . .”

  “Go on,” I prompted. I was still hoping that Emma’s tale of woe would end up with a punch line about two little girls who couldn’t decide between Chocolate Almond Fudge and Caramel Sea Salt.

  “All of a sudden, their mother—at least, I assume it was their mother—came bursting into the shop,” Emma went on. “She had this . . . this look on her face. I could tell she was really upset. She grabbed these little girls by the arms, and right in front of me, said, ‘We don’t shop in this store. The lady who owns it may have done something really, really terrible.’”

  “Oh, my,” I said breathlessly. “That’s bad.”

  “It’s certainly not good,” Emma replied.

  I had started taking those deep breaths Willow was always recommending. “First of all, are you okay? Do you want to close up the shop?”

  “I’m fine, Kate. Really. And a few customers came in right after this happened, which is why it took me a while to call you. Like, three different groups came in over about ten minutes. Maybe the shop hasn’t been as busy as it is sometimes, but who knows why? I’m sure this is just a case of someone overreacting to whatever rumors she’s been hearing. Maybe I shouldn’t have even mentioned it, but I thought you should know.”

  “You did the absolute right thing, Emma,” I assured her. “And I’ll be there in five minutes. I’m a few blocks away, about a half a block from Greenleaf—”

  “Honestly, Kate, take your time,” Emma insisted. “Everything else is business as usual.”

  Business as usual. Her words rang in my head as I ended the call and instantly turned my leisurely stroll through town into a brisk walk. I certainly hoped that was what I could expect—and that, as Emma had said with such confidence, this was likely to be one isolated incident.

  * * *

  As soon as I opened the door of Lickety Splits, Emma came rushing over, her eyebrows knitted and her mouth pulled into a straight line.

  She was still upset about what happened earlier, I concluded.

  But before I had a chance to say a word, even a consoling one, she said, “Kate, there’s someone here I think you’ll need to deal with. She just came in.”

  My heart sank. I immediately pictured the mother of the two daughters she’d told me about. So I was surprised when she added, “It’s a woman with a coupon.” She enunciated every syllable and gave me a strange look.

  “A coupon?” I repeated. “But I didn’t—”

  And then I understood.

  The coupon I’d mailed out first thing Monday morning, mere hours after Emma, my executive vice president of marketing, had designed it.

  And it wasn’t just any coupon. It was exceptionally generous, extending what was, for lack of a better description, an offer you couldn’t refuse.

  I had mailed it to some of the women on Ashley’s list, figuring it was an easy way to get them to come into Lickety Splits so I could question them.

  At least, that was my plan. Whether or not it was actually going to work remained to be seen.

  The woman Emma was referring to had to be the one standing off to the side, staring idly at the ice cream display case. She was tall and slender, probably about my age. Her skin was a rich shade of chocolate brown, and her black hair was pulled back neatly into a tight bun.

  A lightbulb went on in my head. This was probably Allison Chibuzo, another name from Ashley’s list of suppliers. Thanks to Emma’s crackerjack online probing, we’d found a woman with that name who lived in the area. We’d also learned that there was an Allison Chibuzo who had just finished her first year at Albany Law School. I figured anyone who was a student, especially a law student, had to be on a tight budget, and an offer of free food would be hard to ignore.

  Allison struck me as one of those lucky women who always managed to look well groomed and put together. She was wearing beige linen capris, a black tank top, and flip-flops, yet somehow she looked as if she could be on her way to a photo shoot for Vogue. The silky, brightly colored scarf draped around her neck definitely helped. The vibrant oranges and golds, tempered by a rich dark brown, complemented her skin tones perfectly. The same went for the floppy orange tote bag slung over one narrow shoulder.

  “Can I help you?” I asked her. “I’m Kate McKay, the store’s owner.”

  “I got this coupon in the mail,” she said, whipping it out of her tote bag. “It says it’s for a free ice cream cone and a free half gallon of ice cream. Is that really true?”

  “It sure is,” I replied.

  “You mean there’s no catch?” she asked, eyeing me suspiciously. “I can really get all that free stuff for nothing?”

  I nodded. “It’s our Grand Opening promotion. We’re trying to introduce Lickety Splits to the neighborhood, and I figured the best way is to have people come into the shop and try our fabulous ice cream for themselves.”


  A huge grin lit up her face. I saw for the first time that she was extremely pretty. Beautiful, even.

  “What flavor would you like in your cone?” I asked, stepping behind the counter.

  I waited on her myself, scooping out an unusually generous glob of Peanut Butter on the Playground. As she contemplated the list of flavors posted high on the back wall, trying to decide which one to choose for her free half gallon, she plopped her tote bag onto one of the marble tables. Three large books slid out, thick tomes in dignified shades of burgundy and navy blue with shiny gold lettering that made them look important. Law books, no doubt.

  She finally chose a half gallon of Classic Tahitian Vanilla. That told me she had a practical side that balanced out the more whimsical part of her, the one that still loved peanut butter and jelly. I already knew she’d make a great lawyer.

  “Thanks!” she said, grabbing her tote bag. She started to walk out of the store, meanwhile licking her cone.

  I panicked. I should have offered a free Hudson’s Hottest Hot Fudge Sundae, I thought. That way, she would have had to sit down to eat it.

  “Uh, can I ask you something?” I called after her.

  She stopped, then looked back at me, surprised. “Sure.”

  “Are you, uh, a student?”

  “I look a little old to be a student, right?” she said, smiling self-consciously. “But I am.” Holding up her heavy book, she added, “In the fall I’ll be starting my second year at Albany Law School.”

  Fortunately, a big blob of Peanut Butter ice cream chose that moment to drip off her cone, onto her shirt.

  “Oh, no,” she cried. “What a mess!”

  “Here, let me help,” I offered, thanking the universe for the invention of gravity. I grabbed a wad of napkins, poured some water onto it from the tap, and handed it to her. “There you go. Cold water works magic.”

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “It might be easier to eat that sitting down,” I suggested, gesturing toward an empty table. “I’ve finally accepted the fact that I’m simply not capable of eating and walking at the same time. At least, not if I want to enjoy whatever I’m eating.”

  “Good idea,” she said. Gracefully she lowered herself onto a chair. “I have to learn to relax every once in a while. I’m one of those type A personalities who has to be doing something every second of the day. Like today, even though school doesn’t start up again until September, I’m already trying to get a head start on the classes I’ll be taking.”

  “Albany is a pretty good distance from here,” I observed, fussing with the napkin dispenser on the table and using it as an excuse to sit down opposite her. “It’s about an hour and a half’s drive, isn’t it?”

  “Almost,” Allison said. “I live a few miles north of here, which saves me a few minutes each way.” She paused to take a few licks. “Boy, this is good! Whoever dreamed up this crazy flavor?”

  “That would be me,” I replied with a broad grin.

  “You, girlfriend, are a true artist.”

  My smile got even wider. This, I thought, is what Lickety Splits is all about.

  “I sure don’t envy you that commute,” I commented. “One of my goals in setting up my own shop was to be able to live and work in the same place. And this is a great town, too.”

  I let my eyes drift across the street to Sweet Things, which was still cordoned off with yellow crime-scene tape. “Not that Wolfert’s Roost is as idyllic as it looks,” I continued. “I suppose you heard that the owner of the bakery across the street was murdered . . . ?”

  “Oh, yes,” Allison replied, her expression growing serious. “I know all about it. I actually worked for Ashley Winthrop.”

  “Did you!” I did my usual I’m-so-surprised act. “You mean you worked in the shop?”

  “Not exactly. I was one of her suppliers. I baked things she sold in the store.”

  Another surprised look, only this one was considerably less dramatic. “I must say, being a baker and going to law school strikes me as kind of surprising.”

  Now Allison looked surprised. “Really? Why?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I see baking and law as incompatible.”

  “Not at all,” she said. “Basically, it was an easy way for me to make money. I started working for her right after I began my first year of law school, back in September. I could go to classes and study all week, and then on the weekends, take time out to bake my little heart out. I could even take off time if I needed to study for exams.” She shrugged. “It was also a great way to unwind from the demands of law school. All in all, it was the ideal situation for me.”

  “I guess I can understand that,” I said. But it still struck me as surprising, mainly because I was picturing Lindsey, who had seemed like such a homebody. Imagining her turning out trays of cookies wasn’t that difficult. Allison, meanwhile, looked like she should be making her money in a courtroom. If not on a runway.

  “What about you?” she asked. “Did you always run an ice cream shop?”

  “Well, no,” I admitted.

  “What did you do before?”

  I could already see where this was going. “I worked in public relations, for a big firm in New York.”

  “There you go,” Allison said. “What’s the difference between being a high-powered PR rep who likes making ice cream and a law student who likes baking?”

  “You got me,” I said. “You must be devastated, then, by what happened to Ashley. I knew her, too. She and I grew up together. And while we weren’t the best of friends, I was pretty impressed by what a success she turned out to be.”

  Allison nodded. “I know what you mean. I really admired Ashley for running her own business. She’d taken on a lot of responsibility. And when you’ve got people working for you the way she did, and they’re not even doing something that requires them to show up every day, so you don’t really know what they’re doing . . . well, that’s bound to be rough.

  “But I especially admired the fact that Ashley’s business gave her plenty of freedom, too,” she went on, speaking between licks. “Autonomy. Despite her employees, despite her customers, she was her own person. She didn’t have to report to one boss or one client.... She’d really figured it all out.”

  “It sounds as if she was kind of a role model for you,” I commented.

  Allison looked startled. “In terms of her career, maybe. But that sure didn’t extend to her personal life.”

  “Why is that?” I asked.

  I was genuinely surprised. After all, I’d seen Tad Patrick in the flesh. And believe me, that was some piece of flesh. Tad made Brad Pitt and Chris Hemsworth look like the guys from Dumb and Dumber. Not that looks were everything, of course. Neither was self-confidence. Or charisma. Or being wildly successful and in demand, thanks to owning one of the top restaurants in the Hudson Valley, one that even made the New York Times drool.

  “Tad is a hottie, no doubt about it,” Allison said. “But their relationship was, to use a diplomatic word, tempestuous.”

  Frankly, I didn’t think the word “tempestuous” was all that diplomatic. Still, her observation made me hungry for more information.

  “Maybe that was just because they were crazy in love,” I suggested. “People who are passionate about each other often inject excessive emotion into every one of their interactions.”

  “Look,” Allison said, a bit impatiently, “I didn’t spend much time with the two of them. In fact, I only saw them together a couple of times. But the two of them struck me as being about as compatible as oil and water.”

  “You mean you saw them fighting?” I asked.

  “It was more like they were needling each other,” Allison replied. “Like whatever one of them said, the other one would disagree with.”

  “What were they talking about?” I persisted. “Money? The relationship?”

  Allison cast me a strange look. I got the feeling I was acting just a little too interested.

&n
bsp; “I guess it’s none of my business,” I quickly added. “It’s just that I’ve known Ashley since kindergarten, and I’m curious about what she got herself into.” I took a deep breath. “And of course the police are going to be looking at Tad closely. As a possible suspect, I mean.”

  “I figured they would,” Allison said, distractedly stroking the folds of her scarf. “And if you ask me, that’s exactly where they should be looking. Aside from what I personally observed about their relationship, when a woman is murdered, about a third of the time, it’s her intimate partner who’s responsible. Either current or former.”

  “Really?” I asked. “Where did you learn that?”

  “My criminal law class,” Allison replied proudly.

  Suddenly she glanced at her watch. “Goodness, is it that late already? I should get going. As soon as I get home and put this luscious ice cream in the freezer, I’m hitting the books. September may sound far away, but it’s going to be here before I know it. But it was nice talking to you.”

  “Same here,” I said.

  After she left, I lingered at the table, thinking about what she’d said. The statistic she’d quoted wasn’t that surprising, and I was pretty sure I’d heard similar numbers before. The man in a female murder victim’s life was generally the first person the police looked at.

  As for Ashley, she had had two men in her life: Billy, her ex-husband, and Tad, her current boyfriend.

  She’d apparently had a tempestuous relationship with her boyfriend. And her relationship with Billy obviously hadn’t been that great or they’d still be married.

  The two men in Ashley’s life had been on my list of people to question from the very start. But I was suddenly more anxious than ever to talk to both of them.

  Chapter 10

  Professional ice cream tasters use gold-plated spoons to do their job, since wood and plastic spoons leave a slight aftertaste.

  —Tydknow.net

  Once Allison was gone, I turned my focus back to Tad. More importantly, to the brainstorm I’d had that morning about how to engage him in conversation without being obvious about what I was doing.