Murder with a Cherry on Top

by Cynthia Baxter

  “The police,” I said, without thinking.

  Jake nodded. “I knew immediately that there was trouble. And given my family, I pretty much knew who was causing it.”

  “Your dad?” I asked gently.

  “Yup. Good old dad.” His mouth stretched into a cold smile. “His drinking had been getting worse and worse. He’d just lost his job a few weeks earlier—again. My mom had been calling my uncle like five times a day, begging him to find something for my father at the dairy. But Uncle Joe wouldn’t budge. He loved his sister more than anything, but the man had a business to run. And he knew my dad would only make things tougher for him.

  “So in that first split second, when I figured out the police were calling, I instantly saw my whole dream go down the drain. Going to prom, having that special night with you, something I’d be able to carry with me for the rest of my life . . . The cop at the other end of the line didn’t even have to say anything and I already knew how the rest of the night was going to play out.

  “I was right, of course,” Jake continued. “My father had been arrested.”

  “Drunk driving?” I asked.

  “Worse.” He took a deep breath. “He’d had an accident.”

  “Was he hurt?”

  “No, the son of a bitch got off without a scratch. But I can’t say the same about the people in the other car.”

  I gasped. “Oh, Jake!”

  “No fatalities, thank goodness. Some injuries, but fortunately nothing life threatening. All three people in the car he T-boned ended up in the hospital. A little girl broke her arm, her mother had a concussion.... It was really ugly, Kate.

  “And my dad went to prison. Where he deserved to be.” He shrugged. “I haven’t seen him since. He tried contacting me a few times, but I guess my lack of a welcoming response finally clued him in to how I felt about him.”

  “Oh, Jake,” I said, feeling like a balloon that had just been completely deflated, “I had no idea about any of this.”

  “Of course not,” he replied. “Nobody did. All this happened far away from here, in a small town in Jersey, down by Trenton. It made the local papers around there, but the news never spread up here.

  “The whole thing was so devastating that I didn’t want to set foot in Wolfert’s Roost ever again,” he continued. “There was no way I was going to show my face at graduation. I wouldn’t even go back for finals. The school was actually pretty good about that, like mailing me the math final and letting me submit a couple of essays instead of going in to take the English final.”

  Jake paused, as if collecting his thoughts. “And there was one thing I felt really strongly about. And that was that I wanted to make sure you never found out.” Grimacing, he added, “Which is why I took it upon myself to disappear.”

  “But Jake!” I cried. “Don’t you see how much that hurt me?”

  “I do now. But at the time, I was just a scared, embarrassed kid. What my father did totally humiliated me.

  “And then, as time went by, the fact that I’d just shut you out the way I had made the whole episode seem even worse. To be perfectly honest, I was too ashamed to get in touch with you.” He laughed coldly. “Every time I thought about it, I also pictured the way you were likely to react. If you’d have slapped me, that would have been the easy part. I just couldn’t bring myself to see that hurt look in your eyes.”

  Tentatively he raised his eyes to meet mine, as if he was afraid he’d finally see the look he’d been dreading for fifteen years. I couldn’t promise that there wasn’t anything like that for him to see. But what I was feeling at that moment was sympathy, not anger.

  “But that doesn’t mean I wasn’t paying attention to what was going on in your life,” he added.

  “What do you mean? How?”

  “Talking to some of my friends from high school, for one thing. The ones who still lived around here. They’d have heard things from their moms talking to your grandmother or whatever.”

  “So you stayed in touch with them?” I asked lightly, trying to squelch a feeling of anger. He’d remained friends with them even though in my case he’d decided to cut me off completely.

  He shrugged. “They didn’t know about any of this. I mean, they probably noticed you and I weren’t there on prom night. But it wasn’t the kind of thing they made a big deal about. And the few times it came up, I just made some vague excuse about a family thing that was going on at the time.” He grinned. “So much for the intelligence level of the guys I used to hang out with in high school. Then, of course, the Internet came along, so I was able to find out where you worked and what kind of things you were up to—”

  “So you knew I’d stayed in the New York area,” I said, still trying not to let my irritation leak out. Somehow, it seemed that doing so would only add to the pain he was experiencing. And even now, I knew Jake Pratt well enough to see how difficult reliving all this was for him. “New Paltz, then Manhattan. . .”

  Jake leaned back in his seat. “I knew, Kate. Believe me, I knew. I knew exactly how close you were. That you were only a phone call away.”

  “But you never called me,” I said, my voice hoarse. “In fifteen years, not once did you pick up the phone.”

  “I told you,” he said. “I was too afraid—”

  “Right. The high school boy who was afraid of getting his girlfriend mad never grew up into a man who decided it was time to take responsibility for what he’d done? Who was never able to put aside his own fears to make amends for a hurtful—no, a horrible thing he’d done to someone he claims to have loved?”

  “I did love you, Kate,” he said softly.

  “That’s some kind of love.” I, too, had leaned back in my seat. But it was to distance myself from him, to get as far away from him as I could.

  Whatever bond we had formed for those few minutes, whatever tentative gains toward mending our broken fences we had made, it was all gone by now.

  And then a new thought occurred to me.

  “So if you were keeping track of me,” I said, “you must have heard that I was back in town.”

  He hesitated, as if unsure of what the right answer to my question would be. And then: “That’s right. I knew.”

  I swallowed hard. “So you’ve known for weeks.”

  He nodded.

  “And even then, it never once occurred to you to call me or stop over—”

  “Oh, it occurred to me,” he said, his voice cold. “It occurred to me all the time. But do you know what stopped me?”

  “Fear again?” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

  “Exactly. Fear,” he replied. “Fear that if I saw you again, if I tried to be honest with you, finally, that you’d react exactly the way you’re reacting right now. Dragging out anger from fifteen years ago—”

  “From fifteen years ago!” I repeated. “What about those fifteen years, Jake? What about all those times you could have gotten in touch with me but didn’t? If you were so darn scared of seeing my anger, why not write me a note? Why not try to make the bad feelings between us that have been sitting there for fifteen years—fifteen years, Jake!—a little better by taking some action?”

  He just stared at me for a few seconds without speaking. And then: “Because I couldn’t—and still can’t—bear to have you feel this way about me.”

  “So in the end, it’s all about your feelings, not mine,” I said. “That’s great, just great.”

  Without even thinking about it, I jumped to my feet. “So at least now I know who you really are, Jake. You know, I was really in love with you, too, back in high school, just the way you claim you were with me. But maybe that’s just because I didn’t really know you. But now, I guess I do.”

  He looked at me as if I had, indeed, slapped him. He wore his devastation like a mask.

  “I was hoping that maybe finally being straight with you after all this time would help make things a little better,” he said, speaking so softly I could hardly hear him.
r />   “Is that why you waited for me to bring it up before you even said anything?” I countered. “That’s your version of being straight with me?”

  He still looked beaten down, but now that the fury I’d been carrying for fifteen years had been unleashed, it had taken on a life of its own. It was like a hurricane, growing stronger and stronger until no one could possibly contain it.

  “I am so done with you, Jake,” I cried. “I only wish you told me about this years ago so I could have figured out what you’re really all about and stopped wondering if . . .”

  I didn’t want to say it. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that deep down, part of me kept holding on to the possibility that one day, somehow, Jake Pratt and I would find each other again.

  I now knew that was never going to happen.

  I reached into my pocket, pulled out some bills, and slammed them on the table. “Here,” I announced. “I’m paying for my meal. I wouldn’t want you to think that you and I had gone out on a date or anything.”

  “Kate, we can’t leave it like—”

  “Good-bye, Jake. We are so done here.”

  I stalked off, keeping my head high and my stride confident. And scrunching my eyes together so the tears that were welling up in them wouldn’t streak down my cheeks.

  Finally, I told myself, resolution. The explanation you’ve been hoping for for fifteen years.

  I should have felt better. After all, now I knew. I knew what had happened that night, and I knew that Jake had never been strong enough to even try to make things right.

  But I didn’t feel better at all. In fact, I felt like a balloon that had not only had all the air let out of it, but had been run over by a freight train.

  Chapter 11

  First Lady Dolley Madison, wife of fourth United States president, James Madison, helped popular- ize ice cream by serving it at the White House at the second inaugural ball, in 1813. One of her favorite ice cream flavors was Oyster, made with sweet oysters from the Potomac River.

  —www.pbs.org/food/features/ice-cream-founding-fathers/

  The vile mood I’d come down with the day before reminded me of a stomach virus: even though it was no longer acute, the residual effects were still lingering the following morning as Emma and I opened the shop.

  I’d been sullen all afternoon and all evening. Even making cheerful chitchat with my customers, and then Emma and Grams over dinner, had been a strain. And I could tell from the looks my two housemates kept giving each other that I wasn’t doing a very good job.

  Even Digger kept his distance.

  But as I stepped into Lickety Splits on Thursday morning, I gave myself a clear directive: get over it.

  You have a business to run, I reminded myself, the voice in my head sounding very much like a drill sergeant’s. Whatever’s going on with you, you have no right to take it out on the people around you.

  So I forced myself to snap into professional mode, which meant thinking about ice cream and very little else.

  I headed straight into the work space in back, ready to whip up a fresh batch of Classic Tahitian Vanilla, which was running low. I was also anxious to tackle that rhubarb ice cream Emma had thought up. Actually, Strawberry Rhubarb, the same combination of sweet and tart that made the pie such a favorite. And of course my Strawberry Rhubarb ice cream would have bits of piecrust floating in it.

  I started by opening the door of my stainless steel refrigerator to get out the necessary ingredients.

  “Rats!” I cried.

  “Oh no!” Emma exclaimed, rushing toward the back where I was standing. “That’s terrible, Kate! Where?”

  “No, no, it’s just an expression,” I assured her. “There are no rats here. I’m just almost out of cream, that’s all.” I sighed. “And believe me, the last thing I want to do is go over to Juniper Hill right now.”

  And see Jake, I thought, without actually saying the words out loud.

  “I can go over to the dairy, if you’d like,” Emma offered. “Just tell me what you need.”

  “That would be a lifesaver,” I told her. “I have plenty to do here, anyway. And on your way out, I need you to stop at the farm stand on the edge of town and pick up some fresh strawberries and plenty of rhubarb.”

  As I handed Emma my car keys, along with explicit instructions about what to buy, I thanked the universe once again for sending her my way. I was also grateful that I was able to avoid telling my niece the real reason why I didn’t want to go to Juniper Hill. Not today, not ever again.

  Fortunately, as soon as she left, I forgot all about Jake Pratt. Instead, I got busy preparing for the day ahead.

  I’d already settled into a routine. These days, my life consisted of getting up early, hitting the coffeepot, and then heading right over to Lickety Splits. I put on a Lickety Splits apron, then made a few batches of ice cream, slogged through some paperwork, checked the napkin dispensers, and did a bunch of other maintenance chores....

  And loved every minute.

  The culmination of the morning’s prep was also one of my favorite parts: flipping over the CLOSED sign that hung on the front door so that the OPEN side was displayed. And this morning, just like every other morning, I experienced a little thrill.

  Another day in the ice cream business had begun.

  I was about to take my place behind the counter when my cell phone rang. Glancing at it, I couldn’t identify the caller. But the area code was local, so I answered.

  “Ms. McKay? This is Brian Whitman, president of the Wolfert’s Roost Chamber of Commerce. I own Apex Appliances, the Hudson Valley’s number one supplier of gas grills and dishwashers. As our slogan goes, ‘If it plugs in, we’ve got it!’”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I replied sincerely.

  “I wanted to thank you for joining,” he went on breezily, “and welcome you to our fine organization. I hope you’ll be coming to our June meeting, which takes place this Monday night.”

  “I certainly will.”

  “Wonderful, wonderful.”

  As Brian droned on a bit about all the good things the Chamber did for its members, I balanced my cell between my ear and my shoulder. No reason why I couldn’t fill a napkin dispenser or two while he talked.

  I perked up when he said, “But there is one thing you may not be aware of.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The location of our meetings rotates every month. In other words, we meet at a different member’s place of business each time. So it’s important to check the Web site every month to make sure you—”

  “Who’s hosting it this month?” I asked.

  Brian cleared his throat. “Actually, I am. We sometimes have a problem getting anyone to volunteer at this time of the year, so we’ll be gathering at my appliance store. It’s on Route Nine, just north of Wolfert’s Roost—”

  “Is it too late for me to offer to host it?” I interrupted. “I’d love to introduce all the members to my shop. And I’m sure I could come up with some pretty terrific refreshments.”

  Part of me, a cynical part, wondered if perhaps that was why Brian Whitman had called me in the first place. Even though, as an appliance store owner, the man had more access to refrigerators and stoves than anybody else, he probably didn’t use any of them to put together much in the way of enticing munchies for the town’s business owners.

  My hunch felt validated when it took Brian all of two seconds to agree. “That would be wonderful!” he said heartily. “There should be twenty to twenty-five people, and our meetings always start promptly at seven-thirty.”

  My mind was already racing, coming up with fun ideas.

  But I quickly forgot all about the upcoming Chamber of Commerce meeting and my chance to play caterer for the very first time. The first customers of the day wandered in, a young mother with two little boys.

  While I relished being alone in the shop in the morning, getting ready for the day ahead, I really loved what happened as soon as
Lickety Splits opened. An almost supernatural burst of energy flooded into my little piece of ice cream heaven the moment it opened. A different cast of customers came in every single day, all of them in search of an ice-cream-eating experience that would delight them.

  And I did my best to fulfill their dreams. Because I loved ice cream so much, I was pretty sure I was able to pass some of my enthusiasm on to them. For at least a few seconds, these strangers and I were bonded together by a scoop of Divine Chocolate or Pistachio Almond—or equally enthralled by the very fact that something like a Bananafana Split even existed on the planet we shared.

  It was also hard work. Smiling, scooping, concocting, chatting . . . after a couple of hours, I was starting to get a little tired. I glanced at my watch and was surprised to see how late it was.

  It seemed to be taking Emma forever to get back. I hoped she hadn’t gotten lost, especially with a few gallons of heavy cream in the back of my truck.

  But just as I was about to text her, she came rushing into the store. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were unnaturally bright.

  “You’re back!” I cried. “I was about to send out a search party.”

  “Sorry I took so long,” she said. “Juniper Hill was really busy.”

  I found it hard to picture a line out the door at an organic dairy, but I didn’t press her any further.

  “Well, you’re back now,” I said. “As soon as you put that cream in the refrigerator and get settled behind the counter, I’m going to take off. I have a few errands to run.”

  I was handing a boy about thirteen who was wearing a Yankees cap a double-dip cone with a scoop of White Chocolate Macadamia Nut Paradise and a scoop of Hawaiian Coconut—a truly magnificent combination, I might add—as Emma tied on her Lickety Splits apron. She still seemed a bit dazed, or at least preoccupied.

  I was about to ask her if she was feeling okay when she casually asked me, “So who’s that guy, Ethan?”