PRAISE FOR FIRST-DEGREE FUDGE
“An action-filled story with a likable heroine and a fun setting. And, oh, that fudge! I’m swooning. I hope Ava Oosterling and her family and friends take me back to Door County, Wisconsin, for another nibble soon.”
—JoAnna Carl, national bestselling author of the Chocoholic Mysteries
“Christine DeSmet has whipped up a melt-in-your-mouth gem of a tale. One is definitely not going to be enough!”
—Hannah Reed, national bestselling author of Beewitched
“The first in a new series set in the ‘Cape Cod of the Midwest,’ First-Degree Fudge is a lighthearted confection that cozy mystery readers will devour.”
—Lucy Burdette, author of Murder with Ganache
“As palatable as a fresh pan of Belgian fudge, this debut will delight candy aficionados and mystery lovers with its fast pace, quirky cast, and twist after twist. A must read!”
—Liz Mugavero, author of A Biscuit, a Casket
“Interesting characters enhance this mystery . . . plenty of romantic tension. The mystery evolves nicely with a few good twists and turns that lead to a surprising villain.”
—RT Book Reviews (4 stars)
“Will have readers drooling with its descriptions of heroine Ava Oosterling’s confections. Set in a small Wisconsin town on Lake Michigan, readers will enjoy the down-home atmosphere and quirky characters.”
—Debbie’s Book Bag
“Ava Oosterling and her cast of characters are going to charm the socks off the cozy-mystery world. . . . If you like your cozy mysteries with a lot of small-town charm, along with a dollop of fudge, you’ll love the new Fudge Shop Mystery series!”
—Feathered Quill Book Reviews
“First-Degree Fudge will tingle your sweet tooth at the first mention of Cinderella Pink Fudge.”
—The Washington Post
ALSO BY CHRISTINE DESMET
The Fudge Shop Mysteries
First-Degree Fudge
OBSIDIAN
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014
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A Penguin Random House Company
First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC
Copyright © Christine DeSmet, 2014
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ISBN 978-1-101-59449-0
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.
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Contents
Praise
Also by Christine Desmet
Title page
Copyright page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Recipes
Acknowledgments
Excerpt from FIVE-ALARM FUDGE
To supporters of Door County’s Eagle Bluff Lighthouse—
named “Featured Lighthouse of 2014” by the Great Lakes Lighthouse Festival—
and lighthouse lovers everywhere
Chapter 1
Everything and everyone has a purpose in life, and a place, my grandmother Sophie always said. “And everyone and everything can be good and then go bad. Lloyd Mueller is like beer fudge. Enjoy it now because it only has a shelf life of about three days.”
I shivered at what she’d just insinuated. But nobody contradicted my Belgian grandmother, especially when she was upset. And yet I plunged in like a ninny. “Grandma, Lloyd is a good landlord. Or was. At least he’s giving me a refund for making me move out of this rental cabin early. He’s bringing the check to the meeting at the fudge shop. And please don’t talk about him having a shelf life.” My skin rippled again, this time with big goose bumps. “You make it sound like somebody will do him in for having me move.”
“Bah and booyah! Maybe he should watch out! You’re moving out of this lovely cabin and then moving into the storage room of your fudge shop? Whoever heard of living in a fudge shop! This is going to be trouble for you and worse for Lloyd!” Exclamation points spat out of her mouth as my grandmother splashed suds about the fudge utensils in my cabin’s kitchen sink.
My cabin was one of several rentals along the three-block length of Duck Marsh Street in Fishers’ Harbor, a tourist town on peninsular Door County, Wisconsin, which juts into Lake Michigan. Our county was known as the Cape Cod of the Midwest. In the summer our village’s population of two hundred swelled to a couple of thousand when the condos and summer homes filled with vacationers from Chicago and beyond.
“I don’t like it,” Grandma said, persisting. We Belgians are like that, the old “dog on a bone,” never giving up. “He’s up to no good.”
I had to admit I felt the same way. Everybody knew everybody’s business here. Lloyd was the richest man in town by far. All we knew was that he intended to buy the Blue Heron Inn, but he wasn’t telling anybody his intentions except to say it wouldn’t be an inn anymore. People all over town were nervous about the secrecy. Even Lloyd’s ex-wife, Libby—who got along with him fine—had told my grandma she was worried about the mysterious surprise he had cooking for Fishers’ Harbor. Libby said he wouldn’t even tell her. What did that mean? That he was up to no good, as Grandma said?
It was hard for me to worry too much about this big secret at the moment. I was in the living room packing books in a hurry in sticky July humidity. It was Friday morning after the Fourth, and I’d told Lloyd I’d be out by Sunday. I could fuss and ask for thirty days’ notice, but Lloyd—for all his faults—was also my grandfather’s old high school buddy. Besides, I liked the thought of living in a fudge shop. The early-morning fog was being steamed by the sun, steeping me like a tea bag. My long brown hair in a twist atop my head was coming un
done on my damp neck, and my trademark pink blouse was beginning to stick to my back.
I’d been up since five, the water had been cut off in my fudge shop today, and the birdcall clock over the sink had just cardinal-chirped eight o’clock, which panicked me. In a half hour I had to meet up with the fudge contest judges and confectioner chef contestants at my shop. Fortunately, Oosterlings’ Live Bait, Bobbers & Belgian Fudge & Beer was only about thirty feet away across my backyard. It sat on the docks of our Lake Michigan harbor.
Grandma said amid pans rattling in the sink, “I don’t see why you can’t live in our sunporch for now.”
Grandma and Grandpa Oosterling lived across the way, in one of only two cabins on this street not owned by Lloyd Mueller. Moving in with my Grandma Sophie and Grandpa Gil would be convenient, but I was thirty-two, and I’d heard too many jokes about thirtysomethings moving back in with family to be comfortable with the invitation.
“Grandma, I’ll be fine. I need to worry about settling on a new fudge flavor for next week’s contest.” I tossed more cookbooks and scriptwriting books into the next empty box sitting near me on the floor by the couch.
“You like Brussels sprouts.”
“Sprout fudge?” I swallowed down my gag reflex, then heard her squelch a giggle. My grandma was like that, always keeping me on my toes. “What fairy tale is that based on?” From the start of my business I had decided that all my fudge flavors for females had to be named for a fairy tale.
Grandma said, “The story of the Three Bears. Porridge fudge.”
Smiling at that flavor, I countered, “Maybe a Goldilocks flavor, something in gold? I’m not sure what flavor that could be, but it needs to be as nice as my cherry-vanilla Cinderella Pink Fudge.” The Cinderella fudge had become an instant hit with the tourists. “I want something gal pals will savor with a fine Door County wine or that their little girls would find cute and fun for their tea parties. I’m starting to panic.”
“Ah, the sweet success of your first fudge flavor is pressuring you.” Grandma Sophie wrestled a big stainless steel mixer bowl into the sink. “Come over for dinner tonight and we’ll brainstorm. And move your stuff into our cabin. Whoever heard of living in a storage room amid milk, cream, and mice!”
“There are no mice in my fudge shop, Grandma. There’s only Titus here in the cabin, in the bottom cupboard.”
“I can’t believe you named a mouse. Bah.”
“Well, he wouldn’t climb into my traps for cheese or even peanut butter, so I figured I’d give him a name and then just call him out of hiding.”
“Booyah to you.” The word “booyah” refers to a traditional Belgian celebration stew made with chicken and vegetables, but now the word is used all the time as a cheer word. Grandma continued as she swished suds around the bowl. “That mouse will have more living space than you. And moving now is the worst possible time to do it in your life. Lloyd should be ashamed of himself for telling the new owner you’d be gone by Sunday sometime. Who do you suppose he sold these cabins to?”
“Maybe Libby’s learned more. I’ll ask her. I have to stop over at the lighthouse later with her batch of fudge anyway.” I sneezed from the books as I packed another box on the floor. I hadn’t dusted anything since I arrived in town in late April. Opening and operating the fudge shop had kept me too busy. “Grandma, maybe we should just be happy that Lloyd isn’t letting the inn sit empty and become a home for Titus’s relatives.”
“I suppose you’re right. Not many people want to move into a place where a murder happened.”
I shivered all over again for the umpteenth time just thinking about my involvement. Back in May my fudge had been stuck down the throat of an actress who was choked to death. The killer had tried to pin it all on the newbie back in town—me. I wondered now if some relative of the murdered woman had bought my cabin in order to be close to her spirit. Was my landlord afraid I’d be freaked out? Try to stop the sale?
But I had more important worries. The First Annual Fishers’ Harbor Fudge Festival was being held a week from tomorrow—Saturday. Back in May I’d been conned into sponsoring a fudge contest by my girlfriend’s new boyfriend. John Schultz was a tourism and tour promoter out of Milwaukee who looked for any angle to bring himself up to Door County to visit Pauline Mertens. John had convinced me that a fudge contest would help me look like a good business member of the community while making amends for drawing bad karma to Fishers’ Harbor with the murder involving my fudge. The taste-off next Saturday afternoon would be followed by an adult prom dance in the evening outside the fudge shop on the docks. The prom was also hatched by John, with Pauline’s blessing. I couldn’t say no to Pauline. She felt sorry for me. I’d never been to a prom because as a teenager I was a too-tall, athletic, nerd-farm-girl that the boys passed in the hallway as if I were invisible.
Unfortunately, things were going wrong. While anybody could enter the fudge contest, John had created a celebrity panel consisting of me and two chefs to draw publicity to the fudge festival. His guest celebrity chef contestants, who had arrived this past Monday for a two-week stay, had taken over the six copper kettles in my shop—as in not sharing them with me at all. And I couldn’t seem to come up with a new fudge flavor that would knock everybody’s socks off. What’s more, I had to find or make a prom dress—something that wouldn’t reveal how much fudge I’d eaten in the past couple of months. My excited and desperate friends Pauline and Laura Rousseau were coming over later this morning with yet another set of fabric swatches and dress patterns. Laura was two weeks away from delivering twins and desperate to fill her time after the doctor told her to quit her job.
Rapid-fire knocking on my front door was followed by my young, red-haired shop assistant, Cody Fjelstad, yelling through the screen, “Miss Oosterling! Come quick!”
My mother was with him. She hollered from behind Cody, “Ava honey, your shop’s being destroyed!”
“What?” The nonsensical news kept me rooted for just a second on the floor.
Cody opened the screen door, then waved frantically. “Get a move on, Miss Oosterling. Your chefs are chasing each other around the shop with fudge cutters. They keep saying they’re going to kill each other.”
* * *
My fudge shop and all my freshly made fudge were being held hostage by two chefs with circular knives.
When I rushed in through the back door of my shop, Kelsey King, a petite blonde from Portland, Oregon, and Piers Molinsky, a portly giant from Chicago, were wielding fudge cutters from their stances on both ends of my white, marble-slab table. My freshly made Cinderella Pink Fudge lay hostage in its pans between them. Kelsey and Piers had fudge cutters poised over the pans.
Fudge cutters look like pizza cutters—round, sharp disks. Kelsey held up a cutter with one disk while Piers had one with multiple disks that could cause a lot of quick damage if tossed at Kelsey.
I stood in shock behind my old-fashioned cash register, thinking I might need it as protection.
My mom muttered behind my back, “I forgot to tell you about the smell, too.”
The grab bag of aromas in the place made me pause. What had the chefs been up to in only a few minutes’ time this morning? I’d left the place just an hour ago and nobody had been here but my grandpa Gil and a few fishermen. It had smelled of the strong fresh coffee we always had on hand and my new batch of cherry-vanilla pink perfection fudge. Now the bait-and-fudge shop smelled of bacon, of all things, and a heady, earthy mix of spices such as nutmeg, cinnamon, ginger, and maybe some anise and orange peel tossed in.
I called out from behind my small fortress, “What’s wrong with you two? Stop!”
Piers, his chubby face red, his furry brown eyebrows pinched together, kept his gaze lasered on his enemy across the marble table as he picked up a pan of my fudge.
My heart rate accelerated. “Put the fudge down, Piers.”
; Piers ignored me, growling at Kelsey, “You do not belong in this contest. This is what fudge looks like.” He waved my pan of Cinderella Pink Fudge in the air.
Behind me, my mother whined in panic or disgust or both.
Kelsey snatched up the other pan of my fudge, waving her fudge cutter over it as she glared at Piers. “You see this fudge? This is your face!”
She slashed at my pretty pink fudge.
My mother screamed, nearly turning me deaf. I gasped, stunned for a moment, waiting for my hearing to come back.
Cody, whose dream was to be a law officer or park ranger, grabbed one of my four-foot spatulas from a nearby copper kettle. “I’ll stop ’em, Miss Oosterling.”
“No, Ranger, don’t. Stand back.” Cody liked being called “Ranger,” especially after he had helped me solve the murder in May and our county sheriff had awarded him a good-citizenship star. Cody was eighteen and had a mild form of Asperger’s. He was making remarkable progress toward independent living with the help of a social worker friend of mine.
I could’ve used the sheriff’s help at the moment. Ordinarily, my popular pink fudge sat in front of the big bay window to cure and to entice tourists. Now there was nobody waiting, just the view of Lake Michigan lapping up against the boats rocking at their moorings. Any customers there to buy fudge or bait had scattered to save their lives. Even if I called Sheriff Tollefson or a deputy, the sheriff’s office was a half hour’s drive away in Sturgeon Bay.
I glanced to the bait-shop side of the place. “Gilpa?” The word came out strangled in my tight throat. Since a little girl I’d called Grandpa Gil the shortcut name of “Gilpa.”
Ranger said, “He took a fisherman out just as I got here.”
I appealed again to the chefs. “This is silly. It’s going to be a beautiful day. Why start it out with a fight?”
Neither looked at me. Instead, they started a volley of words while shaking the fudge cutters and my fudge all about in the air. The glass in the bay window within inches of them was vibrating from the intensity.
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