Hot Fudge Frame-Up: A Fudge Shop Mystery

by Christine DeSmet

  Pauline rolled her eyes at my Fs.

  “Smart woman,” he said. “But you have to act fast. After I sell off my properties, the new owner may eventually build those ugly condos and that chopper pad unless you get the people around here excited about your fudge in a deep way. You have to help people believe the fudge shop is fine where it is, and so are the cabins on Duck Marsh Street.”

  “Somebody wants me to fail, though, if that note is to be believed. Some person with an orange crayon wants you to convince the fudge judges to make me lose.” It struck me that perhaps a kid wouldn’t care enough about a fudge contest to write such a note. A shiver zipped up my back and neck and into my hair.

  Lloyd got up again, slower this time. “The bigger you get, the harder it is to fail. Fishers’ Harbor has never had a fudge festival. Mostly, people around here sell clay pots and covered ceramic pie plates with cherries on top. And the woodworkers? Ach du lieber. They trot out painted birdhouses and garden gnomes.”

  “But that’s what tourists like to buy. And Door County is actually filled with loads of lovely artists of fine art, including artists renting out your buildings in our downtown. The great art here probably graces many a home in Chicago.”

  “Ah yes, we are Chicago’s playground. Now you’re thinking big. Being a fudge judge got me thinking, too. You Belgians have what you call your kermis festivals.”

  “Harvest festivals.” In the Belgian areas of Door County below Sturgeon Bay, every hamlet held a harvest festival August through early October. But there was nothing in July. And nothing like a kermis in the top half of Door County, though the Swedes, Finns, and Norwegians had their share of wonderful festivals. A kermis was bawdy fun, with plenty of music and Belgian beer flowing, booyah and other hearty foods, the unique Belgian pies, and games like bocce ball as well as card games. But putting on a kermis was a daunting thought. “You want me to start a kermis for Fishers’ Harbor?”

  “Your doubting tone troubles me. Like your pink fudge.” He took a few rocking, bowlegged steps again, as if walking off a kink.

  I peered again at the gifts in my lap. A sudden, horrid thought came to me. “You’re not suffering from something terminal, are you?”

  “I’m fine. But I want you to do something about this threat that Libby found this morning. I must warn you that I believe our young village president and the past president would like nothing more than seeing you and your fudge put on a ship and floated out of here, preferably in a storm.”

  That made me sit up straight. “Erik Gustafson and Mercy Fogg want me ruined, or worse?”

  Pauline said to me, “I thought you and Mercy had patched up your differences.”

  “Not since she reported the dog in my shop and got me that demerit on my last health inspection. Then she crowed about it online, which Lois saw and told my grandmother.”

  Mercy Fogg was fifty-nine—in my parents’ age group—and a know-it-all. She was bitter about losing the spring election to nineteen-year-old Erik after she’d served as president of the village for twenty years. She now felt it her business to root out any shopkeeper who mistakenly forgot some regulation or got behind on taxes. She’d dinged some of Lloyd’s renters, including the quaint Klubertanz Market on Main Street, the coffee shop, and even The Wise Owl—our little bookstore where tourists browsed for old maps and used and new books to read on a deck overlooking Lake Michigan.

  “Erik’s always been nice to me, so he’s not our culprit.”

  Looking down on me in my chair, Lloyd said, “Erik told me the other day Piers Molinsky slipped him some cash. A bribe to throw the contest, I assumed.”

  “When was this?”

  “This past Tuesday.”

  It sounded like the “Confectioner’s Conflict” had started earlier than I knew. If bribes were cooking by Tuesday, the chefs had likely been cooking up trouble since the time they arrived on Sunday. I had met them the first time on Monday. Erik might consider a bribe, because he was practically a kid and as poor as the rest of us. Now I imagined that Erik had thrown the rock, thinking the silly trick would be blamed on a little kid, which it almost had been.

  “Did Erik keep the cash?”

  “Erik clammed up. I don’t believe he wanted me to know about the cash, but it slipped out when we were discussing the tax bills on my properties and how hard it is to make a living here. We essentially feed off tourist money June through the end of October, and then the county shuts down for winter and we go batty from boredom. It’s a wonder I haven’t killed myself before now.”

  Pauline and I exchanged a look of concern. I reminded Lloyd that winters here now included a lot of activities like snowshoeing and snowmobiling as well as ice-skating and ice-fishing. And nothing could beat Christmas in Door County with all the old-fashioned downtowns festooned with lights.

  But Lloyd’s agitation and pacing again signaled something deeper worrying him.

  I suggested, “Perhaps you should tell these things to Sheriff Tollefson.”

  “I’d rather you talk with him.” Lloyd slumped into his chair again.

  “Jordy gets miffed at me for trying to do his job.”

  Pauline said, “The real reason Jordy gets miffed is that he’s here to protect the citizens and you almost got yourself killed on his watch. You should have waited for him before going into that creepy mansion basement back in May.”

  Lloyd laughed out loud. He turned to view his roses. Bees scored the air outside.

  I said to Lloyd, “But if Piers is bribing Erik, this means I need to tell Piers to leave town and get a new contestant.”

  Lloyd said, “You might consider Miss King needs a ticket out of here, too.”

  My stomach tightened. “Is there something I should know about her?”

  “Let’s just say she likes to be friendly to get what she wants. How well did you vet these chefs? Is either of them real?”

  “Actually, John Schultz found them. And what do you mean she’s ‘friendly’?”

  He waved me off. “Do you trust this Schultz guy?”

  Pauline stood up, flipping her hair off her shoulders. “There’s nothing wrong with John. He runs a tour business. I’m sure he checked into their backgrounds.”

  But doubt lingered in the air as Lloyd’s potent insinuation hung there. I also recalled now how he had practically glared at the two chefs, particularly Kelsey, when Lloyd walked in on all the trouble. I had the ugly thought that maybe Piers was part of some Chicago mobster element. And Kelsey cooked with dirt because of some trendy thing going on, so who knew what she was willing to do? “Friendly” had a sexual connotation. I shivered again.

  Lloyd said, “Be careful who you trust, Ava, as you embark on your new venture for your fudge shop and for our community. You can have access to my entire library for your research on Door County’s history, food, and fudge. I’ll give you a key to the house.”

  “That’s nice of you, but these cookbooks will be enough. Thanks, Lloyd.”

  “No, it’s not enough. You and I received a threatening note. We must find the culprit. And you deserve more than my forcing you to move into your fudge shop.”

  “That was my choice.”

  “That’s kind of you to say, but I feel awful now. Would you consider moving into the Blue Heron Inn after I secure its purchase tomorrow night?”

  Unease swept through me like a gale off the lake. The inn was the location of the murderous debut of my Cinderella Pink Fairy Tale Fudge. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Lloyd.”

  Pauline waved her hand around like one of her kindergarten kids. “She’d love to make fudge in that big, new kitchen in the inn. She accepts.”

  Lloyd’s chuckle turned into a cough. He backed away from us to withdraw a handkerchief from a pocket. My instincts said he’d been lying about his health being fine.

  I said, “It’d have to be tempo
rary, Lloyd. It’s just too big a place for me to think about keeping up alone.”

  “Let me clarify,” he said. “I’ll kick you out of the inn within a few weeks. I haven’t told anybody, but I plan to turn it into elderly housing for people like me, single and ready to live simply with others of my own age who aren’t boring.”

  “That’s a great idea,” I said. “Fishers’ Harbor has nothing like it.”

  “So you’ll move into the inn on Sunday and stay for a few weeks? And fight this fudge terrorism we’re up against?”

  “If our village president and Piers Molinsky are up to no good trying to make me back out of my own contest, I can’t take that lying down. So, yes, Lloyd,” I said, attempting to keep the tremulousness out of my voice, “I’ll move into the Blue Heron Inn on Sunday.”

  Pauline was clapping. “So, who are you going to tell first? Dillon or Sam? This is the finest fudge contest and festival for old flames and confectionary flavor aficionados far and wide.”

  “It’s F week, isn’t it?”

  She nodded.

  Chapter 5

  When we left Lloyd to get in my truck, we found the fudge-colored dog lying in the water in the fountain’s bottom tier. He was lapping at cascading droplets.

  “Harbor, get out of there!” He was decidedly not “Lucky” at the moment.

  He leaped out with a splash, then shook, spraying me. Water went up my nose. He trotted to my truck door.

  “Oh no, you don’t.” I went to the back to open the tailgate. He leaped in, his tail wagging, his pink tongue flicking droplets into the air. I pulled at my soaked pink blouse, plastered to my skin and bra. “Darn dog.”

  Pauline said, “You can’t fault the dog for that. He’s a water spaniel, after all. Blame Dillon.”

  “You think Dillon planned for me to get soaked?”

  “He may not have planned this, but Dillon is about fun and I suspect he doesn’t mind thinking about his dog with you. Sure gives him an excuse to come by all the time.”

  “That’s just plain silly.”

  “No, it’s good. You need more fun in your life. And the guy isn’t all bad, not if he owns a dog that loves the smell of your fudge.”

  I kept the speedometer under twenty miles an hour so I didn’t bounce Lucky Harbor out onto the streets. I didn’t see Dillon as we passed orange cones around the construction at the intersection of Main Street and the side street that took us down to the harbor. But Dillon was waiting for me in the shop. So was Sam.

  The centrifugal pull of the two handsome men overwhelmed me as I paused inside the front door, hugging Lloyd’s moldering cookbooks. Dillon’s tan was getting deeper by the day from his construction work, his biceps and shoulders becoming more sculpted under his neon yellow T-shirt. Sam was no slouch, either. He was a runner and enjoyed fishing, activities that gave him a burnished, rough edge in summer. A sun-bleached lock of his blond hair rested unnoticed and rakish on his forehead. I pivoted toward some customers to regulate my breathing.

  Pauline’s Butterflies were there, too, with Bethany. They’d gone to the lighthouse for their tour.

  The littlest Butterfly, five-year-old Verona Klubertanz, who was Dotty’s granddaughter, danced to me with her shoulder-length dark curls bouncing. “Hello, Miss Oosterling. We came to make fudge! Look. I made fairy wings!”

  She held out a hand filled with squishy pink fudge that had to be the leftovers from this morning’s fight. I bent down, but had to compete with Lucky Harbor’s nose poking at the girl’s fudge.

  Dillon rescued us, reaching for the dog’s collar. “Lucky, let’s put you outside.”

  “Miss Oosterling,” Cody called from the cash register counter. “I let the Butterflies use the messy pieces you wouldn’t be able to sell anyway.” Ordinarily, when the Butterflies came to the shop for an artful experience, I mixed up chocolate modeling paste. The girls loved making edible objects and creatures.

  I told Verona, “Those are perfect wings. You’re going to be a first-rate confectioner someday.”

  “I want to be a fairy. They can fly. Look!” In her other sticky hand, she held up one of the dolls we had for sale and floated it through the air.

  Bethany rushed over to take the doll. “Not today, honey. Let’s put that back on the shelf, please. Sorry, Ava.” As Bethany shooed the girl away, she said, “While you were gone, Verona’s dad stopped by with a box of fresh jams for you and Gil. He brought raspberry, denim, and hedgerow.” Travis’s denim flavor was the color of denim and came from blueberries and rhubarb combined. Hedgerow was a blend from bushes supposedly found along hedgerows, such as blackberry, raspberry, and blueberry. “I put the jars on the kitchen counter until you could price them, and gave Travis fudge to sell at the market.”

  “Thanks, Bethany.” The strawberries and rhubarb seasons were pretty much past now, but the raspberries were just coming on in the county. In a week or so, we’d also be picking the county’s famous and bountiful cherries. Travis made a cherry-apple butter that used to be served at the Blue Heron Inn. I made a mental note of what I would serve at the inn—then caught myself. I reminded myself I would be moving in temporarily only and alone and not as a bed-and-breakfast operator, and only because of the industrial kitchen.

  Pauline hurried after Bethany and the little girls gathering in the doll aisle like real butterflies puddling around a water puddle.

  I headed behind the cash register counter to stash the cookbooks for later reading when the shop wasn’t busy.

  The cash register ka-chinged as Cody rang up purchases of fudge he’d neatly wrapped. We’d just sold out of the Cinderella Pink Fudge and Cody said we also needed more luster dust. Cody loved how luster dust made fudge sparkle. I’d need to get busy with my kettles and make fudge fast in order to fulfill my obligations for sharing my fudge with businesses this weekend. A quick sweep with my eyes told me Piers and Kelsey weren’t around. I relaxed, but only a little. Dillon and Sam were there for a reason—probably me.

  Dillon was now outside the bay window, tossing something into the water. His dog flew into the harbor in a belly-flop splash. The sight made me smile because of the pure joy I saw in both man and dog. Pauline was right; I hungered for such play myself.

  Sam, on the other hand, was standing at the glass-enclosed fudge case with a list. He’d told me that family counseling went better when everybody was fed fudge first. He said that fudge got them reminiscing about old times. I also found that a surprising number of people remembered making fudge with their grandmothers or mothers on a Saturday night or at holidays. They’d watch television or a rental movie while eating a fresh batch of the savory, sugary chocolate treat. The thought made me feel good about Lloyd’s suggestion that I should become more knowledgeable about my shop’s heritage. I’d have to sit down soon with a copy of Alex Faust’s cookbook to see what he’d said about the bait shop’s history.

  Sam said, “I finished moving your boxes from the cabin into the back storage room for you. Your grandmother asked me to help you out.”

  I realized the healthy glow I’d seen earlier on him was actually sweat. His white shirt had wilted. I didn’t have the heart to tell Sam I didn’t need to move into the shop.

  “Thanks. Can you excuse me, Sam? I’ve got more of the maple fudge back in the kitchen for you.”

  Sam followed me to the kitchen to the right, uncharacteristic of him. I was nervous, thinking something intimate was about to happen. Was I hoping for it?

  “Is there something you need to talk to me about, Sam?”

  “No, but I wondered if you needed those boxes moved around in that room.”

  So that was all he wanted—to lug boxes. “No, but thanks. My grandfather sort of chucked stuff in there over the years, and we’ll have to sort through it all. But you can help me haul fudge ingredients out to the copper kettles if you’re in a mood to move things.”<
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  I had Sam reach up high for the kilo bars of white chocolate where the dog couldn’t reach them while I checked the refrigerator for cream. Mom had been back sometime during my absence and had left plenty.

  Sam said, “Let me get the cream for you.”

  “Thanks, Sam.” His closeness created an agitation in my veins, but he seemed oblivious as his arms grew fuller. “Don’t you have other appointments today?”

  “It’s lunch hour.”

  I’d forgotten. That’s why Dillon was here, too. He’d promised to check on me. Maybe I was like a sister to Sam and Dillon, and that’s all we had. As I reached up for some more chocolate bars, Sam came behind me to reach over my head. His breaths puffed into my hair in a ragged rhythm. My imagination saw his lips edging forward to kiss my ear. I held my breath, but Sam just went ahead and got the chocolate down.

  Sam had forgiven me for jilting him, but his social worker training made him live by plans. He preferred an orderly life. I’d been a messy character in his past, and I was messy now. He likely wanted to fix me, or at least analyze what he’d done wrong to make me leave him. The thing that scared me was that Sam probably did indeed have all the answers to retool my life. If I wanted to let him, he’d make me his “project.” He’d had college classes about love. He was trained to run personality tests on people. Sam would know who might be a perfect match for me. Or not. I wondered what he’d say about a fabric swatch test.

  I took frozen Door County cherries out of the freezer and put them in the microwave to thaw. Some batches of Cinderella Pink Fudge I made with dried cherries and other batches with whole berries. I was still wishing a new fairy-tale flavor would pop into my head that would have a winning edge. Goldilocks still didn’t seem right to me. Gold-colored things were butter, dandelions, and maybe yellow tomatoes. None of those would work for a fudge flavor.