Hot Fudge Frame-Up: A Fudge Shop Mystery

by Christine DeSmet

  Lucky Harbor plunked his muddy, dirty front paws on my white blouse as he implored me to do something. I pushed him gently back to the ground, then squatted next to Libby and put an arm around her slender quaking shoulders. “I’m so sorry, Libby.”

  A siren erupted in the near distance. The volunteer emergency medical technicians were on their way. We were only a few minutes from the firehouse on the outskirts of Fishers’ Harbor.

  Lloyd lay on his back, his bald head at a cockeyed angle, his eyes open, his mouth slightly agape under his mustache. He looked stunned by his own demise. An arm was crumpled awkwardly under him, the elbow poking out toward us. His shirt and pants looked impeccable, as usual. There were no bushes to break his fall or tear his clothing. He’d landed squarely on gravel, just missing a small concrete pad on the ground as well as iron pipe railings on a staircase leading to the back door of the lighthouse. I didn’t see any blood, but I suspected there might be plenty underneath his head, seeping into the gravel. I wasn’t about to move him or look.

  Amid her sobs, Libby touched Lloyd’s face a couple of times, her hand shrinking back each time.

  Tears welled up in my eyes. My throat clogged again.

  Soon, our EMTs—Ronny and Nancy Jenks—hustled up behind us. I helped Libby back away.

  Jordy’s deputy, Maria Vasquez, showed up. Maria had been on her way to check in with me at the fudge shop about yesterday’s transgressions when she heard this call come in from the lighthouse. Maria and I took Libby to a nearby picnic table while the EMTs assessed Lloyd.

  We sat down, with me across from Libby and the deputy. They had their backs to the goings-on with Lloyd’s body, but I had a clear view if I wanted it. I focused on Maria and Libby instead. Lucky Harbor settled on the grass next to me, panting and looking about, on alert. I wondered where Dillon was.

  Maria looked at me with dark eyes hooded with concern. “Did you . . . ?”

  She wanted to know if one of us had seen him fall. “No,” I said. “The dog was carrying on and I followed him around to the lake side of the lighthouse and that’s how I found Lloyd.”

  “Lloyd had been working on the tower?” Deputy Vasquez handed a tissue to Libby next to her.

  Libby said, “No. Or at least I don’t think so. I hadn’t seen him since last night right after the fish boil. He dropped me off at my house.” She pointed off in the direction of the road into the park. “I just live across Highway 42.”

  “You stay here for now, please.” The deputy patted Libby’s shoulder, then left. She returned with a camera and proceeded to take photos. She also used a measuring tape, making notes or diagrams as she went.

  Nancy and Ronny stood to the side, looking glum. While the deputy couldn’t presume anything, the thought of suicide rose inside me, and I believed in the EMTs as well.

  The surroundings were incongruous to the awful event. Lake Michigan rippled and sparkled just yards from us. The breezes were balmier today, the humidity not so oppressive as yesterday. My short-sleeved white blouse didn’t stick to me. The temperature was around eighty degrees. Kids’ laughter came from far off in the park’s campgrounds somewhere.

  As the gusty winds off the lake buffeted us, yesterday’s conversation with Lloyd bounced in my head. He’d been seriously concerned about his land deal and my fudge contest. He also said he knew who had written the threatening note, insinuating it had been Erik and Piers. He’d mentioned Kelsey being “friendly,” which I’d witnessed later. On top of that, he wanted me to move into the Blue Heron Inn. This mishmash of things made me uneasy now. It felt like Lloyd had some hidden agenda or secret, and that he had been pushing me toward helping him with something. But what? And why? Was he afraid of somebody? Or just under too much pressure? In addition, I couldn’t ignore his health problem; he had been uncomfortable yesterday. He’d also started giving away his things—his cookbook collection. Had that been a plea for help, too? Had he seen in me something of a daughter he could trust? Because he trusted my grandfather?

  With my heart heavy as stone, I called my grandmother to tell her the news. She went silent for a long moment. Grandpa would take this news about his best friend’s death even harder.

  After I got off the phone, Libby muttered, “I don’t understand. Why would he do this?”

  She obviously thought he’d committed suicide, too.

  I said, “It had to be an accident. Maybe he was up there taking a look from the tower to envision the changes his real estate sale would bring to Fishers’ Harbor. I heard he was signing the contract tonight, Libby.”

  “Tonight?”

  I was a little surprised she didn’t know, but I let it pass. They were a divorced couple, and sharing lingonberry pancakes now and then didn’t mean they shared everything. “Maybe he was having second thoughts and came here to think. Or to talk with you about tonight. It was probably dewy and slippery up there on the iron walkway. And it’s so narrow up there.” I imagined him stretching out a kink in his hip or legs as I’d seen him do yesterday at his house, then tipping off-kilter. “My grandmother will be here any minute, Libby.”

  She nodded. The whites around her big, dark brown eyes were red from crying. I got up and came around the picnic bench to give her another hug.

  The memory of the note startled me again. Somebody will die if you don’t convince Lloyd to throw the contest. Miss Oosterling must not win.

  I had the good sense not to say anything that might exacerbate Libby’s pain.

  When Sheriff Tollefson arrived a half hour later, he shot across the grass straight for me where I stood holding on to the dog. My grandma was with Libby. The sheriff repeated questions I’d already been asked by Deputy Vasquez. Then he got to the note. “Did you talk with Lloyd about throwing the contest? Did Lloyd feel threatened by anybody?”

  Fear swept through me at the realization the sheriff thought this might have been a murder. I told Jordy about visiting Lloyd yesterday around the lunch hour with Pauline. “He seemed mixed up emotionally, Jordy.” I told Jordy about the cookbooks, the key to the house, Lloyd’s wish for my career, and the proposed move into the Blue Heron Inn. “You should check with his doctor. Maybe he knew he was dying and was trying to get everything in order before he passed away.”

  Jordy made a note. “Do you think he was capable of suicide?”

  The lump in my throat enlarged. I recalled all the pressures Lloyd must have been under from the townspeople. “Maybe.”

  “Somebody wrote Lloyd’s name in that note, but not the other judges of your contest. Those would be . . . ?”

  “Our village president, Erik Gustafson, Professor Alex Faust from the University of Wisconsin in Green Bay, and Dotty Klubertanz.”

  “What about your testy contestants? They seem capable of harming people they don’t like.”

  “With fudge cutters? You don’t think Piers or Kelsey murdered him, do you?”

  “Could they have driven him . . . over the edge, literally? Any pressure on Lloyd from them?”

  I had to tell Jordy about Kelsey’s unwanted “friendliness” toward Lloyd, and that Lloyd said Piers had bribed Erik last Tuesday. “But I have no proof of that bribe, Jordy. Piers may have offered money to Erik, but maybe Erik didn’t accept it or he returned the money. Lloyd didn’t elaborate and I didn’t ask.”

  “If there was a bribe, maybe Erik was embarrassed or fearful after saying something to Lloyd.”

  “You’re speculating, Jordy.”

  “True, but I’m trying to jog your memory. Piers is a beefy, big guy. And Erik was a football player. You can bet I’ll ask them some questions later, too.”

  The insinuation was clear: Piers or Erik could have muscled Lloyd up the circular staircase and thrown him off the tower.

  “Jordy, Lloyd said he was signing a contract tonight over dinner with somebody. He didn’t mention who or where, but maybe that’s
a lead to track down. And he gave me old cookbooks, with a speech about doing grand things for the town. It all seems odd now that I look back on it. Maybe there was something else going on.”

  The EMTs passed us with Lloyd’s body bagged on a stretcher.

  Deputy Vasquez walked up to us with her camera and tape measure. “I haven’t found anything in the perimeter. We haven’t had rain in a while, so no obvious footprints. I’ll secure the lighthouse and take a look inside and at the top. The EMTs said it looks like he broke his neck in the fall. There’s rigor mortis in the body and lividity.”

  “Thanks, Maria,” Jordy said.

  Maria followed the EMTs.

  I said, “She seems really good.”

  “Fresh out of Madison College.”

  That was a tech school in Madison, the state’s capital. “Why’d she take a job up here?”

  “Her parents work in the orchards and dairy farms right here in Door County. The County Board of Supervisors approved her position because they want us to write more speeding tickets to feed the county’s coffers. The only real law enforcement work we get is pretty much with you.”

  Jordy had on his usual stone face, but I considered it a backhanded compliment. Then Jordy said, “The note said Lloyd should throw the contest and make sure you lost. Who wants to harm you? And why, Ava?”

  My brain sputtered like a boat motor trying to back up. “I make fudge; what’s not to love about me?” But a seed of concern had sprouted in me. “What does ‘lividity’ mean?”

  “When his heart stopped the blood began to settle and pool. Gravity pulls it down. The skin looks bruised. Lividity will help us pinpoint the time of death.”

  “When will you know that?”

  He scowled at me. “Let me handle this, especially since it may involve serious threats to you. I don’t want to find you fighting with a murderer in a basement again.”

  “You sound like you care.” I let a grin slide across my lips. “Maybe I should ask you to the dance next weekend, just for my own protection.”

  He scoffed. “You’ll most likely get plenty of close protection from Sam and Dillon.”

  He walked away before I could respond. I found it interesting that Jordy had a sense of humor. And concern for my safety.

  * * *

  Lucky Harbor sat in the front shotgun seat, his nose out the window, sniffing the breeze, as I drove into town. When the brown spaniel spotted Dillon on Main Street, the dog’s tail began slapping the seat. He barked. It was only a little after ten, and few tourists were about, so I easily found a parking spot.

  I left the dog inside because I didn’t have a leash. I crossed the street where Dillon stood in his neon yellow hard hat and T-shirt beside a pile of gravel and a pit along a curb in front of The Wise Owl. Workmen were lowering a pipe into the pit. When I told Dillon the news, he gathered me in his arms in front of everybody. He felt solid, warm, and just what I needed. Tears filled my eyes, which ordinarily I hated. But the image of my grandpa’s best friend’s crooked form lying on the gravel overwhelmed me.

  Dillon murmured into my ear, “I’m so sorry, for everybody. Your poor grandparents. Poor Libby. And you. Do you want to step over to the coffee shop? I’ll buy.”

  “No, but thanks. I’d better get to the fudge shop. Grandma said Gilpa was just coming in from a fishing tour when I called her earlier.”

  “I could come with you.”

  “No, you have to work.” While I felt in need of his support, I was wary of rekindling a deeper dependence on him.

  He said, “Take the dog if you want. Lucky is a pretty good listener.”

  I pointed out my shirt. “He’s good about getting me dirty. Why was he over in the park by himself?”

  “Because last night he treed a possum before we left the park, and so he ran away on me earlier this morning to find that possum again. I figured either he’d come back on his own or I’d go fetch him during my break this morning.”

  Dillon and I crossed the street to get to my truck and his dog.

  He ruffled the dog’s neck and ears, then took a leash from a pocket. “Hey, boy. What did you see over there at the lighthouse?” Dillon handed me the leash. “Take him. A dog is a good buddy in times of stress. A car crash taught me the value of a dog.”

  “When was this?”

  “Remember my Porsche?”

  Red, loud, and fast. Like a magic carpet, the roadster ferried us to Las Vegas and then to Route 66 to the ocean. A thread of the thrilling memory dangled inside me like a rope teasing me to climb it. “What happened?”

  “Crashed it the year after you left me. Going too fast and missed a corner. I ended up in the hospital with a broken leg and wrist and depression over my sorry state. A hospital volunteer brought in a dog for me to commune with.”

  “Let me guess. An American water spaniel?”

  He grinned. “No, a golden retriever. But then I got interested in dogs and found out Wisconsin had its very own official breed of dog, the American water spaniel. I held off on getting one until I finished my degrees and got situated in Dad’s construction company, but thinking about what a dog had meant to me kept me going and pushing forward. Sound silly?”

  My heart was melting, damn him. “No, not silly at all.”

  “You’ll take him for a little while today, then? Your grandpa might need him, too.”

  He had me with the mention of Gilpa. “Okay.” The fudge-colored dog panted up at me and wagged his tail as if he knew human language. “Come on, Lucky Harbor.”

  Dillon gave me a thumbs-up. “I’ll pick him up by lunchtime. Want me to bring a sandwich over for you?”

  I almost objected, then thought better of it. I might need an excuse to get out of the fudge shop after news of Lloyd’s death hit the gossip mills. Everybody would be dropping by to ask me to recount finding the body.

  “Sure, Dillon. Thanks. See ya later.”

  When I got back into the truck, the dog’s big brown eyes seemed to want to tell me something.

  Another one of those odd chills prickled my back. This dog had been frantic at the lighthouse. Dillon’s question came to mind. What did the dog see? A suicide? Or something more sinister? I recalled how he’d been snuffling about the grounds at the lighthouse with a determined ferocity. Had Lucky Harbor been only upset about finding a dead person? Or had he detected some other scent in the grass that was distinctive? I started the truck’s engine, letting the roar erase the horrible speculation creeping into my brain.

  Chapter 7

  The shop buzzed with fishermen and tourists buying gear and fudge when I walked in around ten thirty with Lucky Harbor.

  Professor Alex Faust was there with more copies of Wisconsin’s Edible Heritage stacked on the counter while he talked with Cody at the register. It had slipped my mind that he was signing copies today outside at one of the round bistro tables. He fumbled in his briefcase filled with papers, tourist brochures and our Peninsula Pulse magazine, and a tablet computer. Upon seeing me, he snapped shut the briefcase and handed me bookmarks with a smile.

  “You’ll be outside this morning, Alex,” I said.

  “What a glorious day,” he said with great exuberance. He hadn’t heard about Lloyd’s death obviously. He went outside with his armful of books and briefcase. Customers snaked in a line behind him. He had a certain amount of fame, which is why I’d suggested to John he’d be a good fudge judge.

  I helped the professor push together both of the two small tables with chairs that I’d added to our outdoor landscape for summer tourists. Gilpa’s rough-hewn wooden benches along the walls were still there, too, perfect for fishermen pulling on waders. I’d also put up planters with red geraniums under both of the big bay windows. We Belgians didn’t eat dirt like Kelsey’s famous restaurant find in Japan, but we knew how to turn dirt into beautiful floribunda art.
<
br />   I didn’t see my grandpa, so I went back inside and rang up a fisherman’s purchase of bobbers for his son. I went back over to my register with the dog in tow to tell Cody the horrible news.

  Cody’s gaze fell to the floor. He was just out of high school, with short red hair cut in a cute, spiky cap of fuzz that made him look younger than eighteen, even cherublike. Because he had Asperger’s, I knew from talking to Sam that Cody might be in a quandary as to how to react.

  “It’s okay, Ranger, if you don’t say anything. None of us knows what to say. But we can still smile at customers.”

  “Thanks.” He showed me a printout. “I did inventory when I got here. There’s a pink purse and a Cinderella doll missing.”

  “You’re sure?” It was ridiculous to ask, because Cody was meticulous. He liked things clean, shiny, and in their place. I remembered little Verona Klubertanz and her friends in the shop yesterday. Verona had clutched a doll with her sticky fudge fingers and Bethany had to ask her to put it down. I’d have to ask Pauline if Verona or other girls showed up at summer school today with the doll.

  Professor Faust came back in to collect the rest of his books. His gray hair stood out every which way in tufts after being mussed from the harbor breezes. I gave him the news about Lloyd.

  Alex set his books back down. “How horrible. And unfortunate timing. I talked with your village president only yesterday about the Duck Marsh Street properties.”

  “Why?”

  “The cabins have historical significance. I told Erik that he should ask for a delay of the sale of the properties until the village can join forces with the historic preservation society. The village needs to take a closer look and be involved with preserving rather than destroying.”

  “When did you talk with Erik?”

  “It was a brief conversation in the morning. It was after the ruckus here. I had turned my car onto Main Street and seen Erik coming out of the coffee shop, so I pulled over. I told him saving the cabins instead of allowing Lloyd to demolish them could create a tourist attraction. It should be possible to trace the ownership back to the original Swedes, Finns, and Belgians who built them in the 1800s. I suggested to Erik that perhaps Lloyd had already done those title searches and somebody should ask him to provide that information to the public.”