We walked the truck’s perimeter. My purse turned up under a tuft of clover in bloom, but the small chest—which wasn’t light enough to be flung too far—was nowhere to be found.
The deputy and Dillon inspected the truck.
Pauline said, “Do you suppose somebody took it while we were stunned in the truck for a couple of minutes?”
Dillon asked, “What was in the box?”
“Any valuables?” Maria asked with renewed interest.
Nausea was filling me suddenly. “Yes. The box belonged to Lloyd Mueller.”
“The dead guy?”
I nodded.
Maria said, “Is there a chance anybody would want to harm you to get this box?”
“Yes.”
* * *
Maria asked that we finish making our report at the sheriff’s office. We sat in Jordy Tollefson’s interrogation room at a six-foot plain brown table and on blue plastic chairs. I’d been here before—too many times.
Jordy Tollefson wasn’t happy to see me. “Maria says somebody may be out to harm you because of a wooden box.”
Mercy Fogg came to mind. Had she found out I had the box with her incriminating notes and come after me? Or had Piers Molinsky found out I knew about him bribing Erik? Was he afraid I’d ruin his career?
“All I know for sure is that somebody aimed their car at me.”
“You’re saying the car was a weapon?” Jordy asked. “This wasn’t just an accident?”
“Your deputy brought up the possibility.”
Jordy laid out blank forms in front of him from a file folder and began writing. He knew my address by heart, not a great testimony to me. “I thought I told you to stay out of trouble.”
“That was yesterday.”
“Maria tells me you said the box had jewels in it. You’re not involved in another jewel heist, are you?” He was referring to the diamonds that had been stolen in New York before ending up in my fudge in May.
“No. There was just the one ring, and miscellaneous costume jewelry. The ring looked valuable. It’s a green emerald engagement ring about the size of my fingernail.” I showed him a pinkie finger, complete with broken nail.
“That’s a whopper of an emerald.”
“It was a whopper of an accident. There’s a thief loose in Door County, Jordy. Maybe worse.”
Pauline groaned. “You don’t know that. Could we come back later? She’s not coherent because she needs stitches in her head.”
“My brains aren’t falling out, Pauline. I know what I feel and what I’ve seen. There was bad karma swirling around Lloyd right before he died. Several people could have been upset with him, even mad at him, maybe scared he’d tell their secrets.”
“Like what? Explain your evidence to me.” Jordy sat back, looking me straight in the eye.
What did I have for solid evidence? I swallowed hard. I looked from Pauline to Jordy and said, “Well, one secret that both Pauline and I witnessed was Lloyd confessing that he was bothered by Kelsey King being too ‘friendly,’ as he called it. Then I saw them having a disagreement at the fish boil.”
Shaking his head, Jordy continued filling out the form. “You realize that’s not hard evidence of a damn thing, don’t you?”
Pauline said, “Let me take her to the hospital.”
Jordy kept his eyes trained to the form. “She’s not bleeding on my papers, so let’s finish this up. Ava, describe the box and contents, please.”
“I didn’t see much of the contents beyond Mercy’s crappy poems professing love and threatening Lloyd. Mercy was saying she’d tell Lloyd’s wife about him hoarding her ring or other things. Those aren’t the exact words, but it was clear Mercy suspected him of hiding valuables from Libby. At least that’s what my grandfather and I concluded.”
“So you’ve involved Gil?” Jordy shook his head again as he wrote.
“Actually, he involved me. I knew nothing about the box until Grandpa said Mercy was looking for me earlier today. Then he remembered the box.”
“Why was Mercy looking for you?”
“I don’t know. Something about the fudge judges. I haven’t asked her.”
“Well, don’t ask her.”
“Why not?”
“I want to talk with her first.” Jordy sat back. “But I don’t have much here unless she confesses. Maria said there were no skid marks. It looked like you and the other vehicle cleanly missed each other. Did you hear a horn?”
“No horns. I was in the ditch fast. I guess I was trying to outrun the car.”
“You don’t remember being bumped by the other vehicle?”
“No.”
“What’d it look like?”
“A blur. Darkish.”
“Dark what?”
“Like a big mouse maybe.”
“A big mouse?” Jordy looked at me queasylike.
Pauline offered, “She has a mouse in her kitchen. He’s grayish brown.”
Shaking his head, he muttered while writing, “A dark blur, mouse colored.” He handed me the form. “If it looks like we got all the details correct, please sign.”
While I read, I noticed the neat, printed lettering. “You know, Jordy, this looks just like the orange crayon lettering on that note we found in the lighthouse.”
Jordy paled, as if I’d caught him missing a crucial clue. “What’s your point?”
“I’m not accusing you of throwing the rock. I was just noting how neat your printing is when you’re here in your office. You’re relaxed, right?”
“Yeah. I still don’t get your point.”
“If the person writing the threatening note was relaxed, it probably rules out an excited kid doing mischief. What do you think, Pauline?”
She rubbed her aching elbow. “True. Kids in a hurry usually slant their letters every which way or run them together.”
I asked Jordy, “Could we look at the note again from the lighthouse?”
He gave me a puckered expression I’d never seen before. But he gathered up the files and my signed statement, then left. He came back with the plastic bag. We peered at the note through the plastic.
Pauline said, “Very careful lettering, neat. Moderate orange color, medium hand pressure.”
I said, “The person was comfortable with the crime he, or she, was about to commit.”
Jordy sat back, blowing air across his lips. “Since when did you become a handwriting expert?”
“Just now. I get these flashes of inspiration.”
“You were hit in the head inside your truck. The truck inspired you.”
“Whatever the cause, doesn’t it seem plausible that the note’s threat is connected to Lloyd’s death and my accident? The note says somebody will die. Lloyd died. And somebody is after me. Somebody followed me. And for some reason they picked up that box.”
“But Lloyd Mueller’s death looks like an accident. Maria confirmed that it was very dewy and slippery up there on the tower.”
“You don’t believe it was a suicide any more than I do. You’re a pro. You have to think murder until you rule it out. That note targeted me.”
“It said somebody will die if you don’t lose the fudge contest. So stop making fudge if you believe that note is serious and don’t want others to die.” Jordy speared me with a serious stare.
“I can’t stop. I have to make a living. And besides, my fudge is my art. A reporter in May called me a fudge sculptor.”
Pauline grabbed my arm. “We need to get you checked out at the hospital.” She turned to Jordy. “I was in the truck, too. That car came right at us. Then the wooden box disappeared while we were hanging in the truck. Somebody is trying to frame Ava or harm her.”
“Frame her? For what?” Jordy leaned forward.
“Ava was your suspect in a murder back in
May. What if somebody’s trying to blame Lloyd’s death on her and her family? To throw you off?”
I added, “It’s a hot fudge frame-up, Jordy. Start questioning perps.”
He leaned forward over the note to peer at us pointedly. His shoulders appeared broader, more menacing. “Door County has a population of about twenty-eight thousand people. Add to that the several thousands vacationing here right now. Which adults do you two propose I start questioning?”
“Just Mercy Fogg,” I said, incredulous as to how dense Jordy was today while I’d been hit on my noggin and was feeling brilliantly clear. Maybe he was hungry. I was feeling a little hungry and dizzy myself. The clock on the wall behind him was striking noon. “Mercy will still have the wooden chest hidden in her trunk if you get to her fast enough.”
“What kind of car does she drive?”
He had me. I said, “I only see her driving school buses or county road graders. Look her up in the vehicle license database.” He winced as I went on. “Pauline and I have to get to the hospital. And I sorely need to get back to make fudge. Jordy, did you know science has proven that chocolate fudge makes people amorous?”
His face turned red. “What’s your point?”
“If you take some of my Cinderella Pink Fudge with you to question Mercy, she might want to spill her guts about what she did. Sam uses my fudge at his client meetings. I bet feeding fudge to prisoners would work better than lie detector tests and torture. Can we go?”
“Not fast enough,” he said.
But I sat there, captured by my revelations, bubbling in my head like Belgian chocolate. My gut said Lloyd’s death was murder. I couldn’t prove it, but murder suspects popped up: Mercy and Piers, Erik and Kelsey, and some mysterious wannabe buyer of a good portion of Fishers’ Harbor. I needed to make fudge now because that could reveal the killer. I rattled off the suspects to Jordy.
Jordy rose off his chair with the Baggie in hand. “I can’t question Mercy or anybody just because you suggest it, Ava.”
“This is sounding more and more like working in television. My executive producer nixed most everything I came up with.”
“Maybe you had bad ideas.” He leaned over the table at me. “Don’t stir up trouble that can hurt Libby. If rumors explode, Libby’s going to be devastated. If there’s been a murder, let me handle the nightmare that will create for Libby. Getting lawyers involved will turn Fishers’ Harbor upside down, and we just got over a big legal mess with you in the middle of it.”
“It sounds like you’re warning me to keep quiet.”
“Ava Oosterling.” He spat out my name like it was a swearword. “You don’t get it.” He tapped a finger on the table like a repeater rifle. “I’m trying to tell you to stay safe. Rumors can get out of hand and become dangerous. One little peep out of you that Mercy Fogg may have harmed Lloyd and you could ruin her job driving the school bus and working for the county. Then she’ll sue your tiny little ass off and win.”
After he left the room, Pauline said, “I think he likes you. That ass comment was sort of sweet.”
* * *
Jordy called a wrecker service to haul my truck to a salvage yard, but I intervened to have it delivered to an auto body shop on the outskirts of Fishers’ Harbor; I couldn’t bear to give up on my yellow truck.
The sheriff dropped us off at the hospital. I called Mom to have her pick us up and take us home. Three stitches pulled my scalp back together. Pauline and I got pamphlets about concussions. No X-rays were taken because we seemed in good shape, but we were advised to have somebody check on us regularly for the next twenty-four hours. If we got headaches, we were to head to the emergency room.
Escaping death had given me an adrenaline rush. Pauline was less enthused about that method for boosting one’s energy. But I was eager to make fudge with a new flavor. Fairy tales popped into my head: Goldilocks and the Three Bears, Hansel and Gretel, Rapunzel, Red Riding Hood, the Princess and the Pea, Snow White, and Thumbelina. There were other tales, too, that could warrant magical fudge flavors, such as Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, or Robin Hood and Maid Marian. There were beautiful Native American tales, too, and tragic ones like the maiden who’d allegedly been separated from her lover, and after he died she wanted to join him, so she leaped from a high, rocky bluff overlooking the Mississippi River. The town of Maiden Rock, Wisconsin, got its name allegedly from that tale.
I doubted Lloyd had jumped off the Eagle Bluff Lighthouse for a lover. Had he slipped? I didn’t believe his death was an accident any more than I believed my getting run off the road was an accident.
We picked up Laura and wheeled her out of the hospital into the fresh air. She kept shaking her head over everything that had transpired since we dropped her off here yesterday morning. I handed her a bottle of water.
She took a swig. “At least you’re alive. I don’t know how to react to Lloyd’s death.”
Joining us, Pauline said, “Ava’s reacting by making fudge.”
Laura said, “I need to take your measurements for the dress I have in mind.”
“What color?” Pauline asked me, flipping her long, dark hair off a shoulder in her authoritative way. She had a bluish green bruise forming along her right cheek.
“Oh no,” I said, “we’re not going into a discussion again about Dillon and Sam.”
Pauline said, “I was thinking tan, to match Jordy’s uniform.”
Pauline told Laura about the “tiny ass” comment. They broke into laughter.
Laura pleaded, “Stop, or I’ll pee my pants. Again.”
Then I laughed, too. Everybody should have friends like these.
* * *
My mother arrived in her sports utility vehicle this time instead of the cow minivan. She babbled admonishments at us as she hugged us.
“You could have killed yourself,” she scolded me. “I should kill you for trying to kill yourself.”
“Mom, stop with the ‘kill’ word. It’s not allowed in front of Pauline.”
She pointed us into our seats like we were children. “You’re staying with your grandparents tonight.”
“No, Mom, my cabin is fine.”
“Who’s going to check on you at midnight and two and four in the morning? Never mind. I’ll call you. If you don’t answer, I’ll call an ambulance.”
Laura said, “I’ll stay with her.”
“I don’t have an extra bed,” I protested. “Just the lumpy sofa.”
As we drove away from the hospital, we decided Pauline would sleep at Laura’s in Sister Bay because Laura had a two-bedroom ranch house with a real bed in the second bedroom. I relented and told Mom I’d sleep in Grandma Sophie’s sunroom on the foldout sofa.
Mom asked, “Who’s helping you at the shop? You shouldn’t be doing anything at the shop. You need to rest.”
“Mom, really, the seat belt held me in. The crash was like riding a roller coaster.”
“Be sure to call your dad. He’ll want to hear your voice.”
“Will do, Mom.”
“Maybe I should stay with you at the fudge shop.”
Ugh! “No, Mom, it’s not necessary. Other people will be around. Like customers.” The only trick that worked to calm Mom’s worry gene was talking about her work on the farm. “How many new calves are you feeding lately?”
“Oh gosh, ten. They’re the cutest things, too. One has markings on it that look like a cat’s head, and there’s an outline of the United States on another calf.”
She once found the profile of Elvis and named that calf Graceland. We heard about a lot more famous people’s silhouettes on calf hide, which would bore you like it bored us. But Mom was sweet in her own way. I loved her for it.
When Mom dropped us off at the shop, the harbor was crowded as usual after lunch. I was starving, but tourists were milling about waiting for my show. Aft
er Memorial Day, I’d begun a practice of making fresh Cinderella Pink Fudge around one o’clock every Saturday for sure and most days of the week to entice the tourists and fishers after lunch. What I’d said to Jordy about the science of fudge was true—chocolate smells have been proven in experiments to increase sales. With the addition of fudge making in copper kettles over open flames, Grandpa noticed sales of his bobbers and bait had risen because people lingered longer, thus making more impulse buys.
To my surprise, Piers was stirring away peacefully at a copper kettle on one end of my north wall area, with Kelsey stirring at the other end of the row of kettles. They’d separated themselves with four kettles in between.
John Schultz was interviewing customers on camera. A little boy was saying his favorite vacation pastimes were gutting fish and eating fudge.
As soon as Pauline caught John’s eye, she melted into tears and told him about the accident. This side of Pauline was new for me. What was it about goofball John in his Hawaiian shirts that made her go weak? I didn’t “get” him at all. But then, my choices in men hadn’t worked out, so I wasn’t an expert on attraction.
I tossed on a white bib apron to cover my messy clothes. I’d washed up pretty well at the hospital, so my arms and legs were clean. I twisted my hair into a bun at the back of my head, sticking a pen off the counter through it to hold it in place. The stitches pulled on the top of my head, but I gritted my teeth against the annoyance.
Cody helped me gather ingredients from the kitchen. I didn’t tell him about the accident; he sometimes had trouble processing my painful adventures and would get as upset as Mom.
In minutes the crowd was watching me and the guest confectioners create spirals of luscious, liquid dark and white chocolate high in the air with our long wooden ladles. The air became thick with the ambrosial perfume that teased the tongue and made mouths water.
I told the crowd, “The cherries are high in antioxidants and their enzymes help ease muscle inflammation and pain of arthritis and strenuous exercise. The melatonin in tart cherries also helps keep your sleep cycle on track.”
Hot Fudge Frame-Up: A Fudge Shop Mystery Page 10