Hot Fudge Frame-Up: A Fudge Shop Mystery

by Christine DeSmet

  One woman in the crowd fanned herself and said, “Your fudge will help me sleep through the night? I’m buying out the shop right now.”

  The crowd chuckled.

  As I was creating cherry-vanilla pink perfection fudge next to Piers, he made the big mistake of opening his mouth.

  “Well, some people don’t sleep much at all. Ask Miss Dirt Eater murder suspect where she was this morning early.”

  Since nobody had said anything publicly about “murder,” his word choice was curious.

  To my left, still a couple of kettles away, Kelsey stopped stirring what looked like butterscotch fudge with balls hidden in it. “The only murder around here is going to be you. I was collecting dandelions, which are edible and legal.”

  So that’s what was in her pot—whole dandelion blossoms.

  The crowd had quieted.

  Piers looked into John’s camera. “Fudge is something that builds character and brings friends together. Even in death. Guess who was out in the park before Lloyd Mueller died.”

  Even I gasped with the crowd at that bold statement on camera.

  Kelsey lifted her four-foot wooden paddle and whacked Piers on the back. Butterscotch fudge and flower blossoms splattered everywhere, a blossom smacking me in the neck before it blobbed onto my formerly pristine apron.

  Customers herded their children out the front door.

  I pleaded with John, “Please stop recording.”

  Pauline coaxed the camera off his face while I turned to Kelsey. “Take a break.” I ripped the fudge-paddle weapon out of her hands.

  “I have a contract with Mr. Schultz. I’m not leaving.”

  “I’ll find you another kitchen to cook in. Come back in two hours for your orders.” I had no idea what I was saying, but I’d had enough of these two. “Piers, you, too. Take a break.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because every time you two cook here, Cody and I have to spend two hours cleaning up. You also can come back in two hours for further instructions.”

  Kelsey and Piers hurried out, muttering curse words. John trotted after them. I imagined this playing out as the cliffhanger right before a commercial break on TV.

  The small crowd that was left erupted into applause. White-haired Dotty and her redheaded friend, Lois, popped up from around the end cap of a shelving unit where they’d ducked for cover.

  Dotty, sparkling in a pink sequined T-shirt said, “You tell ’em, honey.”

  Lois nodded. “Those two are weird. But she’s a cute little blonde.”

  “Don’t get too close to her, Lois,” I said. “She’s lethal with her feet.”

  The cowbell clanked. John returned. “I need more shots of you alone making fudge. Can we do maybe a half hour more of taping?”

  Dotty said, “With the way she looks? Nothing doing.”

  I took slight offense. “What’s wrong with the way I look?” The white apron had butterscotch on it, but that was all.

  Dotty said, “This disheveled outfit won’t do, not if you want to be successful with your show.”

  “It’s John’s show.”

  “Pshaw. It’s our show, too. Door County could become famous on TV. We have to think about how we’re portrayed on the boob tube.” Dotty preened in her pink sparkles, hinting for John to record her. Dotty was taking her fudge judgeship seriously, it appeared.

  John said, “Love that color. That’s what this place needs—more color!”

  Lois said to me, “I have just the thing to cure your dull, drab appearance, Ava. I’ll drop by after Mass tomorrow with a surprise.” She paused for effect while John recorded. “Stay tuned. Oh, I love saying that.”

  Dotty said, “And you said it well.”

  I was doomed. Some faraway, fuzzy part of my brain reminded me of the disaster the church ladies had created in May when they’d turned my shop into a rummage sale of homemade things like beer hats. Those were made from beer cans cut up and knitted together, usually in the ever-popular green and gold for the Green Bay Packers.

  Pauline and Laura helped clean up the shop while I made Cinderella Pink Fudge for the tourists. Laura also took my measurements for a dress while I was held captive stirring my ingredients. That spurred talk about the upcoming dance as well as memories about everybody’s prom and what they wore.

  Pauline and Laura left within the hour, about the time I was loafing the pink fudge on the white marble slab. With a wooden tool, I worked the hot, runny fudge until it cooled and stiffened enough that I could knead it with my hands around its edges. It ended up looking like a pretty pink meat loaf made of chocolate. Then I let it sit on the slab to harden in front of the window with its afternoon shade.

  Exhaustion struck me as I finished, but my mind—filled with the delectable aromas—had revved up with questions. What had Kelsey seen at the park, if anything? Why was Piers eager to accuse her of murder? Who had stolen the box?

  I needed to lie down to let the answers filter out like bubbles being released from fudge in the whipping process. First, though, I made phone calls to solve the “Confectioners’ Conflict.” After writing down separate instructions for Kelsey and Piers, I left them each an envelope next to the cash register. They now had secret missions in Door County. I felt like I was the host of some survivor reality TV show.

  By the time the tourists went off to other activities in the midafternoon, I was ready to leave, too, and crawl into a bed. Then Mercy Fogg showed up.

  * * *

  Mercy burst in, blowing right past me at the window. She was almost my height, but much stockier with substantial arm muscles. A woman with a wide face and an abundance of bouncy blond curls, she sometimes looked clownish. Today she had on yellow clam-digger pants and a black sleeveless top with a red felt flower pinned to it.

  I ducked below my marble table. Cody was at Grandpa’s register helping some fishers. My grandfather had gone home to be with my grandmother, both of them grieving Lloyd.

  “Where’s Ava Oosterling?”

  “She was in an accident, Miss Fogg.” He’d heard about my rollover from some of the tourists.

  “When you see her, tell her I need to talk with her about Dillon Rivers. He’s up to no good again.”

  She left without detecting me. I had just come out of my hiding place when Sam came in. He followed me to the counter.

  “Your mother and father both called me. I’m supposed to watch you.”

  My parents were matchmakers. I rolled my eyes, but a yawn slipped out. “I need a nap is all.”

  “I’ll watch you nap. Your mother said you have a concussion.”

  “Sam, really, I’m fine. No concussion.”

  Cody called over, “Miss Oosterling, I can take care of the shop.”

  “We’re pretty busy. I should stay.”

  “Don’t you trust me?”

  Cody knew the “trust” issue could get me. I hadn’t trusted him in May when I first hired him through Sam. I was still ashamed with the way I considered Cody’s Asperger’s condition to be some hindrance when it wasn’t at all. He just went at things differently. Sam had told me that Cody had a good chance of becoming a fairly average adult like the rest of us.

  Sam challenged me, too, with a hike of an eyebrow.

  Properly chastised, I said, “All right. I’ll take the rest of the day off. Ranger, you’re in charge.”

  Sam escorted me through the back door and into the sunshine dappling my backyard lawn. Sam asked, “What did Mercy want? I almost got barreled over by her.”

  “Something about Dillon. Another one of her many rumors, I’m sure.”

  “Maybe you should listen to this one. I heard it today, too, at the Troubled Trout during lunch. Customers were putting bets down about it.”

  I stopped in the middle of my yard. “Bets about what?”

  �
�Dillon might buy the cabins on your street as well as the Blue Heron Inn. He might be your new landlord. Or is he more than that to you, Ava?”

  A growl escaped me.

  Chapter 9

  Sam grabbed me before I could run off to find Dillon and pummel him. “Hold on,” Sam said. “Let me finish. It’s not true. She made it up. I’m just relaying the gossip.”

  “Why is Mercy saying that Dillon is buying Lloyd’s property? And then what? Does she have him and me getting remarried?”

  “Who knows? Mercy can’t stand it that John didn’t invite her to be a fudge judge, or that you didn’t suggest her name, so now she has a grudge. She has to find a way to make herself important.”

  The rumors got me thinking about new angles concerning the murder. “Dillon is a civil engineer whose company is working for our village. If he or his family was investing in property here, he’d have to reveal his conflict of interest to our village president. But I’m not sure I can trust Erik Gustafson anymore.”

  “What’s going on with Erik?” Sam’s eyes sparkled despite us standing in the shade of the giant maples along Duck Marsh Street.

  “I learned today from Grandpa that Mercy and Libby are old gambling buddies. Mercy might know more about Lloyd’s dealings than we all think. Maybe Lloyd and Dillon’s family know one another. They’d be in the same circles if money counted, certainly.” I sagged, knowing I needed to ask Dillon some pointed questions.

  Sam put an arm around me. His steadiness kept me from collapsing. The day was catching up with me. And I still had to tell Grandpa I’d lost the precious box. My grandparents had certainly heard about my rollover accident from Mom, but I hadn’t told Mom about the missing box. So Grandpa didn’t know I’d messed up—yet again. I gave Sam a spontaneous hug. He hugged me back.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “My grandfather’s going to be so disappointed in me.”

  I told him about what had transpired yesterday at Lloyd’s house and about the contents of the box. Sam didn’t say anything or judge me; he just draped an arm around me to escort me the few yards across the street to my grandparents’ cabin.

  * * *

  My grandparents were in their backyard garden. When bad things happen, we Belgians garden or go into our fields. Or make fudge, in my case. Belgians came to Door County in the 1850s because farmland was a buck and a quarter an acre. Professor Faust had told me that our country advertised in Belgium and neighboring countries for workers. The Belgians tamed the land and forests in Door County, becoming famous for shingle-making, too. By 1860, four million handmade shingles were shipped out of Brussels, Wisconsin. My grandparents’ talented hands had turned most of their sunny yard into rows of beans, peas, squash, tomatoes, Brussels sprouts, cabbages, potato hills, and more. A section was dedicated to gladiolas as well as candy-striped zinnias. A breeze buffeted a silvery blue and a yellow little sulfur atop the blossoms.

  Grandpa was bent over a row of winter onions. He loved to eat onions with cottage cheese.

  My grandma came over with a tin pail overflowing with pea pods. “You’re here for supper, Sam?”

  “Just making sure your granddaughter got home okay.”

  Grandma went into the house, but Sam relieved Grandpa Gil of his armful of onions and took those over to the coiled hose next to the house for washing.

  I confessed about the missing chest, telling Grandpa my suspicions that maybe it had been stolen by the person who caused the accident, who might also be the person threatening me. “Possibly the same person who took Lloyd’s life, Grandpa.”

  He soured at that. “Lloyd’s death was an awful accident, honey. And the box could’ve been taken by anybody stopping by and you just never noticed.”

  Sam went into the house.

  Grandpa got the hose and walked the end of it to the garden, where he set up a sprinkler. “Lloyd’s death and the missing box are scaring me, Ava. You and I went through a horrid experience back in May. Let’s stay out of this.”

  He sat down in a nearby yellow Adirondack chair. “I called Libby to express my condolences. Lloyd has no close relatives here, so she’s making the arrangements. The funeral is Tuesday at St. Ann’s.”

  Lloyd was Lutheran, and St. Ann’s was a Catholic church, but St. Ann’s could hold a lot more people than our local Lutheran church. St. Ann’s basement was also where Lloyd, Grandpa, and other guys participated in community card game fund-raisers.

  Grandpa’s remark about Lloyd’s lack of relatives reminded me of the old cookbooks Lloyd had given me. I made a mental note to go through them early tomorrow morning when it was quiet at the shop.

  “Gilpa, did you say anything to Libby about the letters and her engagement ring in that box?”

  “No, A.M. I figured that would be coming from the sheriff when he returned the things.”

  “We’re going to have to tell Libby soon before Mercy hears about it and makes our lives miserable.” Mercy’s visit to the shop earlier was troubling me. I told Grandpa the rumor Sam had heard. “I don’t want to believe in Mercy’s rumors, but Dillon also told me that his mother was coming for a visit.”

  “You think his mother might be the secret partner?”

  “Gilpa, the last time I saw her she was working on developing property in South Padre Island, Texas. Cathy Rivers specializes in that sort of real estate project.”

  Grandpa scooted forward in the Adirondack chair. “If the Rivers family is buying up Lloyd’s property . . . Ava Mathilde, forgive me, but I have nothing good to say about your ex.”

  * * *

  A burning desire to call Dillon had to be saved for later. Grandma Sophie had made one of Grandpa’s favorite Belgian meals. She insisted Sam stay for supper. I could barely keep my eyes open, but we stuffed ourselves with hot dandelion potato salad made with bacon, meat loaf topped with winter onions and browned until crisp under the broiler, shredded red cabbage tossed in vinegar with a touch of honey, slices of mild cheddar cheese from our own farm, and sweet gherkin pickles Grandma had canned last fall.

  We had a choice of three pies: raspberry-rhubarb, cherry, or Belgian rice. The ingredients for the thick, custardlike rice pie included rice, butter, cream, brown sugar, several eggs with their whites whipped and folded in, and vanilla. Pies are a calling card of Belgians. And they’re not small. The pie tin we Belgians use from the Old Country is twelve and a half inches in diameter, while the normal pie dish in this country is eight or nine inches across. When you came to a Door County kermis, you might find thirty different flavors of pies. I suspected Grandma would be taking the remainder of these pies to Libby Mueller tomorrow so that Libby had something to offer the people dropping by to express condolences. Grandma would also be making more pies to take to Tuesday’s funeral lunch. Funerals and weddings were often potluck affairs around here because it was customary to invite the whole community.

  Sam ate a small slice from all three pies. It was as if he’d reverted to his football-playing days.

  Grandpa said to me, “Your grandmother used to make a dozen pies for the Belgian Days celebration down in Brussels. But like everything else in life, that custom got put aside because lives got busier.”

  I recalled that Lloyd had suggested I start a kermis in Fishers’ Harbor. “On what days were Belgian Days, Gilpa?”

  “Second week of July.”

  “The same weekend as our current fudge festival?”

  “Seems so.”

  “We have to do something about it, Gilpa. We have to resurrect Belgian Days. What do you think, Sam?”

  He finished a mouthful of cherry pie. “If it means you’re serving this pie, this Swede will become Belgian for a day.”

  All of us laughed.

  “We’ll make it a Founders’ Day instead to celebrate all of Fishers’ Harbor’s early immigrants. And, Grandpa, you just gave me an idea fo
r next Saturday. I have to match a fairy tale with a fudge flavor and a pie flavor—a trifecta. We’ll raffle off the pies, too, to raise money for next year’s Founders’ Day.”

  Sam asked, “Which pie and fudge flavors? Rice fudge? What fairy tale is that?”

  I enjoyed the levity after my weird day. “I’m not sure yet. We agreed to each have two flavors in the contest. But I’m going to use old traditional flavors and tales.” I thought about Lloyd’s historical cookbooks in his house, and him suggesting I create something big for our community as a way to protect myself from Erik and Mercy, who allegedly were in a conspiracy to see me fail.

  At the end of our supper, Gilpa excused himself to get a good night’s sleep.

  I escorted Sam outside onto my grandparents’ front porch. The sun was dropping behind the bluff and behind their cabin. The street and lawns were scored with shadows that looked like graphite outlines of the tree limbs above. I could hear muffled voices in other rental cabins. Across from us, my cabin was decrepit-looking, its foundation sagging low into the earth.

  Sam asked, “Do you ever wonder who lived in that cabin when it was first built?”

  “No, Sam. But now it seems really important to know everything about its history.”

  “Before it’s torn down?”

  “Yeah.”

  Sam seemed to want to linger. “I’d hate to move from my house.”

  Panic caught fire inside me. “I’m tired, Sam. I hope you don’t mind . . .”

  “Oh, sure. Sorry. Good night.”

  Sam stepped off the porch quickly. Too quickly. I felt bad about shooing him away. He loped up the street for a long walk home—to a house across town he’d picked out long ago for us to live in together.

  I went back inside my grandparents’ cabin to call Dillon, to ask about his mother’s intentions, but the last thing I remembered was collapsing in the hide-a-bed in the sunroom.

  * * *

  The smell of bacon frying, whole-wheat pancakes, and warm cherry syrup roused me at five a.m. My grandfather had already left to open up for the fishers. Grandma Sophie told me I’d slept like a rock since collapsing around seven o’clock last night. I’d slept ten hours! She’d checked on me throughout.