Hot Fudge Frame-Up: A Fudge Shop Mystery

by Christine DeSmet

  “Dick Van Dyke Show.”

  A smile flickered for only a second. She got busy handing out lunch from a picnic basket. Grandma had made one of my grandfather’s favorite sandwiches—peanut butter made with her homemade sweet pickles—in anticipation of him coming in soon aboard his crippled boat. She was concerned about him, but there seemed to be a deeper undercurrent. Grandpa had gotten stranded many times in the past.

  I took the peanut butter–pickle sandwiches over to Pauline and the Butterflies. Grandma handed out cartons of cold milk. There was nothing better than a PB&P sandwich with cold milk. Except for fudge with ice-cold milk. I sneaked a piece of Cinderella Pink Fudge, imagining it in the middle of Piers’s red velvet cake muffins. My taste buds already predicted a savory sensation in my future. Unless he was arrested. It seemed like everyone in the world around me was about to be arrested, Dillon included.

  I put aside telling Grandma about our adventure in Peninsula State Park. With gossipmongers Lois and Dotty there, I had to be discreet. I lied and said Pauline and I had to chase down the dog that had gotten away from Dillon. I’d even gulped and said that Mercy had been kind enough to give us a ride.

  I took Lucky Harbor over to his usual place by the upright cooler that stood against the far wall of the bait shop area. I didn’t even have to tie him this time. He was so used to our routine by now that he circled in place a few times and then lay down on his own.

  “Has Grandpa called lately?” I asked.

  “Probably.”

  Probably? Grandma Sophie had just finished ringing up a carton of worms for a couple of men. After they left, she ran a hand through her cloud of white hair, shifting into a broodier mood.

  “What’s wrong, Grandma?”

  “Your grandfather is going to lose his business if he doesn’t do something about a boat.”

  “There must be used fishing trawlers or used engines for sale that would work well enough for his needs,” I said, getting busy making a fresh pot of coffee behind Grandpa’s register counter.

  “He says there aren’t. They all cost too much. Even the little fishing rigs. And don’t even speak of an engine. He’s determined to bully what he has into working.”

  I went back to the kitchen to fill the carafe with water, then returned. “Why can’t he borrow money like everybody else? If he has a new boat, he’ll make more money than he is now because people always like riding in a new boat. He can advertise it that way.”

  “Ava honey, I’ve told him that until I’m blue in the face.”

  “His boat is named after you. I think he feels emotional about it.”

  “Oh, fiddle-faddle. It’s not like getting rid of the boat is getting rid of me. And he could transfer the name to the new boat because this one will be scrapped. No, he’s just being stubborn. He’s paid cash for things all his life, and he can’t stand the idea of being in somebody’s debt.” Grandma grabbed a spritzer bottle of disinfectant and scoured the already clean counter.

  I was worrying about Dillon and the new development with the rifle, but I kept that to myself. Fortunately, it wasn’t long before a towboat brought in Grandpa and his fishermen. When the fishermen walked into the shop, they gravitated right to me to talk about being stuck in the middle of Lake Michigan for most of the morning. I wasn’t sure why I warranted their attention, but they had me packaging lots of fudge in several flavors while they tasted them all.

  Grandma and Grandpa hugged, but it was a brief hug. I could tell that Grandma wanted to “discuss” the matter of the boat later.

  The men eating my fudge in front of me at my register kept on chatting with me about the weather and more on Lake Michigan. When I went to check the coffeepot behind Grandpa’s counter, they followed me, still talking.

  Tourists piled in then for the one o’clock fudge-making show. A little boy said, “Look, Mommy, she’s wearing an apron costume just like the naked woman in Daddy’s magazine I found under the bed.”

  Tittering rippled through the shop.

  Pauline sidled up to me. “Now you know why those men are so enamored with you. It’s the French maid syndrome. Men like women in aprons.”

  “Pauline, it’s only a silly apron.”

  “Go with it. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before for the adult prom. You’re going to have dates lining up now.”

  I brushed off the silliness. I began putting fudge ingredients in a copper kettle. Piers and Kelsey hadn’t shown up, so I had all six empty kettles staring up at me, sparkling under the lights. I suspected Piers might be talking with the sheriff by now. Would Dillon be next? Kelsey was likely soaking in a tub to soothe her scratches and mosquito bites, if she was indeed the person we had chased in the park.

  After Bethany and her friends left with the Butterflies, I thought Pauline would help me, but she ventured outside to sit at one of the tables. She was looking across the harbor and into the lake, waiting for John obviously. I stirred my sugar, cream, vanilla and cherry juice flavorings, and white chocolate in the copper kettle. It was pitiful to watch her pine for that charlatan. But my heart teased me with a question. If Dillon or Sam had said they were going scuba diving today for the first time in Lake Michigan—a huge lake that had swallowed many men over the centuries—would I be worried? I would be freakin’ terrified! Was Sam foolish enough to do that? Dillon had scuba dived before, but certainly his skills must be rusty? Or not? What had he been doing during the eight years we hadn’t connected? Now I was staring off through the window and across the harbor, too, concerned.

  I flipped the long wooden paddle around in the gooey pink fudge ingredients extra hard, which sent a big dollop up to the ceiling. The tourists hooted and clapped profusely. Embarrassed, I was sure my skin tone matched the pink in my apron.

  Settling back into my routine, I realized that my outlook on love was all wrong still. Lois and Dotty were right—I wasn’t grown up. But Pauline seemed to think I’d find true love by matching fabric swatches to eye colors, or wearing an apron, or by dancing with a date at the adult prom this coming Saturday. Was it that simple? Would I meet the man of my dreams by Saturday night? Pauline believed in fairy tales even more than I did. I’d tried writing fairy tales for about seven years for a television show; I wasn’t all that good at it. But if I didn’t begin living my own fairy tale, how could I possibly justify creating and selling my Fairy Tale Fudge line?

  I was saved from these thoughts when a flash of cardinal red flew away from the window. The bird was actually Pauline launching from her chair to race up the docks and into John Schultz’s arms. She was taller, but he still picked her off her feet and swung her around. Talk about a movie scene.

  I craned my neck around the heads in the crowd until I could see first Dillon, then Sam coming down the docks, too. If I were free at the moment, whose arms would I race into first? I didn’t know! But I was worried for Dillon. I watched for the sheriff to show up at any moment.

  I cranked the fudge ingredients harder, trying to conjure answers to everything, including my love life, with the aromatic cauldron of Belgian chocolate, thick Holstein cream, and Door County cherries.

  Cody was right behind the other men, holding up a big fish that he was showing off to Pauline.

  Something happened to me right in that moment that I hadn’t felt since my divorce—shame. And bone-aching lonesomeness. I, too, wanted to rush out and hug and be hugged. But I couldn’t because I had feelings for both men and wouldn’t be able to choose which one to hug first. That’s the part that shamed me. How can you love two men equally? Was I now a bigamist-of-the-heart? I was no better than Dillon Rivers, and certainly undeserving of Sam Peterson.

  Then the sheriff appeared outside. My heart felt as if it fell out of my chest, maybe tumbling all the way into the vat in front of me. I watched as Sheriff Tollefson took Dillon aside and they talked. Then the two men left, walking out of view as
if my window were a movie and they’d walked offscreen. Panic hit me with such a force that my hands instantly sweated on the tall ladle and I slipped forward a notch. Somebody gasped. I recovered, plastered on a smile for the tourists, and kept stirring my fudge.

  * * *

  By Monday morning the conundrum concerning love wasn’t important anymore. I’d left several messages for Dillon, with no response. And Gilpa had tromped through the shop late—unusual for him—at seven o’clock. He gave me a cursory “Hey, A.M.” as he packed up his tools, grumbling. Then he headed to his dead trawler. The cowbell gave a dull clunk in his wake. A misty rain peppered the tables outside and Gilpa, but he seemed to take no heed.

  Frustrated, I donned a dandelion yellow bibbed apron on purpose to try to bring sunshine inside the shop. Sooner or later Gilpa would have to come back in for more of his beloved coffee. I made a new pot, spiced extra dark with cocoa, just the way Grandpa liked it. But he didn’t return; I had to handle soggy customers alone.

  My father called me about an hour later. A phone call from Peter Oosterling was rare, especially during milking time. “What’s up, Dad?”

  “Honey, your grandmother just called me, crying.”

  “Oh my gosh, what happened? Did she break a leg again? I’m heading right over.”

  “Hold on. The news is worse. She said Mercy Fogg called early this morning to tell her that your grandma and grandpa don’t own the bait-and-fudge shop.”

  I sighed, because Mercy was a liar and troublemaker. But now I knew why Grandpa was in such a foul mood. “It’s all made up, Dad.”

  “Mercy says that she holds the title to the shop. She says Lloyd gave it to her long ago.”

  This was beginning to sound serious. My mouth went dry. “Mercy can’t possibly own our shop.”

  “It has to do with some way the real estate deal was fashioned years ago with Lloyd. Mercy might also own the cabin your grandparents are living in, since Lloyd had also sold that to your grandpa. You need to get over to your grandma’s house right away, sweetie. She’s very upset with your grandpa. I’ll be there with your mother as soon as we finish the milking. Where’s your grandpa?”

  Could it be that this news was true? Why else would Grandpa practically ignore me and head straight to his boat? That’s where he did all his thinking. An ache constricted my chest.

  It took me a moment to realize Cody Fjelstad was standing right in front of me. “Miss Oosterling? Miss Oosterling! We’re missing a bunch of inventory again. Do you think Verona shoplifted more stuff?” Cody must have come in through the back door and I never noticed in my agitated state.

  I said, “The Butterflies were here yesterday. But it was crowded. Maybe it wasn’t Verona.”

  “Should I call the church ladies to have them bring more homemade dolls and dresses to replenish the supply before your one o’clock fudge-making show?”

  I wasn’t listening. I whipped off the fancy apron I was wearing, not feeling the cheer of yellow anymore. “Sounds like an excellent plan, Cody. You’re in charge.”

  “Thanks, Miss Oosterling!”

  I ran through the back of the shop and then raced in the rain to my grandmother’s house across Duck Marsh Street. I had to make sure Mercy Fogg wasn’t stealing our shop or busting up my family.

  Chapter 13

  Grandmother Sophie wasn’t crying or swearing. It was worse. She was throwing together a Belgian rice pie, slinging rice all over the kitchen. It was crunchy underfoot and dangerous to walk. Some of the rice had made it into the pan of water to cook. I grabbed a broom to collect the rest and throw it away, though my grandmother’s floor was the kind you truly can eat from because it was so clean.

  “Grandma, I’m sure it’s a mistake.”

  “A mistake? Mercy and Lloyd were in cahoots together. They conspired to somehow take over the whole town.”

  “Lloyd never liked Mercy. I have proof.”

  “What proof?”

  Oh dear.

  I had to tell Grandpa’s secret. “Grandpa showed me some letters and things hidden in a box at the shop—”

  “What box? He didn’t tell me about a box.”

  Oh boy.

  “It was just a box of old things, but it had letters from Mercy threatening Lloyd. She wanted some of Libby’s things back. Grandpa hid it for Lloyd as a favor.”

  She shook the pan of rice and water on the stove, which did nothing for the rice or water but seemed to give Grandma Sophie time to form civil words. “Where’s this box?”

  “I lost it in my truck accident on Saturday. Somebody stole it right from the scene.”

  “Does your grandfather know about this?”

  Oh, poop.

  I made Grandma Sophie sit at the kitchen table, where I filled her in on everything, including Mercy playing a trick on us at the park.

  When I got done, Grandma said, “She’s the author of those notes.”

  “Maybe. If she is, we can certainly sue her or do something that will get the bait shop back and save your house. If any of that gossip is true. But she’s a chronic liar, Grandma. She’s lonely and needs attention.”

  Tears welled in Grandma’s dark eyes. Her fluffy lively white hair seemed to droop. She rubbed her garden-roughened hands. “Why didn’t your grandpa tell me any of this? That old buffalo really gets my goat.”

  I covered her hands with mine. “Grandpa always means well, Grandma.”

  An hour later my parents and I sat around the kitchen table with my grandparents. The rice had been cooked and sat on the stove, waiting to be combined with its eggs and cream and put into a piecrust.

  Grandpa told us he’d bought the bait shop years ago on a land contract from Lloyd, but had skipped several payments over the past five years in order to cover the taxes on it and the house. The house was paid off and not in arrears on its taxes, he was “pretty sure.” In other words, he wasn’t sure. My parents and I exchanged stunned gazes.

  Grandma walked out of the room without a word.

  The old buffalo was in the proverbial doghouse.

  I knew very little about land contracts, but they are common in farm country. Much land changes hands using land contracts because you don’t need to have a down payment. Such a contract is like buying furniture from one of those “rent to buy” places. Sooner or later, after a bunch of payments, you own the sofa, or in our case, the land. But if you skip payments, the land—or business—can revert to the original owner. So all your years of payments can be for naught if you’re derelict or negligent. Right now Grandpa looked like both.

  He sat at the kitchen table, picking at the black motor oil in the cracks of his hands. His red-plaid shirt rolled up at the sleeves was still drenched from the rain. His thick silver hair was smashed to his scalp in places while some sprigs of it were springing up as they dried.

  “Dad,” my father said, “how could you let this happen?”

  My rib cage hurt from the pounding of my heart for Gilpa.

  His thick fingers tapped the table, as if tapping an SOS. He was red in the face, as if he were about to explode. That scared me. Did his silence mean Mercy was right? Had Grandpa messed up this badly?

  I felt compelled to come to his rescue. I rattled off again what I knew about Mercy and her tricks. “This could be a ruse. What if she murdered Lloyd?”

  “Murder?” my mother screeched. “He committed suicide.”

  “Mom, it’s been all over the news. The sheriff suspects murder and so do I.”

  “You stay out of this, Ava. You’re a confectioner, not a cop. Lloyd is dead and you’re no longer threatened. I need to sweep.”

  Dad caught her arm before she launched up to tear into cleaning the whole house. I decided to skip revealing the note found in the bush by the lighthouse yesterday that said, One down, one to go.

  I said, “This is just
part of Mercy’s plan to get us all upset to cover up for what she did while village president. She’s pretending to try to right something that she did wrong concerning village tax collections.”

  My mother said, “It’s more likely she was angling for our property all along and that’s why she murdered Lloyd. Poor Libby. Aren’t Libby and Mercy friends?”

  “Yes,” I said, “gambling buddies.”

  My father said to my grandfather, “Florine and I will take you to the bank, Dad, to dig up the land contract in the lockbox and see what it says. Even if Mercy is lying, I want to be prepared before I confront her.”

  I remembered what Professor Faust had told me. “The professor said something about the titles of the properties being easy to look up in county records. Maybe that’s all online. I’ll check.”

  “Sounds good,” my dad said. “Now, who’s going to go talk to Mom?” He meant my grandmother.

  Gilpa finally spoke. “I’d better leave her alone for now.” He flinched, but he was so uncharacteristically subdued that dread ran through me. Were the bait shop and this quaint cabin home no longer owned by our family? Were we left with nothing? Heck, we didn’t even have a boat that worked.

  “I’ll talk with Grandma,” I said, not having a clue what to say to a woman who felt she’d been betrayed by her husband of over fifty years. But my heart told me I had to fix this. Somehow this felt like my fault. If I hadn’t agreed to the fudge contest, Lloyd and I wouldn’t have been threatened. Something about bringing attention to the building that housed Oosterlings’ Live Bait, Bobbers & Belgian Fudge & Beer had sparked these disasters.

  After my parents and Grandpa left, I dawdled in thought, stirring the cold rice in its pan for lack of something else to do. I was so upset with Mercy that I could have run her over with her own bus if she stood outside on the street right now. Had she run me off the road? She was a professional driver. She could’ve committed the murder, too. She had motive enough. She could be the one threatening to kill me. She wanted my family and me out of the way so she could take over Lloyd’s property and get rich. It would be just like her to want to put in a helipad and learn how to pilot a helicopter so she could ferry Chicago’s rich people up here to their condos. I shivered at how bold her plan had been. And simple.