Hot Fudge Frame-Up: A Fudge Shop Mystery

by Christine DeSmet

  I cringed, but Dillon said, “Al probably cleans up well after his many hours underground. He’s actually a nice guy. I bet if you ask, he’d even give up smoking on Saturday night.”

  My neck prickled in a panic attack. “Al’s my grandparents’ age and he’s got arthritis in his knees from crawling down into manholes for over thirty years.”

  The waitress collected the betting cards. “I guess that’s a no from you on putting down a bet.”

  “A definite no.”

  After the waitress left, Cathy said, “Let me put in a good word for my son. He’s a good dancer, doesn’t smoke, and since everybody’s betting on you two anyway, why not put some big money down on yourselves and win the whole pot?”

  Dillon draped an arm around his mother’s shoulders. “That’s my mom, ever the practical businesswoman looking for ways to make money.”

  He got up and pulled out his wallet. “And I think it’s a good idea. I’ll be back.”

  “Dillon!” I called out, but too late. He was at the bar putting down who knows what kind of cash on us dancing on Saturday night.

  I got back to business with Cathy. I mentioned that nobody seemed to know who the mysterious person was who’d made an offer on the harbor area and Duck Marsh Street. “Do you think Lloyd meant all along that the mystery owner was the village? It’s not a real person?”

  “Could be,” Cathy said. “That would explain why nobody’s spilled the beans on that. I should be able to confirm these things with a few phone calls or visits at county and village offices.”

  We decided that she’d stay after lunch to talk with Erik, and then find the professor. I still wanted to talk with Erik and Professor Faust, too, but I’d wait to hear back from Cathy before following through. This distrust of the professor felt wrongheaded to me, but we’d seen him only an hour ago with Erik Gustafson, acting strangely. Perhaps the next person I needed to talk with was Piers Molinsky, who had tried to bribe Erik. Little Fishers’ Harbor was the hub of some huge conspiracy, apparently involving my little shop.

  * * *

  I returned to a packed Oosterlings’ shortly before one o’clock. The Butterflies were fingering everything as usual. Their little-girl squeals erupted from behind shelving aisles.

  The men were as bad in the bait shop. My grandfather was answering questions about spinners and what weight of fishing line to use for coho salmon, trout, and bass out on the Great Lakes. As soon as I donned an apron—a pretty thing dotted with embroidered lilac blossoms—the men began giving me furtive glances.

  Cody’s fingers were flying as he tied pink ribbons around packages of Cinderella Pink Fudge. Then he stuffed wrapped pieces of fudge into apron pockets.

  I asked, “What’re you doing, Ranger?”

  “Miss Oosterling, we’re getting calls for birthday gift orders, even from out of state. I even got one from your La-La Land.”

  Dotty and Lois trotted in from the back hallway, each loaded with a stack of aprons, even frillier than the first batch they’d brought me. Lace abounded like snowdrifts in my shop.

  Dotty, dressed in a bright pink sequined T-shirt, put her stack down on the corner of the counter. She was puffing. “We sewed these fast today.”

  “What’s going on, Dotty?”

  “Oh, Ava, word has gotten out about fudge and aprons being sexy and the aprons are selling like hotcakes.”

  Cody said, “Sam told me that there’s a picture of your fudge and you in an apron on some sexy Web site, but I didn’t look, I promise.”

  Sexy Web site? I groaned.

  Dotty said, “Young Cody called me in panic while you were out this morning because he sold out of your aprons. So we made a deal. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “What deal?”

  Lois nodded. “We turned our prayer chain into a fudge and apron chain. Our church ladies’ organization is getting a cut from the apron sales here.”

  Dotty giggled, leaning toward me to whisper, “You look very cute on that Web site.”

  “I need to know what Web site. Right now.”

  Lois fluttered an apron in front of me. “Here, put one of our new creations on. Lilacs aren’t so much you. I like this green-checkered one with the bib. I made a toque to match.”

  Before I could take a second breath, the women had me tied into a green-checkered cotton apron trimmed with satin and lace, and with the toque on my head. My stitches itched, but I didn’t dare take the toque off for fear of some church lady flogging me into purgatory for my sin.

  John Schultz was taping. I’d missed him when I’d rushed into my shop. Pauline was there, too. I raced over to her next to the child’s tea table in the corner.

  “Pauline, have you seen the Web site I’m on?”

  “Yes, and it’s tasteful. Not what you’re thinking. We have our other more important thing to talk about.” Pauline dragged me outside where there was a modicum of privacy on the dock. We walked toward my grandfather’s dead boat. She hefted her purse in a showy way. “What am I supposed to do with these architectural plans?”

  “Come over to my place after work. We’ll look them over again. I have other things to tell you about anyway. I think we’re closing in on the killer.”

  “You only ‘think’? John wanted to take me to dinner tonight at the Mission Grill.” It was another fancy restaurant in Sister Bay. “They have some new pheasant dish he wanted to try. He wants to get video there, too.”

  “Pauline, I just said the word ‘killer.’ Did you not hear me? Have you forgotten about our accident and the missing box? We have to find it. And Dillon’s got the sheriff after him because of that rifle, and we saw odd things over at Lloyd’s house, and—”

  “Gee, you sure are a killjoy.”

  “With that ugly bruise on your face you don’t want to go to some place like the Mission Grill anyway. People won’t be able to eat their dinner.”

  She felt the side of her face that had hit the ground in the truck accident. “Is it really that bad? I put makeup on.”

  “Only a mud pack would cover that up. I’ll see you around eight, okay?”

  “John’s not going to like this.”

  “John can use a little dieting, so don’t sweat it.”

  “That was mean.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “You need to get a real man of your own and then you wouldn’t be so jealous of me.”

  I ignored her. I didn’t want to talk about Sam and Dillon. I stared at my grandfather’s boat. “I wonder how many aprons I have to sell with fudge in the pockets to pay for a new boat. Or to buy back our building from the likes of Mercy Fogg or the village.” I had a feeling Erik Gustafson wasn’t going to stay long as our board president, not if he was sneaking around returning rifles. I still wanted to know why he’d been carrying a big briefcase. Or did I know? Was he looting Lloyd’s property? Was the professor, too?

  When I stomped back inside the shop, huge applause followed me all the way to my copper kettles. I couldn’t deny loving the adulation. I sorely needed something going well in my life. After securing my green-checkered toque in place, I began explaining the science of candy making, how glass blowers and I were essentially forging and shaping the same thing with fire and heat—crystals. Fudge may have been made by cave women, because glassmaking was about that old, too.

  After a full hour of entertaining customers, I took a break and exited “backstage” to my kitchen. Sam accosted me next to my chocolate melter. As in, Sam accosted me.

  He grabbed me in his arms from behind, then twirled me into his shirted chest. “Do you know what you’re doing to me with this new uniform?”

  “Sam? What—?”

  He tossed the toque from my head. His hands were in my hair as he drew my face to his in a chocolate kiss. He evidently had purchased some fudge and eaten it while standing hidden in t
he back of the crowd.

  I broke away. “Sam! What’s gotten into you?”

  He grabbed for me again, holding me in his arms. “You look frisky. A Belgian filly.”

  “A Belgian filly? You never talk like— Oh my God, is that what they’re calling me on that Web site?”

  “Yeah.”

  I’d never experienced the casting couch while working in Los Angeles, but now it seemed I’d found the secret to my very own version of it and my own allure: fudge served in aprons.

  I pushed against his chest but was held fast by the prurient need shining in his blazing blue eyes. “Get a grip, Sam. And not on me.”

  “Are we a date for the prom Saturday night?”

  “Humph. I found out you didn’t put down enough money on me over at the Troubled Trout.” I served up a coquettish smile. “Pony up more money and we’ll see. A woman doesn’t live on fairy-tale fudge promises alone.”

  He let go of me, then took out his wallet. I laughed. He was acting in a new and adorable way. He was counting his cash as he walked to the kitchen door. Before leaving, he said, “I’ll trade more kisses for information on your missing box. I think I know where it is.”

  Chapter 17

  “How did you find out about the missing box? Where is it?” I asked.

  Sam was smoothing his shirt after our manic kissing interlude. “I stopped by your cabin earlier to find you, then went over to your grandmother’s place. Sheriff Tollefson was there and they were talking about the box.”

  I rushed Sam down the short hall of my shop and out the back door for privacy. We stood next to some small burning bushes I’d planted. “You didn’t tell anybody else about the box, did you?”

  “No, but the sheriff seems to think it’s connected to the murder at the lighthouse.”

  “My thought exactly.”

  Sam swatted at a mosquito floating past. “While I was there, the sheriff got a phone call about the autopsy. There are signs on his body that Lloyd was tied up.”

  “So he was hauled up to the top against his will, then shoved off to make it look like a suicide. Jordy didn’t think my grandmother could do such a thing, did he?”

  Sam grimaced. “I got the feeling he has some evidence that points to her.”

  “Evidence? Like what?”

  “I don’t know. He wasn’t saying in front of me.”

  “So where’s the box?”

  “The lighthouse.”

  “Jordy said that?”

  “No, I did. I’m sure it’s there.”

  “But Jordy and Maria went over that place already, right down to the fingerprints. They would have found that box.”

  “Exactly. That’s why I think it’s there. The murderer waited until after the place was cleared by the sheriff, and went back with the box. To the scene of the crime.”

  I gave Sam my best Poirot-style squint. “How did you come up with this stuff? This doesn’t even sound like you. You sound more like me. Guessing. You usually research the facts on everything.”

  “I did . . . some research.” Sam’s face went red as a summer tomato. “I sort of, kind of, said something to Cody.”

  “You just said you hadn’t told anybody about the box.”

  He held up his hands in surrender. “I didn’t tell him about ‘the’ box. But you know how he is. He envisions himself a park ranger someday. So while you were making fudge, I asked him where he’d hide a box that had been stolen from a truck just following a murder at the lighthouse. He said killers always go back to the scene of the crime. He also said the killer would be at tomorrow’s funeral.”

  “That happens on TV shows because it’s convenient.”

  “Cody says it’s a true phenomenon.”

  Squawking robins flew past in an aerial battle for territory. It felt like a warning of what was ahead for me. “We need to sneak into the lighthouse and look around when Libby isn’t there.”

  “Why not ask for Libby’s help?”

  “It’s complicated, Sam, but she might think I’m trying to prove Kelsey is a murderer, and Libby might panic and prevent us from looking around.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “You’re a social worker. You follow rules; you don’t break them.”

  “You look so good in this apron . . .” His eyes had turned to sizzling, hungry sapphires. “We’ll make it legal. We’ll stop by Libby’s for a key and just say you forgot your purse in the gift shop.”

  That lie felt responsible. “I’ll have Grandma call Libby. Libby will do anything for my grandmother. We’ll have to go after dark, though, so nobody interrupts us.”

  “I’ll meet you at around nine.”

  “That’s perch on my grandfather’s clock.”

  Sam hiked away, rounding the corner of the fudge shop building.

  The taste of his chocolate kiss lingered on my lips, infusing me with confusion. I’d been kissed by Dillon and Sam on the same day, to the same effect. I wanted more. I smiled at the mere thought of meeting Sam alone in the seclusion provided by a romantic lighthouse.

  But first? I had to find that Web site and get that picture of me in an apron taken down.

  * * *

  I was closing up at eight p.m. that Monday when Jordy appeared, ruining my blissful, hopeful mood. Everybody had gone home, even my grandfather. Lucky Harbor was gnawing on a piece of twine, his favorite activity when I refused to toss him Goldfish crackers. Once I shut off the lights, he’d scoot for Dillon’s place. It had become our routine.

  The cowbell clinked. Jordy was in full uniform, even wearing his fancy-brimmed hat. A chill swirled in the air. His shoulders looked broader whenever he had his official hat on.

  I said crisply, “My grandmother knows nothing about the murder of Lloyd Mueller. And neither does my grandfather. That’s all I have to say to you.”

  I walked around Jordy to open the door, meaning for both Lucky Harbor and Jordy to leave. Neither did. I snapped off the lights. The dog left, but Jordy stood in the dim light, his irises with pinpricks of white in them from boaters’ lights reflecting through the windows.

  Jordy switched on the lights. “I’m here on business.”

  He hustled past me, down a bait shop aisle. I watched his hat bob along. He came back to me, carrying the big roll of twine that I used for the dog leashes. He’d slipped a huge clear plastic bag around the roll, saying, “Evidence.”

  My fingers collected into sweaty fists. “Evidence of what? That you can lift thirty pounds of twine?”

  “The medical examiner found a couple of pieces of fiber that he believes are twine used to tie up Lloyd before he died.”

  “Sam told me he was tied up.”

  “Your grandmother believes Lloyd was drugged, then tied up. She thinks he was carried up those stairs by some strong man. Like Dillon.”

  “Dillon? You want it to be Dillon, Jordy. My grandmother did not say that.”

  Jordy set down the twine, then grabbed my shoulders but in a gentle fashion. “She said that, Ava. She said that whenever Dillon came to collect his dog, the dog always either had a twine leash on him or was playing with twine, and Dillon probably had tons of twine. What’s more, Dillon and his dog are always over at the park. Perhaps with one of Lloyd’s rifles in hand. Dillon could easily have bumped off Lloyd.”

  I busted from his grasp. “For what purpose, Jordy?”

  “To get Lloyd out of the way so that Dillon and his mother can negotiate for the real estate here. Heck, I’m surprised the citizens of Fishers’ Harbor haven’t heard that the Rivers family has made an offer on the Blue Heron Inn.”

  “They have?”

  “That was conjecture on my part. But you wait and see. Once I hear that’s true, I’ve got handcuffs at the ready.”

  “They’re not murderers.” I had to think fast. What was
going on? My grandmother wouldn’t put the finger on innocent people. My mother and father might let Dillon go to jail and squirm, but that wasn’t like Sophie or Gil Oosterling.

  Pauline came through the door, dropping her big, fat purse in surprise. Jordy collected the plastic-wrapped twine and left. The cowbell’s clank resounded with ominous finality.

  Picking up her purse, Pauline asked, “What’s going on?”

  I filled her in.

  She said, “Maybe we should just go over and talk with your grandparents about this right now.”

  “I can’t. I have a date with Sam to break into the lighthouse.” After she gave me a look down her nose, I told her to relax. “We’re going to get a key from Libby. It’ll be legit. But we have to find that box. It’ll have fingerprints on it and lots of revealing papers inside. I hope, anyway. If Jordy thinks Lloyd was drugged and hauled up the stairs by Dillon, finding that box could prove Dillon’s innocence.”

  “That’s the stupidest theory I’ve ever heard you come up with. You realize of course that the box has your fingerprints on it, as well as your grandfather’s.”

  “Yes, but my grandfather would say to us, ‘A.M. and P.M., somebody stole that box from you at the accident scene for a good reason.’”

  “Maybe Dillon took it? Maybe it wasn’t a coincidence he was driving by, after all.”

  “You just don’t want me to be happy, do you? You have John, but all my boyfriends get to go to jail?” I locked the front door from the inside.

  “That’s your problem. You can’t decide between Dillon and Sam, and then there’s Jordy, and now there’s that chunky, bearded fisherman, plus old Al Kvalheim and all the town’s men wanting you. Not to mention you have a dog panting after you all the time.”

  “It’s because I smell like fudge.” I made a note about the twine and put it on my grandfather’s counter. “At least Lucky Harbor didn’t put money down on me over at the Troubled Trout. Don’t make fun of me getting attention.”

  “Attention? You crave it but you can’t handle being popular for the first time in your life. You’re doing all you can to sabotage your own success because you’re afraid of success, Ava Mathilde Oosterling. Even a volcano gets over its own eruption.”