“We think Kelsey King.” I told her about the chase and our suspicions.
As Sam was easing his way off the nearby table, Maria asked me, “Does Kelsey have any reason to shoot at you?”
“Besides hating me?”
Sam cleared his throat. “She doesn’t hate you. She hates the fudge contest she got rooked into by John Schultz.”
Maria asked, “Is that the camera guy I talked with the other day?”
“One and the same,” Sam said.
“Are you friends with him?” Maria was looking at me pointedly.
My gut went queasy. “He’s the boyfriend of my best friend. Is there something we should know?”
“Libby Mueller called me.” Maria closed her notebook. “She said John creeped her out. He asked to get inside Lloyd Mueller’s house for videotaping, but she thinks John wanted to plunder the place.”
“I don’t think John would steal.”
“You’re sure?”
The questioning was making me worried for Pauline. “He seems pretty harmless. He’s obsessed with diving for treasure at the moment.”
Maria was writing furiously. “Treasure hunter?”
“He just wants to get rich. The fudge contest is his plan to get on TV and get rich.”
Maria said, “I need to talk with Mr. Schultz.”
Pauline was going to hate me.
Sam asked Maria, “Why would Libby even suspect John Schultz of wanting to steal things from Lloyd? You’re not suggesting John’s a suspect in his murder.”
That was so unexpected I had to grab a nearby intravenous bag stand so I didn’t fall over.
Maria didn’t flinch. “She said that a Professor Faust suggested she be careful.”
I offered, “Professor Alex Faust is one of my fudge judges. He’s a historian. He was at Lloyd Mueller’s house himself this morning when I was there. Libby had given him a key. Obviously to check things out for her.”
“And why were you there?”
“Picking roses for the funeral.” My face went hot, but I hoped nobody would notice in the context of the E.R.
“Did you go into the house?”
“No.” My whole body was on fire with my lies. I was going to burn in Hell, for sure. “I have witnesses. Pauline Mertens, Laura Rousseau, our village president, and Dillon Rivers.”
Sam said, “Dillon? You were picking roses with Dillon?”
Now the fire was in Sam’s eyes, leaping at me.
My heartbeat hammered into my throat. I focused on Maria. “Libby has nothing to worry about. A lot of people are watching over Lloyd’s house, including the professor. Nobody’s going to break in.”
* * *
Sam insisted he could drive, but I knew he was just trying to be macho because he’d found out I’d been picking roses with Dillon. I pointed out, “You’re one-armed and on pain pills. Now please get in.” I still had his keys from the ride here from the lighthouse, so he had no choice.
He stayed mad at me. We rode in silence for about twenty minutes out of Sturgeon Bay on a quiet Highway 42. I focused on the occasional innocent eyes of raccoons reflecting back at us from the edges of the blacktop and prayed they didn’t try to cross the road. The windows were rolled up against the chill that had grown into the damp cold of nighttime. Foggy mists rolled off the lake in the distance, crossing the road in front of our headlights like ghost animals, which made me nervous. My foot kept wanting to jump to the brake. The engine droned on while the tires slapped in perfect cadence across tar-filled highway cracks.
Finally, Sam muttered, “You and Dillon were inside Lloyd’s house together?”
“No, Sam. It was just me. Dillon came to get his dog in the rose garden.”
“What were you doing?”
“Picking roses. Like I said.”
“What’d you find in the house?”
“Nothing.” A part of me wanted to share more with Sam and tell him about my suspicions concerning the cups and rifles, but I also wanted to avoid talking about Dillon with Sam.
“Is it a nice house?” he asked.
“Remarkable, Sam.”
“Better than the one I bought for us?”
He’d impaled my heart. “Don’t go there, Sam. You have a nice house. But it’s your house.” I’d never been inside it.
“Not really. I bought it for our wedding present. And planted the roses for your bridal shower gift.”
“Oh, Sam, please stop this.” I was suffocating. I rolled down my window halfway. “We’re tired. It’s not a good time to talk about us, the past or the future. I’m very sorry I got you into this. It’s not even like you to get involved in illegal, stupid things. It’s why we split up. I knew I would hurt you sometime. Now I have. And I’m sorry you’re hurt. Please forgive me, Sam, and let it go.”
After another minute of the highway thrumming beneath the car, Sam said, “Dillon’s been out in the woods a lot. You said his dog was out there. He hunts. He has hunting rifles.”
I chose to be curious rather than upset. “You think Dillon shot at us?”
“Not at you. Me. He still loves you, you know.”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Which part? Him shooting at me? Or him loving you?”
“Sam, stop before I push you out of this vehicle and steal your truck. I need a new one, you know.”
We pulled up to my cabin about fifteen minutes later. I let him drive home alone across the village since there was zero traffic and he’d only be going twenty-five at the most.
Once he left my street, I pushed myself inside, aching all over. I was shaking, too, wrung out. I switched on my kitchen light and kicked off my shoes. Titus stared up at me, acting as if he, too, wanted to know: Who did I love? Dillon? Sam? That chunky fisherman? A dog? Or a mouse?
My head itched, my leg stung, and my cheek felt stiff where the chip of paint or metal had hit me. I could have lost an eye, I realized now. I curled up with my laptop on the couch to check for e-mails. My fingers were still quaking. I clicked on an e-mail from Pauline.
Searched RCC on the ’net. Rivers Construction Company and Riverboat Cruise Corporation both came up the most. Both based in Milwaukee. No people listed for the riverboat one, just contact info.
I trusted Dillon, for better or for worse, so I concluded the Rivers family wasn’t involved with taking over Fishers’ Harbor or my fudge shop. So who owned the Riverboat Cruise Corporation? I’d call them in the morning and ask. By morning I’d know who was skulking about our village. Or worse. Could the owner of this RCC acronym have murdered Lloyd? So that they could get the property cheaper? The thought still brought me back to Mercy and Erik—two people who could surely use money and who knew their way around legal documents. Erik was young enough and perhaps naive enough to think he could borrow Lloyd’s rifles and get away with murder. And Erik liked the color orange.
I couldn’t sleep. There was a buzz in my body keeping me wide-awake and high, an awareness that I’d almost died. I desperately needed to make fudge so that I could think straight. I put my shoes back on, then headed out into the darkness.
* * *
On Tuesday morning, I slept in after my fudge-making night. It was nearly eight a.m. by the time I got to the shop. Cody was already there, of course. The lusty, earthy coffee smell jolted me awake. For breakfast I downed a piece of dark Belgian chocolate fudge as I sipped the dark-roasted brew.
My grandfather was yawning loudly while puttering about his shelves. If he saw the note about the missing twine roll, he didn’t seem to care. Usually he growled about our sheriff’s interference.
Cody was banging about, putting a copper pot in place that he’d brought from the kitchen where I’d washed it last night after midnight. “Miss Oosterling, can I teach Bethany how to make fudge while you’re at
that funeral this morning?”
I was tying on one of the fancy-schmancy aprons in a peach color and lost my grip on the bow behind me.
Cody came over to help. “I like this one. It’s movie star shiny. You deserve a star on the walk of fame, Miss Oosterling.” He sauntered to the door to point outside. “We should start our own walk of fame right outside. I could carve stars and names into the wood on the dock and on the piers. We could have a big party every time we chose somebody to add to our walk. But you’d have to be the first. You’re a star from Hollywood for real.”
He was buttering me up, but I liked it. “I worked for a while on a TV show, but mostly behind the scenes. I wasn’t the star.”
“But the apron makes you look like a real somebody. A real peach.”
“You really think so?” The young guy was really working me. I pirouetted in my peach-colored, puffy pinafore apron with its shiny satin interwoven across the bodice. The pockets on top and bottom were satin, sort of like wearing peach mirrors on my boobs and on the skirt, too.
Cody clapped.
I said, “Sure, I don’t mind if you teach her how to make fudge.”
“Can we make more of that new recipe you made last night?” He nodded toward the window where I’d left the new batch made at midnight under a towel on the marble table.
“Did you peek?”
His face turned a shade of red that almost matched his short haircut. “I tasted a nibble. That could win the prize on Saturday.”
“You think so?”
“You bet. That’s destined for Emmy swag bags.”
“Let’s keep it a secret, then. But I have to come up with a fairy-tale name. Plus, I need to come up with one more flavor for the judges.”
“Kelsey King is making dandelion fudge and something else from plants she finds in the woods at the park. Just so she doesn’t pick poisonous stuff.”
As I checked the stock on my shelves, I wondered what poisonous plants were out in our woods. Certainly mushrooms. Had Kelsey poisoned Lloyd? Had she tried to scare him into voting for her and not me? That was silly. More likely, she tried to get him to give her valuable cups and saucers, or to sign something over to her. Instead of becoming groggy, the poor man had died on her. She was in good shape; I could conceive of Kelsey using ropes to winch him up a step at a time. Had she sung that Friday night or early Saturday morning, too? As she had the morning Mercy saw her. I’d have to tell Jordy to ask the campers about that. The singing could have been a cover-up. If somebody asked her what she was doing at the lighthouse, she’d say she was practicing. A lot of people liked singing in a tower or silo.
But if she murdered Lloyd or killed him by accident, why had she cozied up to Libby Mueller, the ex-wife that Lloyd had still loved in a protective way? It couldn’t be, could it, that Libby was in on the murder? She was a slight woman, so I didn’t see her wrestling with Lloyd or dragging his body up those stairs.
If Libby was innocent and Kelsey was a killer, then Libby was in danger from Kelsey, as my girlfriends and I had concluded earlier. The motive was clear: Kelsey wanted to take over Libby’s life and live the high life in Lloyd’s mansion. Libby was fearful of John doing that, but it was Kelsey who was the real culprit perhaps.
I cringed. A fudge contest should be fun. I was determined to get it back to being fun. Lloyd had loaned me books and had encouraged me to make it big and wonderful because that would save Fishers’ Harbor. Again it struck me that Lloyd might have been afraid of somebody.
“Cody, you told Sam that bad guys show up at funerals of their victims. Is that true?”
“It sure is. The FBI takes down car license plate numbers and takes pictures from off in the trees where they hide. Are you thinking of taking down numbers today? The sheriff can run them later for you.”
My fudge assistant was only eighteen, with a definite flair for drama. Still, the “TV” feel of this made me look forward to watching the action at the funeral today.
Moose Lindstrom walked into the shop then. His bulky, tall frame stood in the middle of our floor. First he looked me up and down pretty good with his big ol’ smile; then he winked at me before turning to the other side of the shop. “Hey, Gil, I’ve got a proposition.”
My grandfather came around an end cap on an aisle, looking disheveled. “I’m not marrying you, Moose. Got enough trouble with the marriage I’ve got.”
Moose scratched the whiskers on his chin. “I saw ya sleepin’ on that boat of yours this morning and it got me to thinkin’.”
I rushed forward, my hands wringing my shiny peach apron. “Gilpa, what were you doing sleeping outside? You and Grandma have to patch things up. This is silly.”
He headed to the minnow tank.
Moose gave me a silent plea for help. All I could do was shrug. Grandpa was an immovable Belgian buffalo.
Moose went at it again. “Gil, I got more business than I can shake a stick at lately, what with this good weather. But I can’t be in my boat all day long. Tires me out. I was thinking you could use the Super Catch I and just toss me whatever cash off the top you think is fair.”
Gilpa sprinkled fish food across the top of the minnow tank, giving Moose the silent treatment.
I rushed over and snatched the box of food. “Come on, Gilpa, that’s a really nice offer. And you like his boat. You piloted it that time in May, remember? It was fun. Remember how easily it cruised across the top of the waves? Your boat doesn’t do that.”
“I like my boat.”
“Gilpa, your boat’s not working and probably won’t anymore. Both engines are shot. And your boat’s a mess. It’s all oily. Nobody wants to ride in that thing. And it doesn’t have air-conditioning.”
My grandfather gave me a look that shamed me for being so forward.
I swallowed hard, trying to think of something to help him get over his silly pride. “What would Lloyd want you to do? He liked new things as much as old things.”
“Lloyd? New things?” My grandfather’s face wrinkled in pain. “You think giving me a damn fancy boat to ride around in will get Lloyd back? Or our shop? Or your grandmother? I’m losing everything. Everything. I’m moving back to the farm.”
He stomped off through the back of the shop.
I sank against the minnow tank, dropping the box of food on the floor.
Moose stuffed his hands in his pockets.
Cody had turned white. “He’s mad. Maybe you should call him on his phone. Sam always says when I get mad and can’t handle things because of my autism, I should call him. Maybe Gil should call Sam.”
Cody’s concern touched me. “It’s okay, Cody. He’s going to go talk with Grandma now. They’ll be all right.”
“I don’t think so, Miss Oosterling. He’s going to pack his bags and leave for good. Remember when I ran away? He has that look in his eyes, like nobody understands him. That’s how I feel when people gang up on me.”
My heart fell into my stomach. In May, because of my lack of patience with Cody, he’d stolen a boat and motored out to live on an island. Pauline and I had to rescue him and convince him to come home. “I ganged up on him, didn’t I?”
Moose put a hand on my shoulder. “You did nothing of the kind. I pushed him. Sorry. I thought I could help.”
“Did he really sleep on his boat last night?”
Moose nodded.
“Oh dear.” I bit my lip in thought. I had to find a way to get Grandpa back into proper fighting mode, and back together with Grandma. I was nothing without my grandparents by my side. My grandparents were the ones who’d helped me get my start in the fudge business. My grandfather had even taken down the word “Beer” on the old sign to make room for “Belgian Fudge.” I had added “Beer” back to the building later in May to show my love and respect for all he’d done for me.
I had to put my life in order once and for all.
“Moose, have you ever heard of the Riverboat Cruise Corporation? They’re the ones who drew up the plans for the harbor. They proposed moving the bait shop back off the dock and under some new condos.”
“Oh, sure. RCC is big. They run some river cruises down in Chicago and all over the Great Lakes region.”
“So who’s the president of that corporation? The name isn’t listed on the Internet.”
“Damned if I know. You talked with Lloyd’s lawyer? He’d know. He’ll surely be at the funeral today.” Moose bent down near my face, then whispered, “Whoever Lloyd named in his trust is going to get mighty rich. Rumor around town is that Mercy Fogg knocked him off so she and Libby could live the high life together in that mansion.”
A nasty image of Mercy—and Kelsey, two nutty women—sharing that magnificent house with Libby plagued me as I readied to go to the funeral that Tuesday morning. Lloyd wouldn’t want any of that to happen to his estate. Lloyd had entrusted me with a key for the place and I somehow felt protective of the house now.
I called the Riverboat Cruise Corporation and asked for the owner’s name. The phone got forwarded to five different people and some calliope music before I concluded I’d just gotten the royal brush-off.
I went home to dress for the funeral.
Funerals call for a dress. I hated dresses, but I still had a royal blue sheath with pockets that I used to wear to writer gatherings in L.A. It hid the ten pounds I’d gained since opening my fudge shop. I left my hair loose about my shoulders. I slipped on tan high heels. The nick in my leg from the bullet was covered by a small flesh-colored bandage, but there was no pain, just a stiffness. The heels registered loud clicking noises as I walked across my cabin’s floorboards. Titus didn’t recognize me. The poor mouse darted helter-skelter from the kitchen into the living area, then cowered under the couch and stuck his nose out to look at me again. I put one of the Oosterling cheese curds on the floor for him to munch on while I was gone.
I called Pauline to pick me up because I didn’t want to come between my grandparents by asking for a ride with them. I crossed my fingers, hoping those two would drive together to the funeral and patch things up. That reminded me that I’d have to call the auto body shop about the assessment for my yellow truck and then touch base with my insurance company.
Hot Fudge Frame-Up: A Fudge Shop Mystery Page 22