Hot Fudge Frame-Up: A Fudge Shop Mystery

by Christine DeSmet

  He managed a quirky, crooked smile. I was getting respect because I’d been right about a hunch or two. He’d told me they’d found a crayon in Faust’s coat pocket, presumably Pauline’s missing one. Jordy said murderers often kept incriminating evidence because of their egos. Faust thought he was clever, using something as simple as a crayon to threaten me. The partial fingerprint on the fudge matched Libby’s prints, but the bite mark fit Faust. It gave me the creeps to think of Libby feeding Faust a bite of my fudge before they hauled Lloyd up the lighthouse staircase.

  Jordy said, “Well, I’m done here. You take care.”

  He didn’t move, though.

  I didn’t want him to move. Some bond had formed between us through all this trouble. I didn’t have a name for it, though. It wasn’t quite friendship. We were somehow respectful of each other in a new way.

  I said, “So, what’d you find in the box? Did Libby say who stole it?”

  “Alex Faust took it after running you off the road. Amazingly, he lost the darn thing and Piers found it and returned it to the lighthouse, thinking he’d find Libby there.”

  “Piers? When? How?”

  “Alex had stopped by the Luscious Ladle to pick up some muffins to take to a book signing. He was in a hurry. Evidently, Alex pulled the box out of his trunk, thinking he’d put it inside the car, but then he left without it. Piers found it in the parking lot.”

  I laughed. “So, what’d you find in it?”

  “Just Mercy’s nasty letters.”

  That disappointed me. But then I brightened with an idea. “I know the combination to Lloyd’s safe. Want to go look at it now instead of waiting for Friday?” I flicked my ponytail tantalizingly at him.

  “Did you go back into that house after I told you to stay out of trouble?”

  “Of course.” I fished about in the pocket of the pink-flowered pinafore apron. I showed him the key to Lloyd’s house. “I’m legal, remember?”

  “Faust probably changed the locks. That key won’t work.”

  “I can find a way in on my own.”

  “You shouldn’t be going in there without an escort.”

  “I’m staring at my escort.”

  “You sure have a way with words.”

  “And diagrams. Want me to start drawing diagrams of how I can get into Lloyd’s house without a key, Jordy?”

  “No way. Come on.”

  * * *

  But when we got to Lloyd’s house, Parker Balusek was there that day locking up. With new keys. He’d had the locks changed today. He carried a thick satchel.

  “You opened the safe?” I asked eagerly.

  Parker patted his leather satchel. “My firm will be going over the papers right away. We’ll let you know what we find out about the town’s property.”

  “Parker, what about the offer on the property? Has the offer been withdrawn?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who was it that was going to buy the harbor property and Duck Marsh Street?”

  “It was the Riverboat Cruise Corporation. I got a phone call not an hour ago that said they’d withdrawn their offer. It seems that John Schultz demanded they withdraw or he’d sue them for age discrimination. The guy might still have grounds to sue them, because he was let go for presumably not a good enough reason, as John puts it, but at least he sent a chill down their backs that helped you and others in Fishers’ Harbor.”

  Since Parker and I had had the conversation only yesterday about John’s shaky employment status with RCC, we both burst out laughing. It’s amazing how life works. John, the man I’d detested and suspected of skullduggery, ended up being the guy to save Fishers’ Harbor. For now, anyway. Who knew what the future would bring from those papers tucked inside Parker’s briefcase?

  Thunder threatened us if we stayed much longer, but I had to ask, “But do you think the village owns the property? And my shop?”

  “It could. I suspect the village is owed back taxes.”

  “There’s an emerald ring Libby is wearing. You might ask her to sell that to help make things right.”

  Parker shook his head. “Sorry. Personal property. Can’t take somebody’s ring to pay off taxes. We’ll look at other angles first.” He started for his car in the turnaround by the fountain, then said, “You’re very cute in that apron.”

  My face went scalding hot. I’d forgotten I still had the thing on.

  Jordy stepped between us, clearly muscling in. “She hasn’t decided yet who will be her date for the prom on Saturday night.”

  Oh dear. The church ladies hadn’t spread the gossip around yet. My grandmother wasn’t about to tell them Dillon and I were getting back together. I needed to make a fast escape. “Gee, I’ve got to run. I’ve got one more recipe to dream up before Saturday afternoon. Jordy, we’re down one judge. Do you want to be a fudge judge? One without a deadly grudge against me?”

  He laughed.

  Then the sky opened up in a deluge. We ran for his squad car.

  Chapter 25

  The rains came off and on the remainder of the week, as if cleansing us all of the murder. The soggy forecast made me worry about Saturday’s fudge festival in Fishers’ Harbor. But Saturday dawned misty and then the sun burned through by ten for the parade.

  Sam appeared from out of the crowd on the sidewalk to stand next to me. His arm was still in a sling. The way he looked at me, with a bit of a scowl, made my heart come into my throat and my palms sweat.

  “You’re some gal,” he said, looking me over. “Does your dress match those bruises?”

  “Sam, be nice. I’m not going to the dance with Dillon.”

  “What’re you up to now?”

  “A surprise for a friend. Can we still be friends, Sam?”

  A glint came into his blue eyes. “Always. I figure it’s only a matter of time before Rivers slips up again. I’ve always had your back and I won’t quit now.”

  “Thanks, Sam. For accepting my choice. You’re a good guy.”

  Pauline’s Butterfly summer class of girls paraded down Main Street with their red wagons decorated in Cinderella Pink Fudge fairy finery. The girls wore wings on their backs, crowns on their heads, and pretty dresses in various pastels. Each wagon carried a box that was decorated to look like a piece of fudge. Each piece had wings on top, mimicking the marzipan wings Cody and I often shaped by hand to go on pieces of the Cinderella Pink Fudge.

  Several other shops and artists filled out the parade with floats, tricked-out bicycles, costumed pets, and more. Clowns tossed candy for children to grab. My grandmother and grandfather rode by together in the Peninsula Belgian American Club’s car. It was decorated with a BOOYAH IS BEAUTIFUL sign and advertisements for autumn kermises. They had a big pot of booyah cooking outdoors now near the docks for consumption later at the adult prom dance.

  Dillon waved at me from across Main Street. He held on to Lucky Harbor, who wore a doggy clown costume of his own, with a funny hat on his head and balloons tied to his leash that Dillon was giving away randomly to kids on the sidewalk.

  I gave him a wave back, then excused myself with Sam. “See you later, Sam. The bar under the tent opens at five, music at seven. I’ll make my entrance at eight. That’s when I’ll have a big surprise. Please be there. You’ll like it.”

  I ran off fast, letting him fret.

  By one o’clock, Kelsey, Piers, and I were standing on the dais outside my shop on the docks, each with two plates of new fudge in front of us. The crowd had already voted on their ten favorite fudge batches made by local residents. Those were being sold off piece by piece for charities. But now it was time for the celebrity round. I wore the green-checkered pinafore apron with matching green-checkered toque on my head. I even had on lipstick. Kelsey rolled her eyes at me, but I was in this to win it. I wanted to look like Audrey Hepburn. Kelsey and Piers wore th
eir plain white chef’s aprons.

  The first round was created for fun flavors.

  Jordy, Erik, Dotty, and Mercy eagerly dipped into their taste-testing. I had invited Mercy Fogg to be one of the judges so I could curry her favor, in case she won the next election for village president. Pauline told me I was shameful and insane, and that Mercy would be the death of me yet. “Mercy is as wacky as Kelsey.”

  Kelsey’s fun flavor was called Sunshine Sparkles. It was her dandelion-infused fudge. She’d filled her fudge with wild plant and flower seeds, too, in her effort to make the fudge fiber rich. She had poked a dandelion on top of each piece, too, which the judges were expected to eat. To me, the fudge looked like dark suet cakes for woodpeckers and chickadees. Kelsey was not destined to become a fudge confectioner. But I had become thankful for her karate kick ability; she had a future as an exercise instructor.

  Piers had made Blueberry Boppity-Boo Fudge. He’d used white chocolate, which meant the fudge was blue from the berries in it. The kids in the crowd loved it and clapped loudly. Even some of the Butterflies broke ranks from me and clapped for Piers.

  My fun flavor? I stuck with my Rapunzel Raspberry Rapture, part of my Fairy Tale Fudge line. I served the bites of fudge with a big dollop of whipped cream on the side from our farm. Then I drizzled fresh raspberry wine sauce made at a local Door County vineyard over the top of that cloud of white and the fudge. The topper was a big, newly ripened raspberry from the Klubertanz Farm. I sprinkled pink luster dust here and there to make it sparkle in the sunlight.

  Mercy ate her entire plateful. Then she ate the leftovers on the other judging plates. Dotty wasn’t even done savoring it when Mercy snatched the plate from her. The rapture on Mercy’s face, though, was priceless; I’d named my new fudge treat appropriately, thanks to Pauline’s nudge.

  The judging had to wait for Mercy to finish eating.

  Pauline said into the microphone, “Folks, it’s lavish, luscious, lovely, lip-smacking luxuriance.”

  The first round ended in a tie between Piers and me; we each got a nine. No ten! Piers was from Chicago, and Mercy loved Chicago people, so despite my Rapunzel Raspberry Rapture giving her an excellent epicurean episode, I think she voted against me.

  Kelsey managed to receive a composite score of three. She did not worry me.

  The four judges cleaned their palates with a drink of fresh, cold milk provided by my parents from their Holsteins.

  In the second and final round, where we were supposed to impress the judges the most, Piers presented something he called Lambeau Field Fudge. Lambeau Field is the home of the Green Bay Packers football team. The fun fact about that is that Curly Lambeau started his Green Bay Packer team during the same season that Hercule Poirot debuted in Agatha Christie’s novels—in 1920. My heart sank because Piers was playing hardball. For a Chicago Bears fan to step up on the dais with a Green Bay Packer fudge theme is a signal that the world has finally come to an end. Bears and Packers are arch rivals. The crowd knew this. The people clapped and hooted.

  Piers’s second fudge was also colorful—two-toned, to look like the Packer green and gold colors. He’d layered mint green fudge with lemon-flavored fudge, a bold combination for taste buds. Piers borrowed my technique of decorating fudge and had applied little chocolate paste footballs on top. He put a bobblehead doll of Aaron Rodgers, the quarterback, on the plate to the side of the fudge. Piers was a formidable foe. An icky feeling of defeat swept over me.

  Kelsey was next. She presented what she called Velveeta Va-voom Nettle Nibble Fudge.

  My panic deepened, because anything made with Velveeta cheese had a chance of winning for the novelty alone, despite the nettles. That gooey cheese was also incredibly cheap as an ingredient. A favorite salad at Pauline’s school was one made with pasta, peas, bacon, and cubes of Velveeta tossed with some mayonnaise. I attempted a protest. “That’s not real fudge! It’s made with a block of Velveeta melted down with powdered sugar and cocoa dumped in, all squished with your hands. Kids make that all the time.”

  Kelsey flipped her long blond hair in a pert way. She was dazzling in a purple-and-pink shorts outfit, with her purple-glitter shoes. “There were no rules on how to make our fudge. My Va-voom variety is healthy. You get protein and calcium, plus the greens I added.”

  “That could be green mold or moss or marijuana you collected at the park.”

  The crowd gasped. I’d gone too far. “Just kidding about that last thing. Sorry.”

  My nemesis wiggled her shoulders in protest and looked poised for a karate kick to my face. But she smiled, relaxing. “Cooked nettles are quite edible.”

  I looked at the judges, all of whom were tasting her gelatinous fudge. Of course Mercy was going for a second piece immediately.

  Then Dotty said, “This isn’t bad at all.”

  “Dotty!” You’d think one of my grandmother’s friends would take my side.

  Pauline stepped to the microphone. “Let’s move along to our final entry in Round Two. What is your flavor, Ava?”

  I felt like a dope. While Piers and Kelsey had gone for something very entertaining for Round Two, I’d put together something that now seemed too sappy. And maybe it would be perceived as taking advantage of a dead man.

  I stepped to the microphone. “My flavor is, well . . . It’s called ‘Lloyd’s Rose Garden Fudge.’ It’s made with rose petals.”

  The crowd went quiet. I was horrified. Everybody stared up at me on the dais. My mistake was in the nuances of differences in regional taste bud habits. In California, whole restaurants were devoted to eating with flowers. I’d been using flowers in my cooking for the TV series crew for years. In Wisconsin, flower petal salads or petals sprinkled on ice cream was still a novelty. With a glance toward my father in the crowd I could tell he, too, wondered if I’d gone loco. Flower petals were something that cows and goats ate.

  Pauline came to my rescue at the microphone. “Tell us about the recipe.”

  “It’s a special fudge to honor Lloyd Mueller. He was my grandpa’s best friend, but just as important, he was a friend to all of us. He let a lot of people skip paying him rent when times were tough. I wouldn’t even be here in my shop if he hadn’t let my family keep the bait shop running during lean years.”

  I looked to my grandmother in the crowd. She nodded. I didn’t look at my grandpa because I knew I might choke up.

  Dillon was in the crowd, too, smiling, nodding for me to go on.

  Continuing on, I told the crowd, “Lloyd had a beautiful rose garden. Red roses, as you know, are a symbol of love. He also had yellow roses, and they’re a symbol of friendship. I picked petals from all of Lloyd’s roses and made a rose petal fudge in his honor so that he could be with the fudge contest in spirit. Rose varieties in Wisconsin are hardy and endure. When I made this fudge, I thought about how wonderful it is that friendships like my grandpa’s and Lloyd’s could endure over a long time. I hope you like my new flavor of fudge, which has the fragrance of friendship.”

  Pauline winked at me for my alliteration; her gesture made me glow inside. I set about feeding the judges a piece of “Rose Garden Fudge.” The confection was white, with dried rose petals folded within the sugar treat like nature’s own confetti. I had crystallized some of the petals and sprinkled those around on the plate, including atop a large dollop of whipped cream.

  My grandpa hopped up on the dais to hug me prematurely before the judges were done tasting.

  The crowd burst into applause. Those who had been sitting in the chairs stood up. The four judges took a second bite of the fudge. Mercy had paused to dip a rose petal into the whipped cream. She placed it on her tongue. I could tell she was rolling the flavor sensation around in her mouth. Her eyes crossed. I feared she hated it.

  Mercy’s lips wiggled about some more. “I didn’t know perfume was edible. . . .” She peered about at all the people
waiting for her vote. She was loving this attention, something I knew she sorely missed since being deposed as our village board president. Then she crowed, “This is delicious!”

  Kelsey snatched a piece to nibble. Her entire body transformed with an ambrosial expression on her face. “I should have thought of this. There are organic roses all over Door County. You beat me fair and square.”

  Coming from the woman who had been my mortal enemy last week, that was a high compliment.

  The judges handed in their scores to Pauline.

  The crowd at the harbor went silent. Only the motors of boats on the lake and the wind snapping the tent could be heard.

  Pauline finally took the microphone. “In last place with a four-point-five total score . . . is Kelsey King with dandelions and nettles in Velveeta cheese.”

  The crowd clapped politely. I felt sorry for her now. There really was a recipe for Velveeta cheese fudge that I’d found in one of Lloyd’s books I’d left lying around my shop. Kelsey had obviously tried the recipe in her desperation.

  But I was sweating, and back to worrying. Piers the Packer man looked smug, despite my rose petal triumph.

  “Out of ten points, Piers has received a nine-point-seven!”

  The crowd whistled and cheered, chanting, “Piers, Piers! Go, Packers!”

  A nine-point-seven? Could I possibly beat him? I’d received a nine in the first round. Who would win? Packers or mere petals?

  The crowd quieted. Pauline had taken position at the microphone. “And the winner is . . . Ava Oosterling!”

  The Butterflies squealed right below me in the crowd. John was trotting his heft through the crowd to get all kinds of video. My parents and grandparents joined me on the dais for a big hug.

  My grandpa whispered in my ear, “Honey, that was lovely. Lloyd would be proud of you. I’m proud of you. Thank you.”

  My whole family along with Pauline bounced up and down and all around me with boisterous hoots in what we call a “jump around.” Pauline told me that the sympathy for Lloyd won out; I’d received a perfect score in the last round and the combined scores in the contest showed that I’d won over Piers by three-tenths of a point. Roses beat Packers!