A Frozen Scoop of Murder: A Cozy Mystery (Caesars Creek Mystery Series Book 1)

A Frozen Scoop of Murder

by

Constance Barker

Copyright 2015 Constance Barker

All rights reserved.

Similarities to real people, places or events are purely coincidental.

I heard the tinkle of the bell as a customer entered my ice cream Shoppe. I’d only been open three months, but business was booming. Of course, it was spring and who doesn’t want a scoop of almond fudge or chocolate mint to cool their senses. I hoped winter in the heart of Georgia wouldn’t dull my customer’s palate for cold concoctions.

Previously I worked a dead end job as a secretary for a technology firm. Not only was it dull but it felt like it was sucking my soul right out of my body with each type written report. I wanted to be my own boss, but being a divorcee with no other support system…well, it seemed like a pipe dream. Until the day I decided to open my own ice cream Shoppe, The Frozen Scoop. Not only could you get ice cream, but frozen drinks and ice cream cakes as well. What I hadn’t counted on was the social aspect of the Shoppe. It was a meeting place where customers gathered to talk about the goings on in the town. Okay, it was a gossip hive, and oh, how I loved to listen and join into the conversations.

My friend Stormi worked as an employee. She decorated the ice cream cakes and helped with the nightly cleanup. My other friend, Paige, was married with a 16-year-old daughter. She didn’t work since her husband made enough to support three families, so she’d come into the shop to help during the busy periods.

I walked from the back of the store to the front to greet my customers and there she stood. Miss Greta Haglemier. She was the town snoot, snob, witch…well, you get the picture. Many people used more crass terms to describe her, including Stormi. She never married, although she was seeing a man of some importance, at least that’s what the gossip hounds reported.

Miss Greta was the best at everything, according to her. Every year she won the grand champion ribbons for her peach and apple pies, except for last year, which would live on in history as the day Miss G came undone. Oh and she would win for her prized red roses as well. However, if you believed the whispers, Greta paid off the judges. Not sure if that’s true or not, as her roses were the most beautiful I’d seen. Never tasted her pies however. She treated her pies like precious gems. The tasty treats could only pass the lips of someone worthy, like the judges or her dearest friend Trixie, a widowed lady who accompanied her today.

“Hello ladies,” I happily greeted the two women. Miss Greta wore her customary scowl accompanied by an oversized multicolored blouse and a red skirt. She was rather rotund, but that never slowed her down. Honestly, I wouldn’t win a foot race with her if the finish line were rimmed with bakery goodies. She wore her brown hair in a bun and her beady brown eyes bore into my flesh.

Miss Trixie was the opposite of Miss Haglemier. Trim with short grey hair, she wore a fashionable taupe pantsuit with a brandy colored blouse. Trixie was steak to Greta’s ham loaf. How the heck these two were friends was beyond my comprehension.

Trixie was a widow twice now and both times her husbands left her with hefty life insurance policies, the last one rumored to be in the one million dollar range. Yet, you’d never know it. While she lived in a nice home, every hair in place, and weekly manicures, she never put on airs. She was a treat to be around, unlike her best buddy Greta.

Greta never married and she worked as a tax preparer in the spring. She lived in a cottage where she grew up. Her mother left it to her along with one car and a sizeable bank account that allowed her to remain largely unemployed until the social security checks would start rolling in next year. She dyed her grey hair an auburn color, but the cheap store bought color appeared odd against her stark white skin. She should have gone the same route as Trixie and left her hair au natural but not Greta. In fact she didn’t like Trixie’s hair or clothes and wasn’t afraid to let her and everyone know it. But Trixie laughed it off. In my book, Trixie was a saint.

“I want to order an ice cream cake for my book social on Thursday evening,” Greta growled.

I grabbed my order tablet from the counter and said, “Would you like a custom cake Greta or one that we already have in the freezer?”

“Oh I want a custom cake and I want it made fresh that day. No day old cake mind you,” Greta said as she slammed her purse on the counter next to the register.

“Well, an ice cream cake should sit in the freezer for at least a day to ensure the ice cream is set properly,” I replied holding my pen aloft and hoping this wasn’t a reflection of how my day would go.

“Oh Greta, how would anyone know if an ice cream cake is made fresh or two weeks old?” Trixie chided. “Besides, these ice cream cakes are so delicious they’ll be consumed within seconds and no one will ever wonder how old they are.”

Yep, I loved Trixie.

“Fine then,” Greta harrumphed. “Make it one day prior. But that cake better be moist!”

“It will be Miss Greta,” I said cheerily while inside I cussed. “Is there anything else I can get for you ladies today?”

“No that’s it,” Greta replied.

“Speak for yourself woman,” Trixie exclaimed. “I’ll take one dip of the chocolate fudge in a sugar cone Tara.”

“You’re paying for that,” Greta said.

“Of course, don’t get your panties in a bunch. But you’re paying for your fresh ice cream cake sister.”

Greta grumped and pulled out her billfold. I took down the order, chocolate cake and vanilla ice cream, and delivered Trixie her cone.

“Now remember, I’m allergic to peanuts. Don’t get peanuts anywhere near my cake, do you hear me?” Greta said as she placed her billfold back into her purse. “I’m deathly allergic. Even if you use the same scoop to dish out ice cream with peanuts in it and then my ice cream you could kill me!”

“I remember Miss Greta,” I answered. How could anyone forget. She’d told the entire town 102 times she’s allergic to nuts. I’m surprised no one hasn’t slipped her a slivered almond or even a peanut skin. The way she acted either one would be a death knell.

“Your ice cream cake will be ready by 2pm on Thursday,” I stated.

With that, Greta turned on her heel and walked towards the front door. Trixie smiled and waved at me as she gave her chocolate fudge a nice long lick. As they walked out the door, my friend Stormi walked in.

*****

“Oh Lawdy, I’m glad I missed the calamity that is Miss Greta!” Stormi exclaimed as she tossed her purse in the back cabinet.

“Yeah, she was her usual pleasant self,” I replied as I added her order to the others that needed filled that week. “I’m use to her though, if that’s possible. And of course Trixie is a treat.”

“Trixie must have nerves of steel. I would’ve booted Greta to the curb a long time ago,” Stormi claimed as she slid on her pink The Frozen Scoop apron.

“Maybe Trixie’s use to her as well. They’ve been friends since high school…at least that’s what I heard,” I said as I removed the empty barrel of vanilla from the ice cream case. As boring as vanilla was, it still outsold the rest of my flavors.

“What I don’t understand is, how does Miss Greta have a man and Trixie doesn’t?” Stormi asked. “That guy Greta is dating, Mr. Florez, he’d be much better suited with Trixie. I mean he’s tall, works out, sophisticated, nicely coiffed grey hair. What in the Sam hill is he doing with Miss Grumpy? Just irritates me to no end.”

“Stormi, you get worked up about the funniest things,” I laughed.

“I know,” she giggled. “I just like everything to be in its proper balance in the universe, and Greta and Mr. Florez are tilting my view of what’s normal.”

“At least you didn’t have to deal with her today,” I said placing a full barrel of vanilla into its spot in the ice cream case.

“And for that I’m thankful. Remind me to be in the back when she comes to pick up her order on Thursday.”

The rest of the day was normal for the first of the week. A steady stream of customers came in to get their sugar fix for the day. Since this is a small town, we know almost everyone who stops by. The talk of the day surrounded the upcoming annual Spring Festival that the town of Caesar’s Creek threw on the first weekend of May. Many people set up booths to sell their wares or food concoctions. I would have my own small booth this year selling soft serve ice cream and pink t-shirts with the logo of my store, The Frozen Scoop.

A small stage would sit on the courthouse grounds where local talent would strut their stuff for the people who would bring lawn chairs to sit and listen. Contests were also a big draw, especially for the best chili, baby back ribs, and of course, the pies. Greta always won the peach and apple pie contests until last year, when Ms. Nelson edged out her peach pie. You’ve never seen such a disaster. Greta took two steps towards the head judge when she realized it wasn’t her name called out. She stood still as the crowd clapped and Ms. Nelson walked to the front of the stage. Suddenly she stormed the stage, claiming that there must have been a mistake, that somehow the judges mixed up her pie with Ms. Nelson’s. How could she have won all these years, then a newcomer struts in and the first year she wins. It was a travesty Miss Greta bellowed as the crowd sat in stunned silence. 

Greta strode over to the judges’ table, her ample hips practically knocking Ms. Nelson out of the way. As she and the judges argued, the emcee grabbed the microphone and told the crowd the final would be determined later and the show was over. However, no one moved. We were transfixed by the carryings on behind him. Greta’s arms and hands flew up, out and back to her chest. She looked like an orchestra conductor. All she needed was the baton. The crowd couldn’t see her face, but we could see the judges‘ faces, which ranged from horrified to slack jawed and eye rolling.

Eventually that got old as well and the crowd dispersed along with the judges who finally simply gave up and left. Ms. Nelson did end up with the Grand Champion Ribbon for her peach pie, but I doubt she felt it was worth it. Word is she burned the ribbon in her fireplace, likely to get rid of any curse Miss Greta might have placed on it after her rants and ravings.

The other contest Miss Greta was known for were her roses. Nobody disputed that her roses were the most beautiful in town. She had a large trellis erected right next to the back door of her house that allowed the rose vines to snake through the tiny openings within the lattice. They were what are called Scentimental heirloom roses or simply striped red and white roses. They were gorgeous with their blood red tint and creamy white stripes. No one would argue that Miss Greta’s roses were the best and she worked hard at keeping them robust, trimming, spraying and watering every day.

It wasn’t that the town didn’t think she deserved her Championship ribbons, it was the way she handled herself. Most people are modest or humble when receiving an award, but not Greta. She took snootiness to a whole new level. However, people tolerated her since she was always in the social scene, whether it was a book club, bridge games, or church activities. You could always count on Miss G to be there and most of the women her age endured her antics. There had to be something Stormi and I were missing. I mean she had a suitor, a great friend in Trixie, and others who could look past the gruff exterior. What it was however, I couldn’t see it.

Stormi and I ate our dinner of sliced turkey on whole wheat while sitting at one of the tables out front. Dinnertime was normally slow. It was after dinner when things picked up and the largest crowd of the day filtered in for their dessert. As Stormi and I gulped down our dinner, Paige strode into the Shoppe.

“What are you doing here so early?” I asked, taking a sip of my sweet tea.

“Oh I made lasagna early today and left a note for Sam to put it in the oven when she got home,” Paige said as she sat down with us. “I think she knows how to turn on the oven, but I wouldn‘t be surprised if she called for instructions.”

Sam was Paige’s only daughter Samantha. A striking sophomore with long brown hair and big brown eyes like her momma. Paige’s husband, Bruce, a good looking gentlemen with black hair and a dimpled chin, left on business trips once a month. Luckily he didn’t mind Paige helping at the Shoppe, even when he was home, as long as she brought home a pint of Black Walnut.

“Would you girls mind taking care of the front while I catch up on inventory?” I asked. “And I need to stop putting off the freezer inspection. If it goes out I’m up to my ears in melted gooey goodness.”