Hot Fudge Frame-Up: A Fudge Shop Mystery (10 page)

When I returned to the front, Professor Faust stood at the counter, holding the cookbooks. “Your employee Cody allowed me to peruse these. I promised to return them this morning. I hope that was okay? I asked him to be sure to let you know I had them.” He set the small stack on the counter.

“Perfect timing. I was just looking for them, coincidentally. What did you think?”

He ran a hand through his windblown gray hair. His hazel eyes grew as twinkly as the luster dust I put on my fudge. “The church ones in particular carry a treasure trove of names and personal notes referencing people who came over directly from the old countries in the mid-1800s. This is like a genealogical tree for the Fishers’ Harbor area.”

His excitement made the professor look younger than his sixty years. He had dressed more youthful today, too, in tan chinos and deck shoes, and a plain polo shirt in a green color that matched his eyes.

He pulled a slim cookbook from the stack. “This one from the Lutheran church I found particularly interesting.” With great care, his fingers parted the pages. He let the double-page spread splay before me.

To my amazement, there was a recipe for fudge from a Ruth Mueller. I asked, “A relative of Lloyd’s, I believe?”

“His grandmother.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I called Libby. She confirmed it.”

The professor showed me pages with recipes by Ruth Mueller in all the cookbooks Lloyd had given me. There were several for cakes, including one for German chocolate cake with its gooey, caramel-coconut frosting. But the fudge recipe drew my attention. It was simple, with no temperature mentioned. Usually you had to boil and stir fudge until it reached 238 degrees on a candy thermometer. This recipe said to “stir the bubbly mixture while your children dance with their father around the woodstove until they’re tired.”

The words made me smile. “Lloyd’s grandmother had a sweet sense of humor. That’s a novel way of telling time for fudge.” I closed the books. “Would you like some coffee?”

“Thank you, but I’m on my way to set up an outdoor booth at the lighthouse.”

“The Eagle Bluff Lighthouse?”

“Yes. The campground affords me a new audience every day for my book sales. I’ve never sold so many books.”

“Why outdoors?”

“Officer Vasquez said not to cross the police tape.”

This alarmed me. “But I thought they’d finished looking around yesterday after we found Lloyd.”

“Oh no. I was over there to do a book signing later yesterday and found I couldn’t get in. A woman officer was there for another look.”

So Jordy perhaps had taken my suspicions to heart yesterday. Or he was just doing his job. I asked the professor, “Do you think it was murder? Or did Lloyd somehow fall off?”

He shrugged. “I only knew Lloyd through your contest. He was a genial man who loved his golf. I doubt he had enemies, and I don’t see a happy man like that leaping to his death.”

“So you think it was an accident?”

“I’ve been to the top of a few of Door County’s ten lighthouses, including that one while doing my research, and all of them have good railings and good footing. I suppose, though, if one leaned too far out and a foot came up, throwing you off balance . . .”

I could see it on his face, though, that he didn’t believe Lloyd had slipped. I said, “Lloyd golfed a lot, which requires good balance.”

We grew somber. Lloyd had been murdered.

My mother’s words on Friday echoed back. She’d pointed out the threat in the note had been to me. Both Lloyd and I had been mentioned. Lloyd was dead. Was I next? My insides thrashed about like our lake in the throes of a storm.

The professor touched my arm. “Ava? What’s wrong?”

I was shaking. “We have a . . . murderer among us. Don’t we?”

“Oh, I doubt that. Wouldn’t such a person have left Door County already?”

“Of course you’re right.” But I needed to change the subject. “Could you sign one of your books for me? I’m sorry I’ve been so busy that I haven’t had a chance to ask you before now.”

After signing my copy of
Wisconsin’s Edible Heritage
, the professor said, “Take a look in my index and you’ll find Oosterlings’.”

While he went to look at fudge in the glass case, I flipped to the page. A couple of paragraphs noted how fish were brought off Lake Michigan and stored in ice in shacks. During bad weather the fishermen would even sleep in the same shack until the weather cleared. The “shack” was our bait shop. An old photo showed a sign at the front door: Mueller’s Fishing Company. That didn’t surprise me because Gilpa had bought the shop from Lloyd Mueller.

“Then it’s true what my grandfather and I thought,” I said, musing out loud while thinking about the secret cavity under the floorboards in the storage room.

“What is?”

I told him about our theory that fishermen probably used the floor as a hiding place for their wages or other things.

The professor’s eyes popped. He withdrew a notepad and pen from a pocket. “The cabins on your street were built to house fishermen and lumbermen who could be gone for weeks. Perhaps Lloyd Mueller found treasures, and that’s why he kept buying the cabins on Duck Marsh Street—they were filled with treasures. Have you looked under the floor of your grandparents’ cabin? And yours? Have you given this little fudge shop a thorough search? You could be rich, Ava, and you just don’t know it.”

T
he idea of riches hidden under the floor of our cabins—or under the fudge shop—kept me in good spirits as tourists filtered in on Sunday morning. If I found booty I’d buy Gilpa a new boat. I’d just received a call from the Coast Guard that he and the fishermen he’d taken out were stranded on Lake Michigan out past Chambers Island, about seven miles out. They were fine, but they’d need a tow. My grandpa’s problems with his old fishing trawler happened as often as mosquito bites in the woods. When I arrived in May, on the very day of my Cinderella Pink Fudge debut at the Blue Heron Inn, Gilpa had been stranded on the lake with guests from the bed-and-breakfast.

By ten o’clock the shop was bustling and my stitches were itching again. I freed the ponytail knot atop my head, then got busy selling all ten of my current fudge flavors, including local favorites of walnut, maple, coffee, and butterscotch, as well as Cinderella Pink Fudge and Worms-in-Dirt Fudge. John and Pauline arrived as I finished wrapping pink paper around an order of Cinderella Fudge.

Pauline and John looked way too satiated, as if they’d had more than just breakfast in bed this morning. Pauline was striking with her long brown-black hair feathering over a lightweight red hoodie sweatshirt that matched red shorts that showed off her athletic legs. She’d put on makeup to hide the big bruise lining her face.

John, on the other hand, wore his usual Hawaiian shirt—this one with red wineglasses dotting it—which looked like a muumuu on his portly frame. He wore his usual baggy shorts and sandals. John laid his video camera and light on Gilpa’s cash register counter, then helped himself to coffee.

Pauline rushed to my register. She whispered, “Lloyd was murdered. Just like we surmised. It’s on the front page of the online
Door County Advocate
this morning.”

Pauline moved aside while I rang up a purchase of two pink purses for a mom and her daughter. Cody had Sundays off, but I was wishing I had an assistant today so I could escape to go over to the lighthouse to look around. After the customers left, I said as much to Pauline.

“No,” she said, “this time let’s not get involved. I have better things to worry about.”

“I can see that.” I tilted my head toward John, who was scuffling about the bait shop. He picked up a foam cooler, then began measuring off a lot of the rope from the round bale I usually stole from to cut a length to tie up Lucky Harbor. “What’s he doing?”

Pauline’s tall body slumped. “He said he wants to face his fear. Help me stop him.”

“I’ve wanted to stop John since you met him.”

“Don’t start.”

“Okay, okay. Sorry. What’s his fear?”

“Water. He’s going out in a boat today.”

“But he gets seasick.” I recalled that in May John had gotten sick that Sunday morning on my grandfather’s boat and had to be brought back in before the tour even got under way. The delay had caused Gilpa and his remaining passengers to end up in a storm on Lake Michigan, with the boat breaking down. I’d even thought for a time that it was a ploy and John had perhaps murdered the famous actress during my fudge’s debut.

I set Pauline at ease. “John won’t have to go out with Gilpa. I just got a call that he’s stranded again.”

“Not your grandfather’s boat. John’s not going fishing. He signed up for a shipwreck diving tour with lessons.” She shuddered. “He signed up only a half hour ago over the phone. He wants to take underwater pictures of treasure for his TV show.”

Going diving to view shipwrecks was big business for Door County. We had one of the world’s best collections of freshwater shipwreck sites in the world. Schooners hauling everything from lumber to Christmas trees to ore and gold had sunk within several yards of the shore at some points.

Pauline was whispering between clenched teeth now. “John said you and the professor were talking about sunken treasure. The minute John got off the phone with Professor Faust this morning, he changed his plans. We were going to visit wineries today with the professor, but now John’s determined to learn to scuba dive.” She placed a hand over her heart. “Look at John, Ava. He’s a bowling ball. He’ll sink and never come up.”

I almost said that’d be a good thing, but I held my tongue. “Listen, P.M., John knows what he’s doing.”

The place was getting more crowded. Several men had come in and were talking with John as they shopped for bobbers, bait, and beer. John was joking with them, discussing the best way to signal from underwater if he were in trouble. Pauline peered at me with pure misery all over her face. I was saved when I saw Cody coming down the dock toward the open door with Sam and Dillon, along with his dog. Dillon and Sam weren’t enemies, but they had certainly given each other polite distance. Until now.

Pauline abandoned me to head over to John.

“Good morning,” I said to the trio as they walked across the wooden floor, all of them wearing boating shoes. “What’s up? Cody, it’s your day off, remember?”

Dillon said, “We’re going fishing together. And scuba diving. It was Cody’s idea.”

Cody said, “Yeah, I asked Sam and Dillon to go. Did you know Dillon already knows how to scuba dive?”

I stared in disbelief at the three men. Other women had paused, too. Dillon was a tall, dark, muscular specimen wearing a black T-shirt under a denim jacket and low-slung jeans. Sam was a blond good ol’ boy who looked yummy in a light blue polo shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders. He wore khaki shorts that made him look fun instead of his usual stuffy self. Cody, with his red hair full of cowlicks and face full of freckles, was a charmer, too.

I said, “This Sunday must be something special for guys because John is going scuba diving for shipwrecks.”

Dillon grabbed a fudge sample from the plate I kept atop the glass case. “We’re going out on the same boat. Moose Lindstrom’s
Super Catch I.
”

Moose—or Carl—was Gilpa’s chief competitor. My grandpa refused to admit it, but he was jealous of that brand-new big, superliner style of boat with its air-conditioned cabin, kitchenette, and lounge, not to mention its massive engines, which purred and didn’t grunt and puff smoke like a broken-down antique farm tractor.

I came around the register counter to whisper, “John’s never been scuba diving. Don’t let him go. He gets seasick. He’s just doing this to prove something to Pauline.”

Cody whispered, “Because he wants to marry her?”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“I didn’t. I just looked at him. Sam says that it’s important to read a person’s face. John’s face says he’s going to ask her to marry him soon.”

I flashed Sam an admonishment. “Sam, read my face. You can’t be serious. John is not right for Pauline. She knows nothing about him.”

Cody said, “They’ve known each other for two and a half months. Since the other murder. Now they have two murders here in Door County in common. They’re developing what’s called a history together. Right, Sam?”

Sam shrugged.

I tried again. “Cody, John’s not even as mature as you.”

“He’s in his fifties. I asked him. And Sam is two years older than you, and Dillon is six years older. You like them both, don’t you? Despite them being older?”

Now Dillon and Sam were hiding smiles behind their hands. Even Dillon’s dog was standing there, wagging his tail at me.

All this bonding among men was going too far, particularly if it was going to end up with my friend getting hurt by John Schultz. “Have all of you forgotten that John found Piers and Kelsey for this fudge contest and they could be murder suspects?”

Cody said, “But John doesn’t fight. He won’t murder Pauline.”

I swallowed my shock yet again.

Dillon came to my rescue. “Where are the conflicting confectioners, by the way?”

“Sleeping in, I’m sure. I don’t care. It’s peaceful here.” I turned back to Sam. “What are you up to with this expedition?”

“Living what I preach. We have to get along with people. And Cody invited me.”

Cody said, “Dillon and Sam don’t want to fight over you like the chefs do. I asked them both their intentions.”

Dillon’s dark eyes crackled with humor. Sam kept nodding like some bobblehead doll. This was so unlike Sam to put up with Dillon. But Sam would do anything for Cody and I could see now that Cody was playing matchmaker.

Dotty and Lois saved me. They came in with their arms loaded down with mounds of shiny, frilly, lacy fabric. The three men and Lucky Harbor drifted over to join John and desperate Pauline.

Dotty had a pink rosebud tucked in her short white hair behind an ear. “We’re here with your surprise.”

Lois also had a rose in her red hair. She foisted her armload of fluffy lace and satin fabric into my arms. “These are for you!”

Lace tickled my nose. I sneezed. “What are these things?”

“Aprons,” Dotty said.

She placed her pile on my counter with great reverence. I tossed my pile on top. Dotty held up a gauzy pinafore apron with wide pink satin ruffle ribbons for ties at the waist. The shoulder straps were made from the same satin ruffles, with an added white lace overlay. The same lace and satin trimmed the entire skirt. It looked like something from a 1950s or 1960s television show.
The Dick Van Dyke Show
came to mind; my grandmother loved watching it in reruns.

Oohs
and
aahs
went up from the women and girls next to the glass fudge cabinet.

Dotty said, “Try it on.”

“Yes,” said Lois, “it’s perfect for you.”

“I have aprons already,” I said, grabbing the plain cotton chef’s apron on a hook behind me.

Lois hustled behind the cash register and swiped it out of my hands. “Oh, sweetheart, we’re here to cheer you up.”

“I don’t need cheering.”

Pauline stepped up to the register. “Yes, you do. Try the darn thing on. It’s cute.”

I could tell she was eager to get a little revenge on me for my comments about John.

“Since when do I have to be cute?” I was about to disparage the pink fluffy bit of cloth when I saw the disheartened looks on the faces of Dotty and Lois. I plastered on a fake smile. “You two made all these, didn’t you?”

They nodded.

Lois said, “Along with the other church ladies in our group. We want you and Door County to look good on camera for Mr. Schultz’s TV show. I stayed up until midnight sewing. I almost fell asleep in church this morning. But with your lovely complexion, pink is you. With the summer sun’s highlights, your hair is almost auburn.” Lois held the pink apron up to my body and turned to Dotty. “Don’t you think she looks like Audrey Hepburn in
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
?”

Dotty nodded. “My mother and I watched that movie together when I was young. We rent it every Mother’s Day now.” Dotty teared up.

Lois said to me, “You’re our Holly Golightly. That was the character’s name in the movie, you know.”

Gulp. These women were in their early sixties—and with quick calculations I realized they’d been maybe ten when they saw that 1961 classic romantic comedy movie. Somehow they were picturing me as Audrey Hepburn through the innocence of their formerly young eyes. Maybe this was good for me. Research on nostalgia has proven it has great powers for health and healing. Amused, I figured my stitched head would heal faster if I played along.

I put the apron over my plain white blouse and denim shorts. Pauline tied it in back.

A chorus of
oohs
and
aahs
preceded the women’s applause. My face was flaming again. Flustered, I picked up an apron and thrust it at Pauline. It was a frilly pile of white lace with red roses on it, which matched her red sweatshirt and shorts.

Lois patted her red hair. “I’m partial to that one, too. Ava, it’s made with Belgian lace I got long ago from your grandmother. We’d made aprons for all the servers for some Valentine’s Day family dinner at St. Bernie’s.”

Pauline twirled in place. Then she shoved me around in a circle to model mine until I was dizzy. Giggles rippled through the shop.

Bethany emerged from the crowd to tie on a powder blue lace apron, and then a few other women joined us. We were soon modeling them for one another, laughing, and . . .

The men over in the bait shop—Sam, Dillon, Cody, John, and the other male customers—stood like statues with open mouths.

Then John licked his lips—lasciviously.

Sam blinked a lot, a crooked smile making him look drunk.

Cody kept nodding like a bobble head at Bethany.

Dillon hiked an eyebrow in a way that was akin to a bull pawing the earth.

An unwanted sizzle zipped up and down my body.

Before I could untie the sash of my apron, chatter broke loose. The women and girls and men were all buying things with gusto. There was a lineup of men at the fudge counter, something I’d never seen before.

The aprons had changed the axis of the earth. I heard stories about aprons of grandmothers with pockets filled with candy, about traditional appliquéd aprons used at Christmas dinners, and more tales about serviceable flour sack aprons used during threshing season; still more aprons were used to shell peas on a porch on a summer evening.

This evolved into sharing fudge recipes their grandmothers made. I made notes.

I hauled out Lloyd’s cookbooks to let people take a look. The women saw Ruth Mueller’s name. Some promised to ask at home to see what their relatives remembered about the Muellers. One man thought he recalled his grandfather saying something about the bait shop being used during Prohibition to hide booze. But other men and women argued no way would a Mueller be caught up in that.

As if on cue, Mercy Fogg showed up. She marched right up to me. “I want to talk with you about Lloyd’s murderer. Who happens to be in your employ.”