Hot Fudge Frame-Up: A Fudge Shop Mystery (3 page)

Lloyd had obviously been around my friend Pauline lately. Every time she taught summer enrichment courses, the alliteration was as catching as a cold bug. I looked back at my shop window, and sure enough, she was hiding inside, waiting. She waved what looked like swatches of fabric.

Kelsey stomped her petite purple canvas shoes, barely missing Jordy’s uniform black shoes as she tossed her mane in Lloyd’s direction. “I happen to like pink. Who are you again?”

I couldn’t tell if she meant that rhetorically or she hadn’t paid attention at all this week. As a fudge judge, Lloyd had stopped by a few times.

Piers scoffed. “Mr. Mueller is a fudge judge because he’s the richest man in town and Ava’s landlord and some old friend of her grandfather’s. Ava invited him so she could figure out what he’s up to with his offer to buy the Blue Heron Inn.”

The crowd gasped, and so did I, because it was true, though I’d never said any of that aloud. Lloyd narrowed his eyes at me.

“Crap,” Kelsey said, her gaze shooting to the sky, “do we have to put up with some little real estate intrigue in this town, too? Everybody bulldozes old stuff for new condos. End of story. Boring.”

Lloyd muttered, “You’re not even close. Maybe we should let Half-Baked finish you off.”

Jordy held up a hand. “That’s it. The two in handcuffs, get in the cars. We’re going over to the state park for a visit.”

Piers and Kelsey looked stunned, guilty maybe.

Kelsey began to cry—certainly a ploy. “Is this about the dirt? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take anything from the park. They really do eat dirt in meals in Japan. And India. Africa, too. Some believe it builds your immunities naturally. In some cultures, pregnant women eat dirt. And I only took a few red clover flowers and chickweed. Chickweed is just a neglected weed, but it’s superrich in vitamins and omega-6 fatty acid derivatives. I’m just trying to infuse fudge with healthful richness to cancel out the calories from the sugar.”

Oh my gosh, Piers hadn’t been kidding earlier. Kelsey really was cooking with dirt. And she was “infusing” vitamins into fudge? Infusion is a technical term in cooking circles. This woman was more of a competitor than I originally thought.

Jordy and his new deputy led Piers and Kelsey through the assemblage to the squad cars. I trotted behind, trying to think of some way to sound supportive of my chefs. But then my gaze caught John rounding a corner from Main Street with Dotty and Lois on his heels. A camera paired with the best gossips in Door County felt threatening to me.

I slipped inside my shop, which was crowded with fishermen and several little girls who were in Pauline Mertens’s summer enrichment class. They were in the Cinderella Pink Fudge aisle, fingering the homemade dolls with pink lace dresses and the hand-painted pink tea sets and pink sparkly purses.

Cody was positioning a tall stack of Professor Faust’s
Wisconsin’s Edible Heritage
on the corner of the cash register counter.

Cody’s social worker, Sam Peterson, burst in from the back of the shop just as my grandmother cut through from the front door to head home. My mom must have left to finally finish her delivery route.

Grandma gave Sam a hug. “You lunk, how are you? When you comin’ for supper?”

“Whenever Gil says it’s okay for me to court his wife,” Sam said with a chuckle, looking impeccable as usual, from the perfect side part in his short blond hair to the crisp white shirt and tie.

“I’m past the courting stage, but my granddaughter’s available.”

Although I could see that coming, I still grew hot in the face.

Ever since I moved back to Fishers’ Harbor in late April, Grandma had wanted me to rekindle my romance with Sam Peterson. We’d been engaged once upon a time. But the circumstances of our breakup eight years ago still weighed heavily on me. Even having a friendship with Sam remained awkward. I had jilted him at the altar on the evening of our wedding rehearsal—the evening I ran away with Dillon Rivers to Las Vegas.

The two men were opposites, which probably meant I had a split personality. Dillon swaggered through life like a confident cowboy, while Sam calculated his actions, which I suppose appealed to the scientific bent in me.

Sam turned to his business with Cody after my grandmother continued through the back of the fudge shop.

My friends Pauline Mertens—who was weighed down with two big bags—and a very pregnant Laura Rousseau edged through the crowded shop. Pauline was fanning herself with a hand.

She said, “This is like high school before the prom, the guys checking you out.”

“Stop it. Guys never checked me out. I was too tall.”

Laura laughed. “Can we sit down before I pee my pants? The babies are kicking.”

“Sure.” We went to the marble-topped table by the window, where I kept a stool. Laura settled onto it while I said to Pauline, “I’m afraid I can’t demonstrate my fudge making for your class at the moment. It’s a mess over there.” I pointed toward the sticky explosion we’d had earlier around the copper kettles. The table in front of us was a mess, too, with pink fudge confetti scattered across the white marble.

Pauline sniffed the air. “Smells like you had a bacon-and-eggs breakfast in here. Starting up a diner?”

“Something like that.”

“Don’t worry about the girls not getting a fudge show today. Two of the moms agreed to come here to take over their field trip. They’re going to the Eagle Bluff Lighthouse.”

The images of the orange crayon lettering on the ruled paper came to me. Had Kelsey and Piers really thrown that rock? Did they want me to lose the contest that badly? Or did the orange crayon come from that camping family that left the park early? I excused myself to look for the ruled paper by the kids’ table in the shop and found none. I also looked under the cash register counter but didn’t see any ruled paper.

When I returned to the marble-topped table, Pauline had dropped her two big bags on the floor. One bag was her big purse that carried her summer enrichment classroom supplies, including everything from stickers to Sharpies, to dozens of little sticky notes and scissors. The other bag appeared stuffed with Butterick patterns and fabric swatches for the prom dress she and Laura insisted on making me.

Pauline looked down her nose at me, like a teacher does with her students. “It’d be great to get your invitation to the dance on video.”

It was her way of telling me John had come in and had sneaked up behind me. I turned around to find the appendage on his face—the video camera—recording me while his other hand held a professional-looking light. John wore his usual hideous Hawaiian shirt, baggy shorts with multiple pockets, and sandals. My gaze was always drawn to his hairy feet.

“Cinderella!” he boomed. “The fudge shop owner torn between Fishers’ Harbor’s two most eligible bachelors. Besides me.”

John tipped his head up and Pauline bent down to kiss him on the lips. The two had met in May during the unusual circumstances of the murder at the Blue Heron Inn. John was my height—two inches shorter than Pauline—and he was definitely a generation older, in his fifties somewhere by the looks of the gray sideburns and gray strands dappled throughout his head of brown hair. He was always loud and boastful, bordering on boorish, in my opinion. These facts failed to matter to Pauline, who had regressed to high school romance mode.

Another fisherman came in and headed over to my grandpa’s bait shop area. Grandpa was still outside, so I called over, “I’ll be right there.”

I gave John a scowl to send him away. He followed the fisherman.

Pauline muttered, “Be nice.”

“There’s something you need to know about John.”

A smile burst on her face. She grabbed my shoulders. “Sam’s coming this way.”

Sam’s crisp white shirt, dark tie, and clean tan pants were a stark contrast to my limp pink blouse, dirty denim shorts, and bare legs covered with dust and bits of Cinderella Pink Fudge.

Pauline and Laura excused themselves from the corner behind me, saying something about using the restroom. But they stood secretly behind Sam with rapt anticipation on their faces. My gal pals were so transparent.

“Hi, Sam.” My throat closed. Panic had struck. Did I want Sam to invite me to the fudge festival dance? To make our debut as a couple? Confusion swirled inside me worse than a waterspout on Lake Michigan. “Uh, didn’t you want to take some fudge back to the office?”

“I came for more than fudge.”

The shop silenced. The minnow tank bubbled. The air conditioner pinged from the wall on Grandpa’s side of the shop.

My grandmother’s friends popped in then just in time, the cowbell clanking on the door, busting apart the awkward moment.

Sam’s shoulders relaxed, as if he’d been saved. “I meant to say, I came for more fudge. Yes, to take back to the office. And I’m here to take Cody with me to his group meeting.”

“Oh, sorry. I forgot,” I said, greatly relieved. Cody met every Friday with young adults like himself who had Asperger’s or other challenges that were helped by Sam’s coaching them on life skills.

I hurried behind the counter. “Ranger, I’ll take over the registers while you wrap things for Mr. Peterson and your group today.” I lowered my voice. “The cameras are rolling. Make everything look extra special. Real Hollywood.”

“You got it, Miss Oosterling.”

Cody loved wrapping the fudge. He pulled out crinkly, stiff party cellophane and shiny satin ribbons to wrap individual pieces of Cinderella Pink Fudge. I believed that our customers should feel like fairy-tale royalty when they received Belgian fudge from Oosterlings’, as if the customers were the king and queen of Belgium. My fudge was therefore made with the finest cream and milk from my parents’ farm, delivered fresh daily. Their two hundred Door County cows fed on beautiful green grass pastures on rolling hills overlooking Lake Michigan. Biting into a piece of my Belgian fudge transported a royal fudge highness into that bucolic scenery.

John’s camera captured Cody wrapping the pleasantly pungent, pink cherry-vanilla fudge with marzipan fairy wings atop each piece.

Then John surprised Sam by swinging the camera on him and asking, “Why is Ava Oosterling such a special lady?”

“Her fudge tastes good for breakfast,” Sam said in his matter-of-fact baritone voice.

With a tiny smile to myself at Sam’s funny response, I left the counter to rejoin my friends by the window, but was stopped by Grandma’s friends.

Dotty Klubertanz—one of the fudge judges—and Lois Forbes thrust dollar bills at me.

I asked, “What kind of fudge can I get for you ladies?”

“Oh, it’s not for fudge,” Dotty said. A plump lady in her sixties with short white hair, she had on pink denim clam-digger pants and a pink T-shirt with sequined butterflies. “We came to pay you for the cup we broke during that frightening episode earlier.”

Lois, nodding her red-dyed head of hair excessively, said, “Your cooking buddies said they wanted to kill each other. Do you think they would really commit murder? Are you starting to feel paranoid about bad things following you?”

“Ladies, lightning does not strike twice,” I said, though my inner warning system recalled the note at the lighthouse said somebody would die.

“What’s wrong, dear?” Dotty asked. “You’re shivering.”

I handed back Dotty’s money. “It’s the air-conditioning. I’m used to hotter weather. You owe me nothing. Accidents happen. It’s part of doing business. Besides, I owe you two a lot for helping me get this business under way.” Since May, the two had been guardian angels, bragging about me on their social media networks. Dotty, being a judge, felt slightly biased in my favor; however, her being the head church lady meant she’d be the toughest judge. She’d be honest about which fudge flavor was truly the best at Saturday’s final tasting.

I asked, “Have you ladies heard anything about what Lloyd’s up to with the properties on Duck Marsh Street? Or the inn up on the hill?”

Lois’s eyes widened again. “Scuttlebutt is they’re going to tear it down—”

“I thought it had historical significance.”

Dotty shrugged. “That doesn’t matter when you have that million-dollar view of Lake Michigan on top of that little bluff. Word is Lloyd wants to build a big condo building for the Chicago people coming up here for vacations.”

“I was sure Lloyd Mueller muttered something this morning that seemed to say that wasn’t going to happen.” Now I was racking my brain to remember what he’d said.

Dotty said, “He lives in that old house that was built before 1900. Maybe he’s tired of old things and wants to live in something new for once in his life.”

Lois added, “Enjoy a new beginning on his way to the gated community in the sky.”

“The Pearly Gates,” said Dotty.

Lois took my hands in hers. “Ava, that’s not all. We’ve heard that right behind your shop, where the rental cabins are now, he plans to install a helipad so the rich Chicago people can hop from here out to their vacation homes on Chambers Island and up to Washington Island without waiting for the ferries.”

This sounded like gossip. “I doubt they’d take down all those cabins on my street just so helicopters can come and go.”

Dotty shook her head. “The helipad is only part of it. We heard that whoever is buying the cabins will be working with the village to expand the harbor, too.”

Lois fingered her red hairdo. “We heard the buyer wants to dredge right here where we’re standing. Your fudge shop would be torn down.”

W
hile I was reeling from the gossip about the demise of my fudge shop, Cody and Sam waved on their way out.

Cody said, “See you after lunch, Miss Oosterling. We’re stopping in Ephraim for ice cream and burgers at Wilson’s after group meeting.”

Ephraim was a quaint, tiny village on Lake Michigan between Fishers’ Harbor and Sister Bay. It was Wisconsin’s only dry town, and it enforced a code that every house and building had to be painted predominantly in shades of white or gray. Wilson’s Restaurant and Ice Cream Parlor—with its daring red-and-white-striped awnings—was where everybody stopped for the best milk shakes and sundaes in Door County.

John tailed after them but not before catching a loud, smacking kiss from Pauline. Somehow I knew Pauline was headed for heartache with this bloke.

Lois looked at her watch. “We have to scoot. I have to wash six stained glass windows before lunchtime.”

“Wait,” I said, reaching out to touch her papery arm. “This thing about them bulldozing this building is just gossip, right? You haven’t heard anything official?” I couldn’t imagine that my family would be the last to know about this.

Lois patted my hand on her arm. “We’ll ask around. It’s our turn to clean St. Bernie’s for the weekend services. Then we’ve got to head to St. Ann’s near Egg Harbor. They’ve got that Sunday dinner and raffle this weekend.”

The women accepted fudge from me for the raffle. They swooned over the wrapping paper that matched Dotty’s pink outfit, then left.

Feeling numb from their news, I took care of the fishermen who had been patiently waiting. Where had Grandpa disappeared to? He had been getting distracted a lot lately, taking long breaks. With a small net, I fished out live minnows from the gurgling tank to put in the customers’ minnow buckets. The men grabbed beers and cartons of worms from the stand-up cooler in the corner. They also bought my beer fudge that came packaged in a six-pack beer carton. I used discarded cartons from my friends Ronny and Nancy Jenks, who ran the Troubled Trout Bar on the north edge of town.

After the fishermen left, a racket erupted from the back.

To my dismay, Dillon’s dog was in my small galley kitchen. He must have come in the back door when Sam or Grandma left. Sometimes the door didn’t quite latch. The refrigerator door was hanging open. The chocolate-colored hunting spaniel was lapping up a stick of butter amid spilled milk from a carton he’d retrieved. The dog had a rope leash on, but it’d come undone. Cody must have tied him to the refrigerator door handle, thinking the dog would be out of the way and safe until Dillon came again to pick him up.

“Come on, Harbor, or Lucky, or whoever you are. Maybe Mr. Troublemaker?”

The rope tying him to the refrigerator had been chewed through. Lucky Harbor chewed through twine most every day, but it was cheap stuff and Grandpa had it around in big rolls for fishermen and boaters to buy for tying all sorts of odds and ends like their sails and tarps. I refused to buy a real leash or accept the many Dillon offered to me; somehow that would be admitting that the dog and Dillon were permanent in my life.

I led the bouncing, chocolate brown American water spaniel out with me into the shop area, then tied him to one of the legs of the heavy marble table. I told him to lie down. He did.

Laura and Pauline had spread out several fabric swatches. I cringed at the shiny pastels staring back at me on the smooth white marble surface.

Pauline swept her black hair over a shoulder, smiling down at me in her sly way. “Ava, guess which color your dress is going to be.”

“You know I hate this game, Pauline. Listen, I have other more important things to talk to you both about.”

“Come on, Ava, this is your time to shine. Pick a color for your dress. Your grandpa wants A.M. and P.M. to enjoy this. Do it for him.”

My grandpa had named her P.M. for Pauline Mertens and me A.M. for Ava Mathilde (my middle name) when we were youngsters. He’d say things like “Be good all a.m. and p.m. for your grandma Sophie, A.M. and P.M.”

“Surprise me, Pauline. You know I hate dresses. I look dowdy in them.”

Laura was leaning against a corner of the tall table, rubbing her big belly. “That’s because you buy everything at the big-box store down in Sturgeon Bay. This is going to be something I custom-sew for you. And please, I need something to do this weekend besides feel these babies kicking me.”

Laura was talented at everything. She was a short, cute woman with luminous blue eyes and a blond bob that framed her face perfectly. Until a month ago, she’d run her own bakery shop and school, the Luscious Ladle, in Sister Bay. Her doctor had advised her to get off her feet now and not lift anything heavier than ten pounds since she had a risky pregnancy. On top of that, her husband was deployed with the U.S. Army on the other side of the world, so she had no help at home. But she had A.M. and P.M. to take care of her a.m. and p.m.

I had relented about the sewing, for Laura’s sake. She had to be bored, sitting at home all the time. “Okay, you two. What should I wear?”

Pauline held up two swatches—a shimmering, rich brown satin the color of Belgian chocolate fudge when it glistened in a copper kettle over a flame, and the other a royal blue silk so iridescent it could have been made of silvery blue butterfly wings.

Laura giggled behind her hands.

I thrummed the cool marble with the fingers of one hand. “What are you two up to?”

“Oh, nothing.” Pauline dangled the swatches in front of me again. “Take your pick. Which color do you like the best?”

“They’re both nice. I can’t decide.”

Pauline sighed. “Pick something. I have to get to the school for the Butterflies’ fudge parade meeting.”

Pauline had decided that the fudge festival needed a kids’ parade down Main Street next Saturday in order to qualify as a real festival. She called her summer school group of six little girls—now in my store fingering the dolls—the Butterflies. She’d already plastered every window in town with posters to make sure all the tourists knew about the “Fudge Fluttering Parade at the Fudge Festival.”

“Okay, blue looks good,” I said, not caring and still reeling with the thought of this building being demolished. But had I heard Dotty and Lois correctly? I was slipping today. Lloyd had said something significant I’d missed, too. And I still had to tell Pauline my suspicions about John and the stupid rock thrown through the window at the lighthouse. “Definitely the blue.”

Pauline high-fived Laura, then said, “That’s who you should marry, not to mention go with to the prom dance next week.”

“Marry who?”

“Sam. He has blue eyes. This material matches his eyes.”

Laura said, “The brown satin matches Dillon’s.”

I snatched the material out of their hands, then tossed the swatches on the white marble. “I can’t believe you two would have me pick a husband using fabric swatches.”

They enjoyed giggles at my expense as I strutted back across the shop floor to finish cleaning up the morning’s disaster. The copper kettles needed washing, but I had no water yet. Dillon had said it’d be on in a half hour. That was any minute.

Pauline came after me. “I’m sorry. We were just having some fun.”

“I’m okay. It’s just that this whole day has been weird. Lloyd even dissed my fudge. He thought pink fudge was silly. And if we lose the celebrity contestants, he’s ready to change it to a pie contest. And he’s Grandpa’s best friend. I don’t think Lloyd is feeling well because of the pressure from the big secret sale of his property.”

The dog barked. Pauline and I jerked our heads to look. Laura had slipped off the stool and was leaning with her forehead on the cool marble table. We dashed over.

“Laura? What’s wrong?” I asked. “I can grab some water from Grandpa’s cooler.”

Laura lifted up her head. “I’m okay.” Her skin nearly matched the white marble.

Pauline said, “No, you’re not. We’re taking you to the clinic.”

“I’ll get my truck. Pauline, can you handle her alone for the moment?” It was a redundant question because Pauline was six feet tall and strong from all our basketball playing we still did for fun and her wrestling kids every day. Laura was all of five feet four inches, maybe, and except for her belly, as skinny-limbed as a willow tree.

I raced through the back and across the lawn to Duck Marsh Street, where my yellow Chevy pickup truck was parked. I drove it up over the curb and right across the lawn to the fudge shop’s back door, where we loaded Laura into the front passenger seat. Pauline folded herself into the narrow backseat with her two bags.

Laura’s lips looked bluish.

“Are you having the babies?” I asked, my heart beating like a bass drum in my head.

“No, I don’t think so,” she whispered. “I’m just nauseated. Maybe from the humidity today.”

I had just hit the gas hard, spurting up grass and dirt from under my tires, when I stopped with much more care for my pregnant passenger, then backed up.

Pauline screeched from behind me, “What’s wrong?”

“The dog. Cody’s not around and Gilpa won’t pay any attention. The dog’ll get loose and eat all my fudge, and chocolate is toxic to dogs.”

It took me less than thirty seconds to retrieve the spaniel. As soon as he leaped into the backseat behind me with Pauline, he licked her face profusely.

“
Ick
. Make him stop.”

“Lucky Harbor, do you want some fudge?”

That worked to draw his attention. While I didn’t give him fudge ever, he’d somehow learned the word meant he got a substitute treat. I fished in a pocket where I’d begun keeping Goldfish crackers for him and tossed one behind my shoulder. His teeth clacked with the snatch.

I wove through backstreets to avoid the tourist traffic, then hit Highway 42. We decided to head for Sturgeon Bay’s hospital. There was a clinic before then, but no mere clinic that fixed cuts and gave shots could help a woman with blood pressure problems and carrying twins.

Traffic was heavier, though, on the two-lane highway. Tourists were out in full force, stopping at quaint shops or restaurants tucked behind borders of white daisies and pink rudbeckias. I had to brake several times, then use the gravel shoulders to pass cars.

Laura was scary-quiet next to me. The only noises in the pickup were Lucky Harbor panting behind my ear and the air-conditioning fan struggling. I tried small talk.

“Have either of you heard the rumor that whoever the buyer is for the cabins might offer my grandfather money to tear down my shop?”

“No,” said Pauline. “That’s silly. Where’d you hear that?”

“Dotty and Lois just a bit ago.”

“
Hmm
. They’re usually half-right.”

Laura stirred, lifting her head. “Your grandfather owns it. And he owns his house. You’d have heard about an offer by now.”

“You’re right. So it’s just gossip.”

Pauline said, “Where would you move your fudge business? I don’t recall much that’s empty around here.”

“Except the Blue Heron Inn, which is closed and owned by somebody out east.”

“There’s that creepy empty mansion over at the other end of Fishers’ Harbor where . . .”

Pauline purposely didn’t finish that sentence. My shoulders hunched up in a huge shudder. I’d almost been murdered in May in that big old yellow house by the woman who had run the Blue Heron Inn. She’d murdered a visiting actress at the inn, trying to pin it on me with my fudge stuffed down the actress’s throat. Then, after I suspected her treachery, I went in search of Gilpa and Cody, who had both gone missing. They’d been left for dead in an old cistern in the basement of the empty mansion. Isabelle Boone had planned to shove me in that cistern, too, and brick us all into our tomb. By distracting her with a precious Steuben statue of hers that I’d threatened to break, I’d subdued her. The whole episode made me vow never to go back to that empty, three-story mausoleum. Ironically, I’d always thought I wanted to live in a big house, particularly after living in efficiencies in Los Angeles, but I was changing my mind. Big houses brought me bad luck.

Pauline said, “John wants to go to the fish boil tonight at the Troubled Trout. Are you guys game?”

That was nicer small talk. “I’m game,” I said, with great cheer in my voice for Laura. “They serve the whitefish with a nice garlic butter and that cherry salsa. I heard they have watermelon tonight, too, with sweet pickle ice cream.”

Laura rolled down her window, then threw up into the wind.

Lucky Harbor barked sharply behind me as Pauline thumped the back of my head with a finger in admonishment for making Laura sick.

Pauline said, “Sometimes, A.M., you forget to engage your brain before you speak.”

She was right.

From there on out, I didn’t say a word all the way to Sturgeon Bay.

* * *

About an hour later, the nurses had moved Laura from the emergency room into a private room. She wasn’t having the babies yet. The doctor wanted Laura to go her full term. The babies needed all the time inside Mom they could get. Laura’s blood pressure wasn’t normal, so the doc was keeping her overnight to get that regulated.

Laura was too young for this kind of trouble. She was in her midtwenties, but right now in the bed she looked about fifteen. I’d met her in May when I’d needed some white chocolate to make Cinderella Pink Fudge in a pinch. She had made the best hot cheesy bread and shared it with us that day at her shop, the Luscious Ladle. She’d needed our help carrying the heavy loaves to the nearby Al Johnson’s Swedish Restaurant. Now, almost two months later, she needed Pauline and me; I felt like we were sisters.

Minutes later, as Pauline and I walked down a staircase that led to a side door, I said, “I wish her husband could come home.”

Laura had said he was on a special mission, and messages could be sent through to him, but she’d refused to pursue it. She didn’t want to alarm her husband for just a blood pressure correction and an overnight stay. I ached for her, though, because of how lonely she must be. I was surrounded by family and too many men, and she had none. Her relatives were in other states, too, and she didn’t want them rushing to her side needlessly.