Hot Fudge Frame-Up: A Fudge Shop Mystery (7 page)

I almost objected, then thought better of it. I might need an excuse to get out of the fudge shop after news of Lloyd’s death hit the gossip mills. Everybody would be dropping by to ask me to recount finding the body.

“Sure, Dillon. Thanks. See ya later.”

When I got back into the truck, the dog’s big brown eyes seemed to want to tell me something.

Another one of those odd chills prickled my back. This dog had been frantic at the lighthouse. Dillon’s question came to mind. What did the dog see? A suicide? Or something more sinister? I recalled how he’d been snuffling about the grounds at the lighthouse with a determined ferocity. Had Lucky Harbor been only upset about finding a dead person? Or had he detected some other scent in the grass that was distinctive? I started the truck’s engine, letting the roar erase the horrible speculation creeping into my brain.

T
he shop buzzed with fishermen and tourists buying gear and fudge when I walked in around ten thirty with Lucky Harbor.

Professor Alex Faust was there with more copies of
Wisconsin’s Edible Heritage
stacked on the counter while he talked with Cody at the register. It had slipped my mind that he was signing copies today outside at one of the round bistro tables. He fumbled in his briefcase filled with papers, tourist brochures and our
Peninsula Pulse
magazine, and a tablet computer. Upon seeing me, he snapped shut the briefcase and handed me bookmarks with a smile.

“You’ll be outside this morning, Alex,” I said.

“What a glorious day,” he said with great exuberance. He hadn’t heard about Lloyd’s death obviously. He went outside with his armful of books and briefcase. Customers snaked in a line behind him. He had a certain amount of fame, which is why I’d suggested to John he’d be a good fudge judge.

I helped the professor push together both of the two small tables with chairs that I’d added to our outdoor landscape for summer tourists. Gilpa’s rough-hewn wooden benches along the walls were still there, too, perfect for fishermen pulling on waders. I’d also put up planters with red geraniums under both of the big bay windows. We Belgians didn’t eat dirt like Kelsey’s famous restaurant find in Japan, but we knew how to turn dirt into beautiful floribunda art.

I didn’t see my grandpa, so I went back inside and rang up a fisherman’s purchase of bobbers for his son. I went back over to my register with the dog in tow to tell Cody the horrible news.

Cody’s gaze fell to the floor. He was just out of high school, with short red hair cut in a cute, spiky cap of fuzz that made him look younger than eighteen, even cherublike. Because he had Asperger’s, I knew from talking to Sam that Cody might be in a quandary as to how to react.

“It’s okay, Ranger, if you don’t say anything. None of us knows what to say. But we can still smile at customers.”

“Thanks.” He showed me a printout. “I did inventory when I got here. There’s a pink purse and a Cinderella doll missing.”

“You’re sure?” It was ridiculous to ask, because Cody was meticulous. He liked things clean, shiny, and in their place. I remembered little Verona Klubertanz and her friends in the shop yesterday. Verona had clutched a doll with her sticky fudge fingers and Bethany had to ask her to put it down. I’d have to ask Pauline if Verona or other girls showed up at summer school today with the doll.

Professor Faust came back in to collect the rest of his books. His gray hair stood out every which way in tufts after being mussed from the harbor breezes. I gave him the news about Lloyd.

Alex set his books back down. “How horrible. And unfortunate timing. I talked with your village president only yesterday about the Duck Marsh Street properties.”

“Why?”

“The cabins have historical significance. I told Erik that he should ask for a delay of the sale of the properties until the village can join forces with the historic preservation society. The village needs to take a closer look and be involved with preserving rather than destroying.”

“When did you talk with Erik?”

“It was a brief conversation in the morning. It was after the ruckus here. I had turned my car onto Main Street and seen Erik coming out of the coffee shop, so I pulled over. I told him saving the cabins instead of allowing Lloyd to demolish them could create a tourist attraction. It should be possible to trace the ownership back to the original Swedes, Finns, and Belgians who built them in the 1800s. I suggested to Erik that perhaps Lloyd had already done those title searches and somebody should ask him to provide that information to the public.”

“You don’t think the preservation society would sue Lloyd, do you?”

“Perhaps. I have to be honest—that would be my advice. History is important to me.”

This type of pressure might have pushed Lloyd to take his own life. With trepidation, I asked, “What was Lloyd’s reaction to this?”

“I didn’t talk with him about this specifically. I suspected Lloyd was intent on selling the properties, so it’d do me no good to get in some argument. We had to get along as judges, after all, for your fudge contest. But Erik agreed with me and felt honoring the stories behind the cabins could be a historically significant project for Fishers’ Harbor. He said he’d speak with Lloyd. I was going to speak with Lloyd today. God rest his soul.”

“But this notion of preserving the cottages can’t be new.”

“You’re correct. Many months back when I was researching my cookbook’s chapter on Door County, I discovered Lloyd owned a lot of real estate and knew a lot of history about the area. I heard about Lloyd’s offer to buy the Blue Heron Inn if he could scrape together the money. It’s an unfortunate irony that as he’s about to buy the inn where a death occurred, his own death occurs. It’s like the Blue Heron Inn is jinxed.”

A prickly unease crawled over me because Lloyd had been so joyous about me moving into the empty inn.

I excused myself to find my grandfather, taking Lucky Harbor with me.

Once outside, the brown dog skittered fast down the wooden planks of our pier, heading straight for
Sophie’s Journey
. He leaped over the boat’s railing, then disappeared inside. As I got closer, I could see him inside the open cabin, licking my grandfather’s face. The dog then launched into the water to paddle for the shallower, reedy marsh area where he loved to catch frogs.

My grandfather was covered in black oil, which was, as always, in his thick silver hair. His mood was as dark as his looks. With a mug of coffee in his gnarled hands, Gilpa sat at the small table bolted to the floor in the middle of the cabin. I sat down across from him. The trawler rocked on a wave that washed in from a passing speedboat.

“Sorry about Lloyd, Gilpa.”

He nodded, watching the dog plop about for frogs. Gilpa’s eyes were rheumy, the lids red. “His passing isn’t good at all.”

“He was a good man.”

“Did I ever tell you he got a hole in one at the golf course but never bragged about it?”

“Yes, Gilpa. You were both in your twenties, I believe.”

“Lloyd spent his entire life trying to get another hole in one.”

“I saw him yesterday on his way to golf. He remembered I liked science. And he gave me cookbooks.”

“He was kind to our family. He let us buy the house instead of renting. Same for the bait shop.”

I’d heard the story before. Lloyd had bought the cabins and bait shop not long after college. He’d inherited money, but he’d always worked hard at odd jobs, saving every penny. After I was born and my grandparents moved off the farm, Lloyd sold them the house and shop. That’s how they came to transplant themselves from the Belgian community around Brussels and move here amid the Swedes and others of Fishers’ Harbor. I suspected the deal’s terms had been generous; my grandparents had been poor, and still weren’t all that well off.

“Gilpa, do you want me to put up a sign inside that there are no more fishing excursions today or this weekend?”

“No, Ava honey. Just like that dog, I need to be in the water. Lloyd would want me to get that ‘hole in one’ today. He used to always catch bigger fish than me, too. He was good at everything.”

“So are you, Gilpa.”

He gestured toward the back of the boat. “Not with these damn engines. Hunks of metal are defeating me today.”

“Maybe Lloyd left you a pile of money and you can buy yourself a new boat finally, one with big, shiny new engines.”

“Oh, I doubt that. Libby’s getting it all, I’m sure, or a big share of it. He loved her still, you know.”

“I think she still loved him, too. Which confuses me when I think of him committing suicide right where Libby worked. He wouldn’t do that to her if he loved her.” But doubt nagged me. “Would he?”

Grandpa sipped his coffee. “Your grandma says he treated Libby with a raw deal, but divorce and bachelorhood suited Lloyd. He just liked doing things without consulting others. He always was a private man.”

“He told P.M. and me that he was signing a contract with somebody tonight. Do you know who that was?”

“You mean the buyer for Duck Marsh Street and your cabin? He wouldn’t even tell me. But I respected that. His business was his business; my business is mine. We Belgians don’t go sticking our noses into other people’s affairs. We don’t need trouble. The Old Country taught us that in World War Two. Gotta stay neutral.”

“But Belgium was overrun by everybody, Grandpa. It wasn’t that they were just neutral. It was that the Belgians chose not to get in a fight.”

“Which makes me wonder about you.”

“In what way?”

“Those goofy fudge makers of yours fighting like that yesterday in your shop was a shameful thing.”

His scolding was given with love. I said, “I won’t let it happen again.”

“Good. I understand that P.M.’s boyfriend stirred up this batch of fun called the fudge contest, but don’t let the doofus turn it into a circus, honey. You let guys run your life before on that little TV series and don’t get me started on you-know-who.” He meant Dillon Rivers. “A.M. and P.M. are my favorite superheroine duo. You have special powers and must rule your own life. Remember that.” He winked at me.

I winked back. “Thanks, Grandpa. I love you.”

“Love you.”

When I got up to go, he said, “Mercy Fogg was here earlier looking for you.”

I sagged. “What did she want?”

“Something about how two of the judges had to disqualify themselves from the judging because they were doing underhanded stuff. Whatever that means.”

Oh, crap. The bribe came to mind. Rumors must have spread around town already. I told my grandpa about Piers allegedly handing Erik some money, and Lloyd learning about it. “Lloyd also told Pauline and me that Mercy’s not to be trusted.” A fact I now realized I’d forgotten to mention to Jordy and that I hadn’t pursued with Lloyd. “Do you know of anything going on between Mercy and Lloyd?”

My grandpa spilled his coffee on his hands. “Dammit. Sorry for my French, but I just remembered something.”

He made his way off the boat posthaste while muttering, “Mercy is more than a busybody. Come with me. I want to show you something. At least I hope it’s still there.”

Lucky Harbor leaped up onto the pier, then shook lake water all over us.

The three of us went around to the back of the shop. The dog had to stay outside. Grandpa led me into the storage room that was opposite the kitchen.

The room was sixteen by twelve and filled to the brim with boxes of supplies for our respective shops. My boxes of books and other things that Sam had moved for me were stacked near the doorway. Shelves lined all the walls except for a small window facing south and the end of the harbor’s parking lot. I had planned to get Cody to help me turn the space into some semblance of a sitting room with a sofa hide-a-bed this weekend. With Lloyd’s death, though, I assumed I’d be able to stay in my cabin longer.

My grandpa shoved aside boxes until he got to the back corner.

“What are we looking for, Grandpa?”

“A box Lloyd gave me to hang on to maybe five years ago.”

“What’s in it?”

“You’ll have to look at it to believe it.”

Gilpa knelt on the floor in the back corner. He whipped out his pocketknife and used the little corkscrew to poke into a wooden plank. He pulled up a trapdoor.

“Has that secret door always been here?”

“Since the day I bought the place. This room was filled with old fishing nets then.” He stretched an arm down into hole. “When I cleared out the nets, one of them snagged on a sliver of wood and when I pulled hard, up came the door. It was probably put in by a fisherman long ago when he needed a place to hide his wages while he returned to his trawler on the lake. They could be out there for days and weeks sometimes.”

“No banks around here in those days.”

From the maw below the floorboards, he pulled up a roughly hewn wooden chest about the size of my grandmother’s jewelry box, about a foot wide by eight inches front to back and six inches deep. Gilpa set it on the dusty floor. Rusted iron hinges held the lid in place. There was no lock, just an iron pin through the front latch. Grandpa wiggled the pin, but it wouldn’t budge. He got up, then put the box against the wall before giving it a kick to loosen the rust. The pin rattled loose.

The box was filled with letters and small jewelry boxes, and autographed golf balls.

Grandpa said, “This is Lloyd’s honesty box.”

“What the heck is that?” I knelt beside him.

He opened a ring box. “It’s still here. Safe and sound.”

While he sighed with relief I marveled at the lovely emerald sparkler in a rectangular cut. After my unfortunate adventure in May in which diamonds had been hidden in my kitchen and my fudge, I hesitated touching the ring. “Why is this here, Gilpa?”

“Lloyd gave me these things for safekeeping. This was Libby’s engagement ring. He didn’t want Libby to get her hands on it.”

“Why?”

“Honey, the reason for their divorce was Libby’s gambling.”

“Oh my. Does Grandma know about this?”

“She’s always known that Libby and Mercy Fogg have enjoyed gambling over at the casino.” The Oneida Casino was near the airport on the west edge of Green Bay, maybe an hour and fifteen minutes from Fishers’ Harbor when traffic is light. “But your grandma doesn’t know about this box. Lloyd didn’t want anybody to know. I’ll have to hand this over to the executor of his estate.”

“So Lloyd saved things of Libby’s he didn’t want her to pawn?”

“That’s right. Lloyd was sentimental. He knew that one day Libby would have quit gambling and then regretted getting rid of her ring. He felt that someday she’d be honest with herself about herself.”

“Thus the name ‘honesty’ box. That’s interesting because for all his sentimentality, Lloyd was about to turn Duck Marsh Street into a condo development. Professor Faust just told me that months ago he’d suggested somebody try to convince Lloyd to preserve my cabin and the others. The professor was about to talk to Lloyd about it just before he died.”