Five-Alarm Fudge Page 13

  One of the earliest references I’d found for divinity candy came from a 1905 recipe. It was a simple recipe using a pint of “golden drip syrup,” a pint of sweet milk, a cup of granulated sugar, and a tablespoon of butter. That seemed simple enough, yet I couldn’t imagine Sister Adele Brise having access to much “golden drip syrup,” though perhaps she could have used honey or maple syrup if they’d tapped trees in the late 1800s.

  Another recipe from 1907 was more to my liking. The ingredients were simpler, and possibly what the nuns would have had on hand in the late 1800s. This recipe called for melting a cup of sugar in a pan, then pouring that into a cup of cold milk. That was set over a fire to cook; then two more cups of sugar were added, with yet another cup of cold milk. The milk and sugar concoction was then cooked again. How clever of them back then. They were expanding and contracting the crystals, and expanding them again.

  The ingredients were then taken off the fire. A teaspoon of butter was added, just as I would do today. The whole batch was beaten until it cooled, finally being spread into a buttered pan.

  Another recipe basically took that concoction of milk and sugar and poured it over egg whites that had been beaten stiff.

  I was assembling ingredients in the kitchen of my shop when the cowbell clink-clanked.

  “A.M.? A.M.? Where are you?”

  It was Pauline. It was a little past two thirty in the afternoon. Her kindergartners had gone home. She must have broken all speed records in Fishers’ Harbor to get here.

  “I’m in the kitchen.”

  She appeared in the doorway, bracing herself against the doorjamb. This had to be serious, because she hadn’t bothered to bring her giant purse with her. She was still dressed in her washable polyester black slacks and a simple red blouse that could stand kindergarten accidents. But her long brown-black hair looked messy as a horse’s mane after a harrowing quarter-mile derby. She was breathing so hard she couldn’t talk.

  “What the heck is wrong, P.M.?” When we were kids, and sometimes in trouble, my grandpa started calling us the shortcut initials of “A.M.” for Ava Mathilde and “P.M.” for Pauline Mertens. He’d say things like “This shines on you all A.M. and P.M., but now tell me what trouble you two girls have gotten yourselves into.” These days, the initials that signified our bond as friends often slipped out of our mouths when things grew serious.

  “Haven’t you turned on the news, A.M.? Or gone online?”

  “No, I’ve been busy doing research on divinity fudge.”

  “Forget the fudge. The medical examiner held a news conference. They’ve arrested Daniel Dahlgren for murder and John was taken in for questioning. He’s under suspicion.”

  I was already flinging ingredients back into the refrigerator. “I’ll drive. He’s still in Sturgeon Bay?”

  “Yes. But that’s not the worst of it. That Buck knife we saw in that organ bench allegedly belongs to your father. And it’s tied to the murder.”

  I jerked in place. “Who says?”

  “Fontana Dahlgren. She was at the press conference. Crying about Cherry’s murder. As if she ever really loved him.”

  “As if, indeed. Come on.” There was no way that knife belonged to my father.

  We raced back out to the parking lot, found her nondescript gray sedan, and were soon out of town and flying down Highway 42.

  Within minutes, a squad car pulled up behind us.

  Chapter 13

  With the squad car’s red and blue beams strafing me through the rearview mirror, I had to pull over. Pauline was shuffling about in her purse on her lap, muttering.

  Deputy Maria Vasquez leaned into my open window. “A bit of a hurry?”

  Pauline said, “It’s about the murder.”

  Since the deputy had to know everything said at the press conference, I focused on John’s plight. “It’s unfair, Deputy. John got hit on the back of the head in the church on Saturday night, probably by the real killer. But that wasn’t the worst of it. John lost his memory and ended up sleeping at Mercy Fogg’s house. She found him in her bus.”

  Maria winced, leaning closer. “Is this for real?”

  Pauline corroborated it.

  I continued. “We found him in Mercy’s nightgown. Mercy was going to feed him meat loaf with marshmallows in it. Colored ones at that. John shouldn’t be questioned at the Justice Center. He’s not well. Anything he says will be tossed out by a judge.”

  I turned to Pauline and rolled my eyes. I had no clue about judges.

  Maria said, “This is probably the stupidest attempt ever to get out of a ticket. But . . .” She sighed. “Your father is somebody I respect. Since he may be involved, you can follow me.”

  As we pulled back onto Highway 42 behind the county cruiser, Pauline took her hand out of her purse with one of the buttons my mother had given us. Pauline waved it in front of me. “Touch your button.”

  “What for?”

  “Swear on it you won’t keep stuff from me again.”

  “What stuff?” But I knew. I’d kept things about John from my best friend. I wondered how much she knew. I waved off the button so I could keep my eye on the speeding squad car in front of us. “I’m sorry. Dillon made me promise. Besides, you were still in school this afternoon when I learned about John and Marc.”

  I told her most everything, but I kept the secret about John’s singing at the choir tryouts. That was his surprise for Pauline and one that I didn’t have the heart to spoil for her.

  Pauline rubbed the button. “At least these work.”

  “How so?”

  “I was rubbing this the whole time you were talking to Maria. No ticket. And we’re getting a department escort all the way to jail.”

  “That doesn’t sound so lucky. And I didn’t think you believed in hocus-pocus. But thanks for helping me by rubbing the button.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t for you. I was rubbing that blessed button to save John. You’re on your own.”

  “Thanks a lot.” I knew she didn’t mean it. “Can you rub it some more for my father? I can’t believe they think that Buck knife is his. My father had nothing to do with Tristan Hardy’s death. My father was never at that church much at all. The churchwomen were the ones inside most of the time.”

  Pauline said, “What if your mother brought his knife along to use it to clean crevices or scrape wax from candles off the floor or pews?”

  I called my father, put him on speakerphone, then handed off the phone to Pauline.

  “Where are you, Dad?”

  Pete said he was home. “They said it’d be okay to talk with them later, after the milking. Jordy came out to confirm with me that the knife is mine.”

  My heart lurched. “It can’t be. No way.”

  “Ava, calm down. Somebody must have stolen it. We get a lot of visitors here to watch us milk and watch your mother make cheese.”

  That was my dad, so even-keeled. “What about Mom?”

  “She’s still at your market. I doubt she heard about the press conference. I’ll tell her everything once she comes home. I’ve already hidden her vacuum cleaner.”

  A chill came over me. This shouldn’t be happening to my family. “Take care, Dad. I love you.”

  “Love you, Ava Mathilde.”

  Once we were at the Justice Center on South Duluth Avenue in Sturgeon Bay, I texted Dillon with a quick update. We also saw John’s car in the parking lot, so that had been found.

  The woman behind the window handed us name tags to wear.

  Pauline peered at hers. “These are really nice. Better than our school tags.”

  “We’ll ask the lady on the way out where they order them.”

  “Sarcasm will not help, A.M.”

  “Just keep rubbing the buttons in your purse, P.M.”

  We had to cool our heels in the waiting room for a half hour, reading and rereading all the plaques to the officers who had served our county. Sheriff Jordy Tollefson’s picture made him look older, I thought, even wear
y. There was justice in that if he were about to drag my father and mother into his murder investigation of Tristan Hardy.

  Finally, a door burst open. Out marched John Schultz with my manager, of all people. John fell against Pauline in a bear hug.

  While they babbled about his needing a lawyer, Marc and I met in the middle of the room, shaking hands cordially. Marc was bald, but had one of those rare, perfect heads and was handsome in a fish-out-of-water sort of way. He flashed the typical Hollywood, expensive killer smile. His blue eyes were seductive behind the black designer eyeglasses. He probably owned a year’s worth of glasses. I’d never seen him in the same pair twice. He was shorter than me by a couple of inches, and was reported to be sixty-two years old in online listings, though he told people fifty-five. He played tennis, racquetball, and ran in every charity race he could find. Among the L.A. crowd, he was known for being against drug abuse. But he was too earnest when it came to making money. Money was Marc’s drug.

  “Hey, hey, hon, it’s awesome-sauce nice to see you.” He rose on his toes to air-kiss me on both cheeks. “You’ve been working on product for me? Not much else to do here, right? Where am I, anyway?”

  He’d said that with a smile.

  “You call it the flyover zone, Marc. Wisconsin. In Door County,” I said. “It looks different in the daylight.”

  He didn’t respond to my hint about his activities on Saturday night. I added, “I hear you’ve taken on John Schultz as a client.”

  Marc’s blue eyes seemed to turn green with dollar signs. “I like to think of John as a partner. He’s a man of ideas, like me. Say, you want to catch a drink later and talk about your next script?”

  It intrigued me that Marc thought John’s idea for a show based in Wisconsin would be popular with a broad audience, but it didn’t totally surprise me. Agents and managers loved discovering new talent and “product.” Discovering new “product”—which might include a proposal for a new travel series—garnered respect in Hollywood. Marc also loved being a manager. He truly enjoyed discovering new talent, and if the next “find” came from the flyover zone, all the better. But being dogged about such things was both Marc’s skill and his flaw.

  “Sorry, Marc, I’m not writing at the moment. I operate a fudge shop north of here and a roadside market south of here near Brussels.” With a forced smile, I added, “I told you about the fudge shop last spring.”

  Marc adjusted his glasses. “I don’t understand what you could possibly write about a fudge shop, but I admire you for the research. It’ll play well in interviews.”

  “Marc, you’re not listening. I’m not writing anything about a fudge shop.”

  “That’s good, because scripts, books, plays—anything that pays—about a fudge shop won’t sell, babe. So this fudge shop thing is temporary between gigs?” He winked.

  This was the same old Marc, kidding with me, but underneath it all he liked to nudge me. I said, “Did the sheriff ask you about Saturday night?”

  “You bet, babe. Great questions, too. You should write a script about this.”

  “What were the questions?”

  “Why did I go to the church? Did I see some guy named Tristan Hardy? Why was I there so late? Late? I just get started after midnight back in L.A.”

  By now Pauline and John were sitting nearby on chairs, oblivious of us. I led Marc to the other side of the room, where we sat under portraits of officers.

  I asked, “So, why did you go to the church?”

  “To get a look at it by night when nobody was around. You know how it is in production. We do a lot of our indoor filming at night. I wanted to see what the setup would be for the prince’s visit. Figured we’d get a head start on storyboarding.”

  Storyboarding was essentially creating a comic-strip version on paper or computer of a movie or TV show before it was committed to filming.

  I asked, “Did you see who hit John in the back of the head?”

  “No. It was dark in there and the light switch didn’t work. I brought out my penlight. As soon as I clicked it on, John got hit and I heard somebody running. I half dragged, half walked John out of there. My college days came back to me. Buddies and I got bounced out of L.A. clubs at four in the morning now and then.”

  Marc was slim compared to pudgy John, and Marc was in excellent shape.

  “Did you tell the sheriff about the light switch not working?”

  “Of course. Hey, hon, are you a detective? We could package a Belgian detective as a series.”

  “That might have been done. Poirot. And I’m not a detective. I’m a fudge confectioner. You don’t listen, Marc. I care because these are my friends who are involved. And my family. Evidently, the knife they found in the organ bench allegedly belongs to my father.”

  Marc leaned into my personal space. “Do you know who did it?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? You used to be pretty good in the writers’ staff room at The Topsy-Turvy Girls show.”

  That confused me. I sat back. “No, I wasn’t. If you recall, they usually ignored my ideas. I fetched their food. That’s how I started making fudge.”

  “Yeah. I did like that batch of pink perfection my assistant ordered recently online. Served it at a party.”

  “You did?” I was feeling better about Marc instantly.

  “Everybody swooned over your fudge.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You always were talented, had darn good ideas. Maybe we should create something like a staff room here and you could brainstorm the solution to this murder case. We’ll film it all, of course.”

  I smiled knowingly. Marc’s agenda to make money off my family and friends didn’t interest me. I left Marc to go find Jordy.

  When I found out that Jordy was busy still, I corralled Pauline in the bathroom. I told her we had to go over to the church. John could ride home with Marc Hayward.

  Pauline gave me her teacher look, tossing her hair off her shoulders and looking down her nose at me. “I’m going with John.”

  “No. He’s fine with Marc. They’ll yuk it up with talk about filming the prince. You and I are going to the church in Namur.”

  “You heard it had more yellow tape around it, didn’t you?”

  She knew I was drawn to yellow police tape. It called to me with subliminal language that dared me to break through it. “There’s something I don’t get about the church. Tristan’s body was found in the basement, but somebody was in the nave or choir loft when John and Marc came inside. And yet the light switch didn’t work, which meant somebody had shut down the circuit. The blood on the music appears to be from John, but the knife is my father’s and that was apparently stolen. I don’t know about you, but I think there was a heck of a lot of people involved with this.”

  “You think it was more than one person responsible for killing Cherry?”

  “My manager said something that sparked the idea. Plots for TV shows usually take input from several people. Why not a murder plot?”

  Pauline shivered. “So you think Kjersta and Daniel are guilty? Add Fontana and you’ve got three people involved.”

  “The sheriff wouldn’t arrest Kjersta and Daniel without good cause. He likely has more on them than just those perfume smells I heard about.”

  “So, what brilliant plan do you have that I will need to refuse to have anything to do with?”

  “We need to talk again with the individuals whose names keep popping up, including Michael Prevost, Jonas Coppens, and Fontana Dahlgren, as well as Professor Wesley Weaver and his teaching assistants.”

  Pauline finished washing and drying her hands in the restroom. “Your folks know Weaver and those teaching assistants. Do you really think . . . ?”

  “Not Weaver or Nick or Will. They and Cherry traveled around together, and Will and Nick were working on the research project with Cherry. But I wonder about other colleagues. Jealousy among colleagues is one of the oldest motives for murder, Pauline.”

  We
walked out of the restroom at the Justice Center, then told the guys a lie about stopping by Ava’s Autumn Harvest before heading back to Fishers’ Harbor. They took off north in John’s car, and Pauline drove south of Sturgeon Bay, heading to Namur.

  * * *

  Pauline drove like a schoolteacher—lawfully.

  I said, “Can’t you step on it a little?”

  “There’s a squad car following us.”

  I turned in the passenger seat to look behind us. “It’s Maria again.”

  “So now what do I do? We can’t drive to the church. She won’t let us break in.”

  “Keep driving. I’ll think of something. We have to get into that church.”

  After we’d turned off Highway 42 onto County Road C, we stopped at Ava’s Autumn Harvest to see how my mother was doing. The deputy pulled her car to the side of the road, which my mother noticed right away. She looked up from rearranging pumpkins on the flatbed wagon.

  “We’re under surveillance, aren’t we?” my mother asked, panic scoring her tanned face. Her long, dark hair was frizzed from the humidity.

  “Mom, the deputy is only protecting us.”

  “Do you think they’re working on any theories involving me? They’re wondering about that knife.”

  “Mom, they don’t know anything. They think I was there, not you. And he wasn’t stabbed with the knife. He was hit on the head or he hit the wall.”

  “But I was . . . there. Honey, I’m going through menopause. What if I forgot something strange that I did in a panic?” She restacked a pumpkin into a new position. “I need to sweep.”

  Mom hurried back inside the barn. My heart went out to her, recharging my vow to protect her and figure out what had happened in that church.

  It was around four thirty, so Pauline and I pitched in to close the market. I brought in the few pumpkins that hadn’t sold. My fudge had sold out, as had the Dahlgrens’ potatoes and cabbage heads.