Hot Fudge Frame-Up: A Fudge Shop Mystery Page 3

  “Why, no. I’m not involved. We’ve been divorced a decade. He doesn’t tell me anything about his financial affairs, which is fine with me.”

  The sheriff picked up his clipboard, perched on a nearby bookshelf, then gave me his full attention. “Who would want you to lose the contest?”

  My mother’s withering sigh nudged me. With trepidation, I confessed, “My rivals. My mom just called your department about them fighting at the fudge shop this morning.”

  Jordy consulted his smartphone. “Am I reading this right? Fudge cutters as weapons? What the heck—?”

  “You know how chefs can be. Very competitive.”

  “But how is that connected to throwing a rock through the lighthouse window out here in the park?”

  “One of my guest confectioners, Kelsey King, comes out to the park regularly looking for edible plants. And she hates me.”

  Libby perked up. “Oh my stars, I remember something from last night. As I was closing, a skinny woman and a big man were near the wall out back with some chubby guy with a camera. The cameraman was telling them to throw stuff at each other, and they started tossing twigs, and then chased each other over the wall. I heard some mighty bad words. They must have tumbled down that steep hill to the water’s edge.”

  Jordy’s pen picked up speed. “So this cameraman likes to stir up trouble?”

  Ugh. Pauline would hate me if her boyfriend got questioned about the broken window and threat.

  “Jordy, the guy is taping the chefs for a possible TV series. On TV all the chefs act mad and yell. It’s a put-on. Television likes conflict,” I said.

  Jordy jotted that down. “So, Ava, Kelsey King tossed this rock through the window for the TV show?”

  “She or the other chef, Piers Molinsky.” Another theory came to mind that could keep Jordy from blaming John. “Piers doesn’t like Kelsey. He may have done it on his own because he knows she’s out here a lot, too, and she’d get blamed. He said this morning she was cooking with dirt, and some of the best dirt in Door County is right here in Peninsula State Park.”

  His pen hung in the air. “Cooking with dirt?”

  My mom said, “With hog bits. That’s what she called Piers’s bacon that spilled into her copper kettle.”

  Grandma Sophie said, “Those two are fake chefs, if you ask me. I’d do a background check on them, Jordy.”

  “And,” I said, “I have orange crayons at my shop. Have you seen the new tea table that Verona Klubertanz’s dad made, Jordy? It’s made from Wisconsin black cherry trees and is quite lovely, and there could be a connection to the perpetrator with the rock.”

  I grabbed a notepad and pen from Libby’s counter to sketch a couple of hexagons connected by a line. “That’s the chemical formula for wood. Paper is a step away from that.” I added another sketch. “Wood is essentially cellulose, which is a carbohydrate, but of course we can’t eat this form of carbs. Cows and termites have microorganisms in their intestines that can convert the cellulose of wood to glucose. Do you see the connection to fudge now? And this crime?”

  Jordy blinked several times. I’d learned in May that he hated chemical formulas and thus I could distract him and probably sell him swampland if I wished. However, this time he sighed heavily and smiled. “Enough of your tricks. We’ll be looking at the paper thoroughly. I’ll want to take a look at the paper in your shop to see if it matches somehow.”

  My mom’s head was bobbing rapidly. “Good idea.”

  I told Jordy he was welcome to look around my shop.

  He asked, “Where’s this guy with the TV camera? I’d like to question him.”

  Oh, fudge. Jordy wasn’t buying my theory that the rock might have been thrown by Piers or Kelsey. But as much as I thought John Schultz was an oaf and didn’t deserve Pauline, I’d never betray my BFF—Best Friend Forever—since kindergarten. “John likely showed up at the shop just as we were leaving. Maybe your deputy is talking with him now and has cleared him?”

  Jordy pulled out his phone again. His thumb scrolled through screens. “Yeah, your camera guy’s there with a crowd on the docks. My new deputy is handling this one, so I’d better go help her out. She’s from the city. I’m sure she’s seen her share of crazies, but not people trying to kill each other with fudge cutters and crayons.”

  After the sheriff left, Mom, Grandma, and I helped Libby clean up. I taped cellophane over the broken window so birds and chipmunks wouldn’t be inclined to visit. Libby seemed relieved to know the whole incident might have been part of an argument between my miserable guest chefs. I promised her it wouldn’t happen again. Libby thanked us all for the help because she had a tour coming at ten and a book-signing event with an author after that.

  “Professor Faust?” I asked.

  “Indeed. His book about Wisconsin’s food heritage is so wonderful. You’ve read it?”

  “I haven’t had time. He dropped off copies at my shop, though, so I’ll take a look soon.” As part of the warm-up to the fudge festival next weekend, all Door County shopkeepers were sharing their sales space with fellow businesspeople and artists to help publicize one another. Fudge was the draw, but I was hoping the entire county would benefit from the festival.

  Libby said, “Take a look at the book, dear, because he mentions the bait shop in it.”

  Grandma perked up. “Gil never mentioned that.”

  “Grandma, Gilpa’s too cheap to buy a new book. Even if I wrote it, he’d wait for it to be remaindered in a sale bin.”

  “You’re right, Ava honey. He’s a darn old cheap Belgian. I’ll come back later, Libby, for the signing, and buy several copies.”

  As we went out the door, Libby yelled after us, “Better make his favorite dinner first before you show him all those expensive books and your empty wallet.”

  We laughed.

  * * *

  Our smiles evaporated when we arrived at the crowded harbor. My mother had intended to drop us off and drive onward to Sister Bay to make a cheese delivery to Al Johnson’s Swedish Restaurant, but she changed her mind when she saw the sheriff’s cruiser with the red-and-blues on. Another smaller department car sat next to it.

  “What do you suppose is going on now?” my mom asked as she got out.

  Grandma said, “Florine, why don’t you go on and make your deliveries before that cheese in this van gets moldy from neglect? You know how you get when you’re worried.”

  Mom’s sighing usually turned into babbling when she became stressed. Babbling often descended into cleaning everything in sight, which was handy when I was a teenager because while she was yelling at me to clean my room she’d actually be cleaning my room. Since the fudge shop now needed a thorough scrubbing, I was inclined to let Mom foment more stress.

  Mom said to Grandma, “You should be worried, too, because that’s my father-in-law—also known as your husband—in the middle of the fuss.”

  Sure enough, Grandpa Gil—with his distinctive silver hair—was waving his hands between the sheriff and his female deputy on one side of him, with my two chef combatants on the other side. They were near the door of our bait-and-fudge shop, a little way from the wooden pier where Gilpa had docked his fishing trawler, Sophie’s Journey.

  I helped Grandma Sophie out of the van. Wind gusts off Lake Michigan caught her long, thick wavy white hair that hung past her shoulders, whipping it into the look of a swirling cloud. The breeze tugged at my ponytail and buffeted my pink blouse.

  The pungent smells of bacon and overheated chocolate mingled with the sweet aroma of cherry-vanilla fudge. Seagulls screeched and sparrows chattered as they landed amid the crowd’s feet and on the dock’s picnic tables, looking for scraps.

  As I headed into the fray, I spotted Dillon Rivers coming out of our shop. My heart skipped a beat. I tucked a strand of loose hair behind an ear. If Mom saw him she’d turn into a babbling bu
lldog trying to protect me from him. I whipped back toward the cow minivan. “Grandma, you stay here with Mom. I can handle this.”

  After I pushed through the throng of tourists and a few locals, I found my chefs with their hands handcuffed in front of them. The woman deputy was holding her ground against my grandfather, who was demanding the cuffs come off.

  I gave my grandpa a hug and asked, “What’s going on?” He smelled of the clean spray that spat from Lake Michigan’s freshwater waves.

  He broke into a big smile. “Look at this ruckus. We’re going to sell out of all my live bait, bobbers and beer, and your Belgian fudge. All because of this dandy new lady county cop.”

  The deputy looked maybe twenty-five. She was Hispanic with large mesmerizingly beautiful cocoa-colored eyes that matched her regulation shirt. Her black hair was in a thick braid twisted into a knot at the nape of her neck. She wore tan pants and a tan department ball cap. She had each of her hands on an arm of both chefs.

  Jordy wore a pissed look. “I’ve already spent way too much time on this. Get in the cars. One in each.”

  Kelsey rattled her handcuffs. “I’m innocent. But you can take this fry cook.”

  Piers growled, “I’m not a cook. I’m a bakery chef.”

  “You’re half-baked.” Kelsey flipped her long blond tresses around as if she were an indignant filly. “I’ll sue all of you, and you’re first, Half-Baked.”

  So the fight was still raging. Cameras and cell phones clicked. I saw Lloyd Mueller shaking his head in disgust. The fudge contest was melting away faster than fancy Belgian chocolate left on a dashboard under the July sun.

  Dillon barged into the fray. Women adjusted their hair and licked their lips. Even the young deputy gave Dillon the once-over.

  He was looking at me with concern on his chiseled face. “Al and I are almost done fixing a leak in the pipes out under Main Street. You should have your water back within a half hour. I’ll send Al back to check on the water pressure later. You want to join us for coffee now or lunch later?”

  Al Kvalheim had been the street and water guy in town since before I was born, my grandpa had told me. Al loved getting dirty and greasy, just like Grandpa. He was portly, short, bald, and heavily wrinkled. He was one of the few people around who still smoked. Al was the opposite of Dillon, so I couldn’t imagine how they got along so well. Dillon’s invitation to join them for coffee was a lifeline being thrown my way, but I had to pass.

  I edged closer and whispered, “My mother’s over there. It’d be best if you left now before she blows up at you in front of the crowd.”

  He whispered back, “You’re sure you’re okay?”

  I nodded. Dillon left, but in his stead my landlord stepped forward, rubbing his bald head in a thoughtful gesture. Lloyd indicated Kelsey and Piers with a nod. “It might do these two good to sit in our fine county jail. We can always replace them with local cooks or bakers. The fudge contest could be a pie contest.”

  “Lloyd!” I screeched. “You can’t suggest such a thing. I already have a new fudge flavor in development.” Liar.

  “Another pink flavor? I’m a businessman. I’m starting to feel foolish about pink fudge for a festival.”

  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.