Hot Fudge Frame-Up: A Fudge Shop Mystery Read online

  “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.”

  Chapter 3

  While 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 pa
pery 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 humid
ity 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.”