And what a shop it was! Even now, every time I walked inside, I had to practically pinch myself to make myself believe this wasn’t just a dream.
It was particularly thrilling that the store I’d created looked exactly the way I thought an ice cream emporium should look. I’d made sure of that. It helped that the space I was able to rent wasn’t only in a great location. It also reeked of the turn-of-the-century charm that the downtown area itself possessed, with its quaint red-brick buildings, old-fashioned streetlights, and line of lush green trees.
Besides being just the right size, the storefront had a black-and-white tile floor that I’d had refinished, a tin ceiling that reflected the light, and—my favorite part—an exposed brick wall that added warmth along with a delightful old-fashioned feeling.
As soon as I signed the lease, I got busy turning the space into the perfect ice creamery. I’d had the walls painted pink and hung huge paintings of colorful, almost cartoonish ice cream concoctions—a three-foot ice cream cone, a gigantic banana split, and an ice cream sandwich the size of a crib mattress—that Willow had created. I’d outfitted the front with a long glass display case and brought in six small, marble-topped tables, three lining each wall. Each one was accompanied by two black wrought-iron chairs with pink vinyl seats.
Even the shop’s exterior was cute. The building itself dated back to the Victorian era, so the shop had some delightful features, like two hand-carved wooden columns on either side of the front door and window boxes below the display window that dominated the front.
But I took its feeling of Disneyland’s Main Street a few steps further by painting the façade a soft shade of pink, then making the wooden columns and the window box lime green. I’d also put a pink-and-green wooden bench in front of the display window. All summer, I’d kept the window box filled with pink-and-white petunias. The pastel-colored blossoms spilled over the front and sides so that the pink of the petals and the green of the leaves echoed the building’s colors.
I’d planned on running the shop by myself, with occasional help from Willow. Then Emma showed up and turned out to be the perfect employee. She never missed a day or even showed up late. She was full of great ideas, dreaming up new flavors of ice cream that even I had never thought of. And her mastery of both computers and images had already proved invaluable. She’d designed fliers and created other graphics for the store. In addition, she was a master at surfing the Internet, which turned out to be particularly handy not only for my business but also when I’d investigated a murder a few weeks earlier.
At the moment, however, what I needed from my niece was for her to start packing up all the Ice Cream Incidentals.
“Emma, could you please—Emma?”
I glanced up to find that my niece had drifted over to the front of the shop, where she was staring out the huge window. Ethan was standing right next to her. True, it wasn’t unusual for him to glom onto her. They had been inseparable practically since that balmy evening in early July when he’d dropped over at the house soon after they’d met at the dairy. He claimed he’d stopped by to show her some sketches of Japanese animation-style cartoons he’d been working on. But the two of them ended up sitting on the front porch, talking, until three AM. From that day on, they were what in the old days was called an item.
At the moment, Ethan was also transfixed by whatever was on the other side of this window.
“Hey, Kate? Check this out,” Emma called.
Even though we were on a tight schedule, I strode over to where the two gawkers were standing. Willow drifted over, too, unable to resist the temptation of finding out what Emma and Ethan were finding so fascinating.
I immediately saw what had grabbed their attention. From the looks of things, the construction crew that had been working on the store directly across the street from Lickety Splits for weeks was finally wrapping things up. The four of us watched as three burly guys struggled to affix a green canvas awning to the front, a sure sign that their renovations were about to come to an end.
For five years, that shop had been the home of the Sweet Things Pastry Palace. Soon after I’d opened Lickety Splits, however, the bakery’s owner had met with an unfortunate fate. The owner, Ashley Winthrop, had been a longtime acquaintance, someone I’d known ever since kindergarten.
Notice I said “acquaintance,” not “friend.” There’s a story there. However, it’s much too long to go into here. In fact, telling that tale would require writing an entire book.
But for the past few weeks, the storefront had been empty. That is, until early July, when construction crews began showing up first thing every morning.
Since my shop was directly across the street, how could I not keep careful track of what was going on right before my eyes?
So along with Emma and Ethan and Willow, every day I had watched the muscle-bound workmen in jeans and tight T-shirts who showed up at seven. First they hauled out the glass display cases and kitchen equipment that had been part of the store’s former incarnation. Then came demolition and construction. Old walls went out, new walls went in . . . you get the picture.
On one especially steamy afternoon, in an act of what I thought was pure inspiration, I’d sashayed over with an armful of ice cream cones. I was so desperate for some information about who my new neighbor would be that I was attempting to bribe the workers. They just shrugged, insisting that they were only following the plans the contractor had given them. Then they proceeded to devour more ice cream than you’d think was humanly possible.
The arrival of the painters a few days later piqued my curiosity even further.
Whoever was moving in was clearly a big fan of earth tones, since he or she had chosen dark green for the walls. The construction guys also put up lots of natural wood accents, which lent a fresh, outdoorsy touch.
But I still didn’t have a clue as to what kind of establishment the new shop was going to be. And the addition of an awning that simply replicated the forest green of the walls didn’t help.
“I can’t wait to find out what kind of shop that’s going to be,” Emma said, as if she’d been reading my mind.
“As long as it doesn’t sell ice cream,” Willow commented. She cast me a meaningful look, a reminder that Lickety Splits had had to deal with some head-to-head competition once before. And it hadn’t exactly gone well.
Emma leaned forward so she could see better. “I don’t think it’s going to sell food,” she said. “Not with those dark colors. That place looks more like the Amazon rain forest than a café.”
“It could be a restaurant that specializes in healthy food,” Ethan said. Brightening, he added, “It would be totally sick if it was one of those places that makes those awesome smoothies. I’m really into kale.”
I immediately started fantasizing about kale ice cream, wondering if that would turn out to be another Prune ’n’ Raisin fiasco. Which reminded me that I was in the ice cream business—and that I had better get busy with that business.
“Okay, ’Cream Team,” I said, clapping my hands. “Let’s get back to work. We’ve got a party to put on!”
My crew immediately turned their attention back to me. At that moment, I felt as if George Washington would have been proud.
Standing up a little straighter, I said, “Willow, take the keys and pull the truck up in front of the shop. Emma, start packing up all this ice cream in dry ice. Ethan, get ready to start loading the heavy stuff.”
My heart was pounding with a combination of excitement and terror as my three assistants scurried around, helping me realize an entirely new chapter in what had once upon a time been a mere fantasy.
I still couldn’t quite believe all this was really happening.
“Let’s load up the truck,” I said. “It’s show time!”
* * *
We drove to Greenaway in two vehicles. Willow sat beside me in my ice-cream–laden pickup truck, while Emma and Ethan followed in Ethan’s dilapidated Saab. And as we wove our way thro
ugh the hills above Wolfert’s Roost, I actually found myself looking forward to the evening ahead.
This is going to be an adventure, I told myself, only half-listening to Willow as she chattered away about a yoga conference she’d just attended.
In fact, I was starting to feel pretty excited about the evening ahead when Willow announced, “Here it is! Twenty-two-fourteen Riverview Drive. And there’s a sign that says Greenaway, so we’re definitely in the right place. That must be the driveway. Turn right.”
I did—and all my anxieties came back in a sudden swoosh. Whatever I’d been picturing in my mind had been nothing compared to what was in front of me.
What was looming ahead of me wasn’t a house. It wasn’t even a mansion.
This was an estate—one that made Downton Abbey look like a rustic cabin in the woods.
Chapter 2
Another story about the invention of the ice cream sundae is that in 1881, Edward Berners, who owned Ed Berners’s Ice Cream Parlor in Two Rivers, Wisconsin, tried serving ice cream with chocolate syrup poured over it, even though chocolate syrup was traditionally used for making flavored ice cream sodas. Berners liked it enough to begin selling “ice cream with syrup” for a nickel, the same price as a plain dish of ice cream.
—whatscookingamerica.net/History/IceCream/Sundae.htm
My throat thickened, and my mouth became uncomfortably dry.
It wasn’t as if I’d never seen a residence on this scale before. The entire Hudson Valley was positively littered with them.
Thanks to its proximity to New York City, as well as its spectacular beauty, over the past couple of hundred years a lot of big-time movers and shakers had built humongous estates here. Kykuit—pronounced KYE-cutt—was home to four generations of Rockefellers. It has a jaw-dropping art museum with enough Picassos, Calders, Nevelsons, and other important artists to compete with some of New York City’s finest museums. Then there’s the Vanderbilt estate in Hyde Park, fronted by tall columns of the sort that are generally described as “stately.” And speaking of big names, the Roosevelts, as in Franklin and Eleanor, had houses here. Like the other mansions, they’re a major draw for tourists.
Some of the Hudson Valley mansions were constructed by lesser-known but nevertheless remarkable individuals. Olana, for example, my personal favorite. Built by Hudson River School painter Frederick Church, it’s a fantastical mixture of Moorish, Persian, and Victorian architecture and furnishings that looks like something out of one of Disney’s animated films. It’s all you can do to keep from muttering, “Come with me to the Casbah!”
Even beyond the big-name historic sites that the busloads of tourists come to see, there are plenty of other noteworthy residences. On occasion, I’ve been known to Google “Hudson Valley Real Estate,” just for fun. I can dream, can’t I? And the listings give a simple gal like me plenty to fantasize about. What pops up are dozens of beautiful homes, ranging from grand Revolutionary War–era houses to Victorian extravaganzas to modern-day architectural wonders. Needless to say, they all have price tags with many, many zeroes.
Greenaway was definitely of that caliber.
The estate sprawled across at least one hundred acres. The three-story stone mansion that was its centerpiece, most likely built in the late 1800s, was perched upon a grassy hill so that it overlooked the Hudson River like a sentry. The house was so big that I couldn’t imagine how many bedrooms it had. Or bathrooms.
The façade was rough-hewn gray stone, and a white porch ran along the front. I also spotted a tennis court, a barn, and at least five outbuildings. I noted not one but two swimming pools, the larger one encircled with rustic pieces of stone that matched those on the house. The patio next to it featured half a dozen Adirondack chairs, the biggest grill I’d ever seen, and a circular fire pit.
“Gee,” Emma said quietly, “this isn’t exactly what I was expecting.” Her tone was pinched, reflecting the same level of anxiety I was feeling.
I was in the big league now. Like it or not.
I tried not to think about that as I grabbed one of the gigantic tubs of ice cream out of the back of my truck. It was the Classic Tahitian Vanilla, which may sound like a less than exciting flavor but which I felt strongly had to have a presence at pretty much any event that revolved around ice cream. After all, despite the tidal wave of new flavors that now swamped the shelves of grocery stores and filled the cones of inventive ice cream shops all over the world, vanilla remained the number-one seller.
“Wait here,” I told my crew. “I’ll make sure we’ve parked in the right place.”
Still lugging the three-gallon tub of ice cream, I walked up an endlessly long red-brick path to the front door, two panels that were probably ten feet high and painted bright yellow. I felt like Dorothy edging toward the Great Oz’s castle in the Emerald City.
When I rang the doorbell, I heard what sounded like a harpsichord echo through the house. Mozart, I guessed. A doorbell that played Mozart. On a harpsichord. And here I’d thought it wasn’t possible for me to be any more blown away than I already was.
Within a few seconds, the door opened. Standing in front of me was a very tall, very thin man whose reedy appearance made me think of a male runway model.
His hair was blond, but the evenness and brightness of the color made it clear that it hadn’t started out that way. The same went for his eyes, which were such a startling shade of green that he had to be wearing tinted contact lenses. And while I couldn’t be completely sure, he looked like he was wearing a thin line of eyeliner. And mascara. Definitely mascara.
He was dressed in a pair of gray slacks with a meticulously tailored pale pink jacket. The tiny stitches running along the edge of the collar told me it was hand-sewn. His shoes—suede loafers—were the exact same shade of pink.
“May I help you?” he asked, looking as if he was about to dial 911.
“I’m Kate McKay from Lickety Splits.” I shifted the heavy tub from one hip to the other. Not only was it starting to feel heavier; it was also starting to feel colder.
“I’m sorry?” he replied, clearly puzzled.
“The ice cream shop that’s catering the party tonight . . . ?”
“Of course,” he said. He sighed, giving the impression that he was relieved that he didn’t have to deal with anything more challenging than the arrival of one of the caterers. “And I am Federico, Omar’s assistant. We spoke on the phone.”
Studying me as if I were something he still hadn’t quite managed to identify, he continued, “Ms. McKay, before you and your staff even set foot in this house, I want to make it perfectly clear that everything that goes on here tonight—and I mean everything—must go through me. If there’s one thing we don’t want tonight it’s any surprises.”
Even speaking to him in person, I couldn’t place his accent. Definitely European . . . but which corner of that continent it had emanated from wasn’t exactly clear.
“Of course,” I replied. “By the way,” I couldn’t help adding, “where are you from?” Not wanting to seem nosy, I quickly said, “I mean your accent sounds so . . . exotic.”
A warm smile slowly spread across his face, making me feel as if I’d chosen the right adjective. “I am from the north of Italy,” he said. “Right outside of Milano.” With a sneer, he said, “You know, what you Americans call Mill-ann.”
I nodded. Believe it or not, I was tempted to say, some Americans actually know that the Italian name of that small but sophisticated city, a major center of the fashion industry, is Milano. Even if we haven’t traveled much, we’re big fans of the Milano cookie.
That thought took me in a different direction. I found myself wondering if there was a way to incorporate Milanos and other popular Pepperidge Farm cookies into ice cream. Rich Chessmen broken up and mixed in with cheesecake ice cream, the buttery cookies crushed to play the role of a crust? Or those decadent Geneva cookies, mixed into a smooth, rich chocolate ice cream along with additional chunks of chocolate and big c
runchy pecans? As for the classic Ginger-man cookies, I realized that one of those crisp little guys would look perfect standing in the middle of a big scoop of ginger ice cream. Perhaps this creation called for some raisins and even a touch of pumpkin pie spice . . .
I had to force myself to focus on the matter at hand.
“Since you’re the man in charge,” I said brightly, “maybe you can point me in the direction of the kitchen. I’ve got to unload the ice cream from my truck, and this obviously isn’t the best place to do it.”
For the first time in my life, I truly understood the expression about “looking down your nose” at someone. Federico literally cocked his head back so that in order to maintain eye contact with me, he had to do exactly that.
“It’s that way,” he said, dramatically lifting his arm and pointing toward a doorway. “You’ll be using the servants’ entrance, of course.”
I had to resist the urge to allow my eyebrows to jump upward, as they were inclined to do.
It makes sense, I told myself, taking a few deep breaths to calm the fury rising deep inside me. I’m not exactly a guest at this event. I’m here to work, not to sip champagne and make small talk. Besides, the entrance he wants me to use is undoubtedly closer to the kitchen.
So I just smiled politely and agreed. Then I went back to the truck and climbed in.
“That way,” I instructed Willow, pointing toward what I now knew was called “the servants’ entrance” rather than simply “the back door.” I gestured at Emma and Ethan, telling them to follow.
When I pulled up to the correct spot, I saw that someone was already waiting, holding the door open for me. I was touched by this display of politeness. I’d already told myself that that was something I shouldn’t expect tonight.
The tiny woman in the doorway was the exact opposite of Federico, even though they were both probably about my age. Not only because she was female and small, either. She was wearing a uniform that spoke of formality and tradition: an old-fashioned maid’s uniform consisting of a plain black dress, a starched white apron, and low-heeled black shoes. Her hair, also black, was pulled back in a neat bun. All that was missing were a few ruffles on the apron and a tendency to mutter, “Yes, mum!” every few seconds.
Hot Fudge Murder Page 2
