Hot Fudge Murder

by Cynthia Baxter

  “I certainly know who she is,” I told Willow. “In fact, I even saw an exhibit of her personal collection of clothing. It was at the Metropolitan Museum of Art a couple of years ago.” That exhibit had prompted me to make a beeline for Bloomingdale’s, convinced that my own wardrobe needed a serious overhaul.

  But as exciting as it was to spot Pippa Somers, I had yet to set eyes on our host for the evening.

  The room suddenly felt supercharged, as if someone had opened a window and instead of letting in cool air had let in a bolt of lightning.

  Omar had arrived, slipping into the crowded room without the least bit of fanfare.

  I immediately recognized him, since I was a fan of the design competition television show on which he served as a judge. In fact, Grams and I hadn’t missed a single show during the entire spring season. She was constantly marveling over the talent and technical abilities of the competitors. I, meanwhile, was always amazed at how quickly the contestants could turn a few yards of fabric into something that people could actually wear.

  Like everyone else at the party, Omar was dressed in clothing that looked incredibly expensive and well-designed. He was wearing an off-white suit with a turquoise shirt and a bright red tie splattered with turquoise polka dots. Because he was chubby and on the short side, he didn’t have the elegant look that so many of his guests had. And somehow he gave off a vibe of being friendly and approachable.

  The eyeglasses that were perched on his nose helped create that feeling. They were fun: perfectly round with purple frames. The side pieces had purple and turquoise stripes.

  This was a man who didn’t take himself too seriously. I liked him immediately.

  In addition to coming across as a regular guy who hadn’t let his abundance of both talent and good luck go to his head, Omar also had a certain presence. Somehow you just knew he was someone special.

  “Those glasses are brand-new,” I heard Federico tell the exceedingly thin woman standing next to him. His voice was filled with pride as he added, “They’re from Omar’s fall collection of eyewear. They come in an entire rainbow of colors! Several shapes, too.”

  I half-expected him to whip out his order pad and see how many units she was interested in buying. But Omar had just held up his hands, motioning that he was about to speak. The entire group immediately grew hushed.

  “Good evening, everyone!” he said, clasping his hands in front of him. “I’d like to thank all of you for coming tonight. I know that most of you live in Manhattan—and that, astonishingly, some of you actually took the train to get here!”

  A ripple of laughter erupted.

  “I’d also like to thank all the people who have been working so hard to make tonight’s party a success,” Omar went on. “Federico, of course. My loyal, tireless, infinitely creative assistant. Where would I be without Federico?”

  Federico beamed, clearing enjoying all the attention. He blew a kiss at Omar, and a few people applauded.

  “And Mitchell, of course,” Omar said. “The yin to my yang. For every new idea I come up with, I need someone to tell me whether or not I can afford to make it happen.”

  Mitchell, standing toward the back, gave an awkward wave. I got the feeling that, unlike Federico, he was someone who preferred to stay in the background.

  “Gretchen Gruen—where are you, Gretchen?” Omar held his hands up to his forehead, shielding his eyes from imaginary sunshine as he scanned the crowd. “Ah, there you are, as lovely as always. I could not be here today if it weren’t for you.”

  Gretchen emerged from the crowd. Her black jeans and T-shirt had been replaced by a strapless black evening gown. It hugged her slender frame but had a slit off to one side that went almost up to her waist.

  “Most of all,” he went on, his eyes growing moist, “I must single out Pippa. Pippa Somers, one of the most important—no, let me amend that to the most important figure in the world of fashion today. And I literally mean the world. Paris, London, New York, Milan . . . and yes, even Tokyo. When it comes to being a real star, no one outshines our beloved Pippa.”

  Omar held out his arm. “Pippa, please come up. Let me give you a hug.”

  As she grew near, Omar choked out the words, “Thank you, Pippa, for making me who I am today.”

  With that, he gave her a big bear hug.

  “Love you, Omar!” Pippa cooed, hugging him back.

  “Love you more!” Omar replied.

  The crowd went wild, shrieking and applauding as if he’d just announced that a free Mercedes was waiting outside for each guest as a party favor.

  Once Pippa had stepped away, vanishing back into the crowd, Omar began speaking again.

  “I’d also like to thank some of the less-known people who helped make tonight happen. Marissa, my housekeeper, who does a truly amazing job. She is the queen of organization. Marissa, are you here?”

  Apparently she was not. But the crowd gave her a weak round of applause anyway.

  “And a big thank you to the hardworking people who provided the delicious goodies we’ll all be devouring tonight,” Omar said. “I’m especially grateful to Kate McKay, the owner of the Lickety Splits Ice Cream Shoppe in Wolfert’s Roost. Kate is enabling all of you to join me in gobbling up as much of my favorite food as possible. Let’s hear it for Kate, her staff, and hot fudge sundaes!”

  As the group applauded me, I could feel my cheeks growing pink. Like Mitchell, I gave an awkward wave, although I had an ice cream scoop in my hand as I did.

  “Now no more forcing my captive guests to listen to their windbag of a host,” Omar concluded. “Enjoy the evening—and I personally give each one of you my permission to eat as much ice cream as you possibly can!”

  For the next two hours, my team and I worked nonstop. While there were a few super-skinny people who steered clear of the ice cream, most of them women, there were plenty who were happy to take their cue from Omar and totally gorge on it.

  Willow and I stood side by side at the table, doing an assembly-line kind of thing. She scooped whatever flavors of ice cream each person individually requested, then handed me the huge bowl so I could douse it with hot fudge. The guests then gleefully helped themselves to whatever mix-ins they wanted to add. Nuts and M&Ms proved to be the most popular. Sprinkles, not so much. I was surprised that this crowd seemed to care more about taste and texture than appearance.

  I was just as surprised by how much ice cream this crowd put away. Rich or poor, thin or not so thin, fashion-conscious or part of the sweats-and-sneakers crowd, hardly anyone can resist ice cream.

  This group’s excitement over the opportunity to indulge in my sweet, creamy confections reinforced something I’d come to understand only after I’d opened Lickety Splits. And that was that by making and selling ice cream, I was doing much more than living out a longtime fantasy. I was providing people with the ultimate comfort food, one that was unique in its ability to serve as a treat, a reward, a celebration, a way to feel better on a bad day—or a way to simply enjoy life.

  When I finally paused to take a deep breath and glance at my watch, I was shocked to see that my stint here was nearly over. It was only then that I realized how physically tired I was: my legs, from standing; my arms and hands, from stirring and scooping hot fudge.

  But I was also exhilarated. The evening had been a real success. I’d held my own tonight, even in this posh environment. And while I’d assumed that this crowd would turn out to be a whole lot tougher than either the five-year-olds or the forty-year-olds I’d done parties for recently, in the end they turned out to be just like them: people who really loved ice cream.

  In fact, I was contemplating the sweet, creamy treat’s universal appeal and its infallible ability to bring people together when I suddenly heard a scream.

  So did everyone else in the room. We all froze, bringing the festivities to an immediate halt. The music stopped, people stopped chattering mid-sentence, and a horrible hush came over the entire room.

 
; A few seconds later Marissa came running into the room, her face twisted into a stricken expression.

  “It’s Omar!” she cried. “He’s dead!”

  She let out a choking sound, then uttered three words that instantly dropped the temperature in the room by at least fifty degrees.

  “He’s been murdered!”

  Chapter 3

  As for the hot fudge sundae, Clarence Clifton Brown, who owned C. C. Brown’s Ice Cream Shop on Hollywood Boulevard in Los Angeles, California, is credited with inventing it in 1906. His idea was to combine something hot and something cold to create a unique dessert. Needless to say, it was a great success.

  —from pralinesownmade.com/blog/the-history-of-the-hot-fudge-sundae/androadsideamerica.com

  It suddenly felt as if time had stopped.

  No one spoke. No one moved. It was as if no one breathed, either, as we all struggled to comprehend the words Marissa had just screamed.

  And then, as if a director had called “Action!” everyone seemed to be in motion.

  People began chattering away, the noise level rising to a deafening level. Some voices were tinged with panic, others with fury. But the atmosphere became one of total chaos.

  Despite the noise, I caught snippets of conversation.

  “What happened?”

  “How was he killed?”

  “Who could have done such a horrible thing?”

  “What are we supposed to do now? I’ve never been in a situation like this before!”

  And perhaps the most heartbreaking: “Omar? Who could possibly have wanted Omar dead? He was the sweetest person in the world!”

  And then, through all the confusion, a single voice broke through.

  “Please, everyone. Let’s stay calm!”

  The voice was female, colored by a British accent. Pippa Somers had fought her way through the crowd until she’d reached the same spot in which Omar had been standing at the start of the evening.

  “There’s no need to panic,” she went on, her clipped way of speaking making her sound even more like someone in charge. “I called 911, and the authorities are on their way. In the meantime, they have asked that no one leave the premises and that no one touch anything. So on their behalf I’m asking that you stay where you are until the police get here.”

  “How was he killed?” a man called out.

  Pippa looked stricken for a few seconds. And then, with her usual grace, she replied, “According to Marissa, it appears that he was strangled. With his own necktie.”

  Killed with his own necktie? I thought. The red one with the turquoise polka dots? A tie that he designed himself?

  The irony was excruciatingly painful.

  The next few minutes were nothing short of surreal. Here I stood in a room full of people who were dressed in their finest, sipping cocktails and eating ice cream in an incredibly elegant house. We were surrounded by fragrant bouquets of flowers, trays of champagne, even a chamber music group. Yet something unthinkable had just happened. And somehow the idea that everyone in this room had come together to be part of a glamorous event made what was going on even more horrifying, if that was possible.

  For what seemed like an excruciatingly long time, we were on hold, wondering what would come next as we desperately tried to process what had happened.

  And then the atmosphere shifted once again. Only another minute or two passed before people started talking again. At first they spoke softly, but before long their voices returned to the same near-deafening level as before.

  The one thing no one was doing was eating. I noticed that a few people headed straight for the bar, as if they needed fortification. But most of the guests stayed in the same spot, honoring Pippa’s request that no one move.

  I was tempted to start bringing the tubs of ice cream into the kitchen—and more importantly, putting them into the freezer. But I remembered Pippa’s other directive: that no one touch anything.

  So I had no choice but to stand by and watch the bountiful spread of ice cream a few feet away from me soften. What remained in the tubs of Classic Tahitian Vanilla, Chocolate Almond Fudge, Peanut Butter on the Playground, and Cappuccino Crunch was becoming visibly mushy. My beautiful Ice Cream Incidentals were sagging pitifully, the chocolate cookies on the top and bottom of the mini ice cream sandwiches converging against an amorphous glob of ice cream. The ice cream cupcakes were starting to list to one side.

  As for my Heavenly Hot Fudge Sauce, still perched above cans of Sterno that by this point were barely flickering, it was quickly taking on the consistency of mud.

  But I was concerned about something much more important than the decline of my lovely display of ice cream treats. Frantically I scanned the crowd, searching for my niece. Before I managed to spot her, I heard her voice right behind me.

  “Aunt Kate?”

  “Emma!” I cried, turning and instinctively giving her a hug. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m okay,” she replied in a shaky, scared-little-girl voice.

  “I’m so sorry you had to be subjected to this,” I told her, overcome with guilt. “I wish I could send you home, but you heard what Pippa said: the police want everyone to stay.”

  Willow appeared then, her expression one of great relief. “Oh, good, I found you both.”

  Ethan followed a few seconds later. Somehow, it just felt right for the four of us to be together. Especially since none of us knew another soul in the room.

  “I’m in shock!” Willow commented. “Omar seemed like such a nice man . . . It’s so hard to take this in.”

  Ethan nodded in agreement. “I feel like I’m in a movie or something.”

  Suddenly the mood in the room shifted once again. I immediately realized why.

  Someone new had come into the room. A tall, lean man who gave off an air of authority. His dark blond hair was cut as short as possible, and he was dressed in an ill-fitting suit that gave him the distinction of being the least stylish person in the room. Even Marissa’s maid’s uniform looked better designed.

  As he strode across the room, he surveyed the crowd, his expression serious and his eyes hard.

  My mouth became dry, and my stomach felt uncomfortably tight.

  “Who is that?” one of the guests standing behind me muttered.

  I knew exactly who it was. I’d met up with Detective Stoltz before.

  And my previous interactions with him had been anything but favorable. After all, the man had actually believed that I was someone who was capable of committing murder.

  And here I was again, smack in the middle of a crime scene.

  “If I could have everyone’s attention, please,” he began, immediately taking charge. “I’m Detective Stoltz from the Wolfert’s Roost Police Department. That gentleman over there in the doorway is Officer Bonano. As I believe most of you already know, a few minutes ago Omar DeVane was killed in what looks like a homicide. The room in which Mr. DeVane died is now a crime scene. Therefore, it is off-limits. The medical examiner is on his way, and other members of the police department are currently on-site, gathering evidence. In the meantime, I cannot state strongly enough that no one is permitted to go into that room.

  “In addition, no one is allowed to leave this room until further notice. I’m going to ask all of you to be patient as Officer Bonano takes down contact information for everyone who’s here. We need this information in case we have any follow-up questions during our investigation.

  “In the meantime,” Detective Stoltz went on, “I’ll be setting up a spot where I can speak with each of you, one at a time. What I’d like to do first is identify the individuals who were closest to the victim. I’m referring to other people who reside in the house, Omar DeVane’s employees, other close associates . . .”

  I knew I’d be low on that list. And I was glad.

  Still, the tightness in my stomach continued to gnaw at me as I waited with Emma and the rest of my entourage. As for the ice cream, I’d stopped worrying about its futu
re. Instead, I was worrying about how horrific the cleanup was going to be.

  Standing around in that room, waiting, was so excruciating that I was actually relieved when it was finally my turn to be questioned.

  I was approached by Officer Bonano—who, back in high school, was known simply as Pete Bonano. In those days, he was even better known for his skill as a football player than he was for his chocolate brown eyes, his curly dark brown hair, his chubby cheeks, and his friendly grin. I could see that he still possessed those last characteristics, aside from his smile, which at the moment was nowhere in sight.

  “Ms. McKay?” he said, looking a bit sheepish. “Detective Stoltz would like to speak with you next.”

  It’s me, Pete! I felt like screaming. Remember all those English classes we took together, with me sitting in the front row and raising my hand every time the teacher asked a question and you sitting in back, throwing spitballs at your buddies?

  But I remained silent as I followed the fellow who over the years had traded a football uniform for a police officer’s uniform.

  Detective Stoltz was holed up in a small room off the kitchen. He sat behind a table that at the moment was serving as a desk. A lone wooden chair was positioned opposite him. I wondered if he’d deliberately sought out the least comfortable chair in the house for the people he was questioning to sit in.

  “Ms. McKay, we meet again,” Detective Stoltz greeted me dryly. He motioned for me to sit in the wooden chair. The seat was even harder than I’d expected. “You seem to be someone who has a way of putting herself in the path of murder.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” I protested. “It’s just coincidence that I’m here tonight. The same way it was last time—”

  Detective Stoltz simply stared at me, making me think of the way insects are pinned to a board. I did my best to refrain from squirming.