Hot Fudge Murder

by Cynthia Baxter

  Their topnotch web site had also helped the store thrive. Palma’s grandson, a tech wiz who now lived in Silicon Valley, had created an interactive feature that allowed shoppers to choose fabrics, pick a pattern, and instantly see exactly how the project would look when it was finished. It was no surprise that orders came pouring in.

  Usually, Selma and Palma dressed in fabulous garments they had handcrafted themselves, like a jacket made from a hundred pieces of fabric stitched together in a star pattern or a vest made from holiday-themed fabric with pumpkins or hearts or Christmas trees.

  Today was no exception. Palma was wearing mom jeans, a cream-colored T-shirt, and a short vest with a summertime theme. The background was smears of blue that looked as if they’d been applied with watercolor. And appliquéd along the edge were beach umbrellas, suns, starfish, and, I was glad to see, ice cream cones. Her nearly waist-length gray braid was tied at the end with the same watery blue fabric.

  Selma wore a solid green sundress with a jacket made of a hundred square patches in a hundred different shades of green. Somehow, they all seemed to blend together perfectly. I noticed that she was also wearing earrings that were two tiny spools of thread, dangling from below her short white pageboy. One earring was purple, and the other was royal blue, which added to their charm.

  But while every other time I’d seen them they’d exuded cheerfulness, today they both looked positively glum.

  “How’s business?” Selma demanded as she strode up to the display counter.

  “What Selma means is,” Palma interjected, “is it as bad for you as it is for us?”

  Selma nodded hard, making the spools of thread dangling from her ears dance. “This town is infested with journalists, photographers, and film crews today,” she grumbled. “The one thing that isn’t here is tourists.”

  Palma nodded. “It’s August!” she cried. “Tourists should be flocking to Wolfert’s Roost!”

  “You weren’t here last summer,” Palma went on, “but we had such a parking problem in town, especially on weekends, that the Chamber of Commerce formed a special committee to look into putting in another public parking lot.”

  “They were talking about putting it behind Let It Brie,” Selma said, referring to the gourmet cheese shop a few doors down on Hudson Street.

  Palma peered outside at the nearly deserted street and let out a long, loud sigh. “We don’t exactly have a parking problem today, do we?”

  “And who knows how long this will go on?” Selma said. “It could be days.”

  “It could be weeks,” Palma added, nodding.

  “It could be months!” Selma cried. “The bottom line is that no one’s going to want to come to our town for a fun and relaxing day as long as this horrible murder is in the news.”

  Palma and Selma continued to complain, but I’d stopped listening. Instead, I kept hearing the Tattletale reporter’s words echoing inside my head. He had said he hoped it would take “a long, long time” to find Omar DeVane’s murderer.

  And it was certainly true that a murder investigation could take a while. It was equally true that Lickety Splits was still new enough that a major drop in business—for months, weeks, or even days—could be devastating.

  It could even be fatal.

  I suddenly felt chilled to the bone, a feeling that had nothing to do with the frostiness of the display freezer I was standing in front of.

  It was at that moment that I made a decision. I was going to do everything I could to find out who had killed Omar DeVane—not only for me and the future of Lickety Splits, but for the good of the entire town.

  Chapter 6

  “Cream Ice,” as it was called, appeared regularly at the table of King Charles I of England during the 17th century.

  —http://www.idfa.org/news-views/media-kits/ice-cream/the-history-of-ice-cream

  On Monday morning, downtown Wolfert’s Roost was as quiet as it had been late on Sunday afternoon after the news crews had dispersed.

  That wasn’t surprising, since that’s the way Monday mornings always are. It happens to be one of the main reasons I enjoy the start of a new week. Hudson Street seems reborn. It feels fresh and clean and ready to jump right into the new week after the craziness of Sunday’s crush of day-trippers.

  I followed my usual Monday-morning routine. As I unlocked the front door of Lickety Splits, I spotted Carrie Porter, the owner of Petal Pushers, unpacking her van. Today, like on most other Mondays, I stood in my doorway for a minute or two, watching her cart armloads of flowers into her shop: long-stemmed roses in half a dozen different colors, brilliant orange tiger lilies, purple hyacinths, and clusters of vibrant blossoms whose names I didn’t know. The morning breeze was just right, and I got a whiff of what heaven surely must smell like.

  Several of the other shops along Hudson Street were getting deliveries, too. A small white van was parked in front of Toastie’s, and a young man was unloading crates of produce. I could practically taste one of Big Moe’s crispy Belgian waffles smothered with fresh strawberries, sliced bananas, and whipped cream.

  Other shopkeepers were cranking the handles of their awnings. That included Brody Lundgren, who I noticed was doing exactly that at his shop across the street. All along Wolfert’s Roost’s main drag, lights were being turned on, doors were being propped open with doorstops, and CLOSED signs were flipped over in shop windows so that they now read OPEN.

  Yet while Monday morning usually makes me feel as if I’m making a fresh start, today I sensed a feeling of doom hanging over Wolfert’s Roost. It reminded me of the dark gray clouds that gather in the late-summer sky, a warning that violent thunderstorms are on their way. True, that time of year was almost upon us. But today’s oppressiveness had nothing to do with the weather.

  My determination to get to the bottom of Omar DeVane’s murder was stronger than ever.

  I’d been so keyed up the night before that it had taken me forever to fall asleep. My mind had churned out one scenario after another, each centered on how I could figure out who had killed the famous fashion designer.

  And I’d come up with a great first step. One that had to be accomplished that very morning.

  Which was why my heart was pounding a little harder than usual as I whipped up two fresh batches of ice cream. One was a standard at Lickety Splits: Hawaiian Coconut, made with fresh coconut and big chunks of crunchy macadamia nuts. One lick and you found yourself transported to a sandy, palm-tree-lined beach on Maui. The other was a cinnamon-and-vanilla concoction I planned to call Snickerdoodle-doodle. Cinnamon wasn’t a flavor I associated with summer, but then again, I reasoned it was refreshing enough that it was appropriate year-round.

  To be perfectly honest, I had no idea if I would even have any customers today. But I wanted to be ready if I did.

  While my ice cream maker was churning away, spinning straw into gold—actually, cream, sugar, and other yummy ingredients like the fresh coconut I’d chopped up myself and fragrant cinnamon from Sri Lanka—I did what any respectable amateur sleuth would do to kick off an investigation.

  I Googled “Omar DeVane.”

  Wow.

  A full page of listings came up. And the row of numbers along the bottom promised many more. But I figured that was to be expected with someone so well-known.

  I started with Wikipedia.

  His biography was surprisingly brief. Formal, too. It consisted of little more than a string of bare facts. Omar had been born in New York City. His father was an extremely successful businessman, and his mother was a fund-raiser for a charitable organization. He attended the best schools, culminating with a year studying design in Paris and another learning the business in Milan.

  Then came the launch of his boutique on Madison Avenue, ODV Design World. Soon after it opened, his fashions had been featured in Flair. Then, a string of runway shows all over the world, industry awards, and expansion into one new area after another, each accomplishment increasing his fame. His fortune, too.
<
br />   Next I clicked on his web site. And even though I already knew that Omar was a serious player in the world of fashion, it bowled me over.

  What struck me immediately was the way it exuded good taste. The home page was quietly dignified, radiating sophistication and luxury. A soft shade of pale blue served as a background for the brand’s familiar font: the gold initials ODV swirled together in a curlicue font.

  The only other printing on the page was a gold bar along the top. It invited me to explore ten different areas: Women’s, Men’s, Children’s, Handbags, Shoes, Jewelry, Eyewear, Accessories, Gifts, and Home. That last category, I assumed, included—or was slated to include—Omar’s new furniture designs, the launch of which I’d overheard Mitchell and Federico arguing about.

  I clicked around and learned that the Women’s category included dresses, sportswear, bathing suits, lingerie, and coats. Men’s offered everything from T-shirts to tuxedos. As for the Accessories category, it covered a wide assortment of items, ranging from scarves to iPhone cases to wallets.

  In other words, Omar’s company had been involved in pretty much every imaginable aspect of fashion.

  I was impressed by how the man had managed to turn his creativity into such a large and successful business. Then again, he’d had Mitchell Shriver to help. I got the sense he was the brains behind the business aspects of the operation. And Omar had had Federico as well, a man who clearly had a unique sense of style.

  And no doubt Gretchen Gruen, one of the most famous faces of his brand, had played a large part in Omar’s enterprise. She wasn’t only beautiful; she was one of those unique individuals who positively glowed. Pippa Somers, too, had played a key role in Omar’s life, providing ongoing support for both the man and his products.

  Was it possible that one of them had killed him?

  I realized that I’d only encountered a small part of Omar’s entourage. After all, there had been seventy-five guests at Saturday night’s event.

  Yet I suspected that those four—Federico, Mitchell, Gretchen, and Pippa—were the people who had been closest to Omar. They were four individuals who had the most to gain—or lose—from whatever went on in his life.

  So even if none of them had had any reason to want him dead, I had a strong feeling that they knew enough about Omar and his fashion empire to help me figure out who had.

  * * *

  I was lowering the freshly made tub of Hawaiian Coconut ice cream into the display case when Emma came bursting into the shop.

  “Good morning, Kate!” she greeted me. “It sure felt great to sleep in this morning. And Grams made a fresh batch of peach muffins for breakfast. Yum!”

  All I’d had was some leftover coffee, heated up in the microwave.

  But before I had a chance to feel too sorry for myself, Emma reached into the purple backpack she almost always had with her, since she never liked to be more than three feet away from her laptop. She pulled out two oversized muffins, wrapped in paper towels. When she handed them to me, I discovered that they were still warm.

  Grinning, Emma said, “No one, including you, Kate, can live on ice cream alone!”

  Once I’d fortified myself with one of the muffins, I updated Emma on a few details concerning the shop.

  “And now I’ll be off,” I told her. “I’m leaving you in charge this morning.”

  “Fine,” she said, tying a black-and-white-checked Lickety Splits apron around her waist. “Hopefully we’ll have some real, live customers. Where are you going?”

  “I’m just running some errands,” I told her.

  I wasn’t quite ready to tell her about my real mission for the morning: following in the footsteps of my childhood idol, Nancy Drew.

  * * *

  This time, as I turned into the driveway of Omar DeVane’s estate, I was prepared for the mind-boggling display of wealth I knew I was about to be confronted with.

  What I wasn’t prepared for, however, was the heaviness that hung over Greenaway, the same feeling I’d sensed downtown.

  At least, that was the way it seemed to me.

  Even though the sun was shining, even though a brand-new day was just getting under way, I could practically see a dark cloud hanging over the huge stone mansion that loomed in front of me.

  The man had had everything. International fame and respect, the opportunity to work in a glamorous field he clearly loved, a ridiculous amount of money, and, perhaps most important, a long list of similarly successful, sophisticated friends who truly seemed to like and admire him.

  I wondered if he would have been willing to trade in all of it for a few more years.

  Still, I tried to find solace in the fact that Omar had truly enjoyed his life, rather than simply mourning the ugly and abrupt way in which it had ended. I also reminded myself that I needed to put aside the flood of emotion that was engulfing me and instead focus on the reason I was here.

  I parked near the back door, reminding myself with amusement that Federico had referred to it as the “servants’ entrance.” This time, I was actually pleased that I’d be able to get into Omar’s house without much fanfare. After all, the main reason I’d come here today was to do a little spying. And I figured that the best spies were the ones who could blend into the background.

  I knocked on the back door. A few seconds later, Marissa answered.

  As soon as I saw her face, all the emotions I’d been fighting off swooped over me once again. Her eyes were swollen and rimmed in red, which explained the tremendous wad of crumpled tissues bulging out of her apron pocket. Her black hair was pulled back into a bun, just as it had been on Saturday evening. But so many strands had come loose that it was clear that her appearance was the last thing she was thinking about.

  In addition to these obvious changes, her entire demeanor was different. Her shoulders were slumped, her facial features sagged, and she seemed to be surrounded by the same cloud that I was sure I’d seen hanging over the house.

  She really cared about him, I thought. Marissa was much more than Omar’s housekeeper.

  “I don’t know if you remember me,” I started to explain. “I’m Kate McKay from the Lickety Splits Ice Cream Shoppe—”

  “Of course I know who you are,” Marissa said, opening the door wider. “Come on in, Kate.”

  As I followed her into the kitchen, I launched into the little speech I’d prepared as I’d driven over. “I’m sorry to bother you at such a terrible time, but I’m afraid that in the chaos of Saturday night, I forgot a few things. Some serving platters, a couple of trays . . .”

  Marissa waved her hand in the air. “Just look around and take whatever is yours.”

  “Thank you,” I said. I really had left some things behind, although nearly all of the items had been picked up in local thrift shops. They’d only cost a few dollars apiece and were completely expendable.

  “You should probably check the sunroom, too,” Marissa suggested. “I tried to clean everything up, but there’s a good chance I left some things behind.” With an apologetic smile, she added, “As you can imagine, I’ve been a bit distracted over the past couple of days.”

  “I’m sure,” I said sympathetically. “How are you holding up?”

  “It’s hard,” she replied with a shrug. “But I’ve found it helpful that a few of Omar’s friends are staying around. He always liked to have a house full of people, especially during the summer. His guests had been planning to stay all week, and I didn’t see any reason to ask them to leave.” She bit her lip. “Of course, that’s not a decision that would be up to me, anyway.”

  I wondered whose decision it would be but didn’t ask.

  “I’m pretty sure these plates are yours,” Marissa said, abruptly changing the subject. She pointed at two of the platters I’d brought along for serving my Ice Cream Incidentals. “I washed them and put them aside, figuring you might come back for them.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll check the sunroom now.”

  I just assum
ed I’d find it empty. So I let out a yelp of surprise when I walked in and found Gretchen Gruen draped across an upholstered lounge chair. She was idly filing her perfectly polished nails with a silver nail file. But aside from the minimal effort she was exerting, she lay perfectly still, looking as if she were posing for a photograph.

  And it wasn’t only because of the way she’d positioned herself. It was also because she was wearing an outfit that would have looked great on a magazine cover: loose-fitting black pants, a flowing white silk blouse with a low-cut V-neck, and glittery gold sandals. Her jewelry accented her ensemble perfectly: a gold necklace consisting of a thick chain and a pendant shaped like a flattened donut, simple gold hoop earrings, and a similarly simple gold bangle bracelet.

  Her makeup was subtle, applied so perfectly that she didn’t appear to be wearing any. It was almost possible to believe that her cheeks really were tinged with just the right amount of color and her eyelashes truly were that dark and that long. Her pale blond hair hung loose, as if it hadn’t been styled. But there was enough height to it and enough of a swirl along the bottom that I suspected that that particular effect had required plenty of time, effort, and product.

  I decided she must always look this well put-together. Habit, perhaps. Or maybe it was because she was so frequently photographed by the prying paparazzi who followed her wherever she went. She probably figured that she might as well look good in the photos they were inevitably going to splash all over the tabloids.

  As soon as she spotted me, she slipped the nail file into her pants pocket. I wondered if she felt a little guilty about being caught engaged in an act of vanity in the midst of such a tragedy.