Hot Fudge Murder

by Cynthia Baxter

  When the doorbell rang again, I jumped.

  “Maybe that’s Stoltz,” I said, instantly filled with dread. “As in ‘speak of the devil.’ ”

  But it wasn’t Detective Stoltz I found standing on the doorstep once I opened the door. It was Brody.

  “Hey!” I cried, surprised. In fact, I immediately added, “What a surprise!”

  “Hey, yourself,” he replied with a wide grin. “I hope you don’t mind me stopping by like this, but I wanted to see how you were doing. I noticed that you closed early today. I assumed it was because business was so slow. It’s been the same with me, although I figured it would take me a while to get things going even under the best of circumstances. Anyway, are you holding up okay?”

  “I’m doing fine,” I replied. I sounded calm enough, but my mind was racing. After all, Jake was sitting in the living room. And now, here was Brody.

  But Brody isn’t anyone, I told myself. I mean, not to me. He’s no one aside from another merchant in town, a merchant who I’ve become friends with. Not even friends. Acquaintances. Barely.

  Yet Willow and Emma’s teasing words about how he couldn’t take his eyes off me or some such nonsense were echoing in my head.

  I told myself I was reading too much into this. There was nothing wrong with a friendly visit from the gentleman who ran the shop across the street from mine.

  With or without Jake Pratt sitting on my couch.

  “Why don’t you come in?” I said to Brody. “We were just about to have some ice cream.”

  His grin widened. “Ice cream sounds perfect. It’s really hot out there. This is a heck of an August we’re having.”

  My plan was to walk Brody into the living room, introduce him to Jake, and then retreat to the kitchen to instruct my team of ice cream scoopers to bring in one more serving. But as the two of us strolled over to Jake, the tension in the air immediately became as thick as whipped cream.

  It may have been hot outside, but it was even hotter in here.

  “Hey,” Jake greeted him, eyeing the newcomer warily.

  “Hey,” Brody returned. His tone was breezy, but I picked up on the fact that he was sizing up Jake in the exact same way Jake was sizing him up.

  “Jake, this is Brody Lundgren. You just missed meeting him yesterday. Brody is the owner of the new outdoor shop that opened across the street from Lickety Splits.”

  I was trying to sound matter-of-fact, but even I could hear the strain in my voice. Somehow I felt as if I was standing in the middle of the ring of a cockfight, introducing the two contenders.

  “And Brody, this is Jake Pratt.” I paused, not sure how to describe Jake and my relationship with him. Finally, what I came up with was, “Jake and I have known each other since high school.”

  They both mumbled another round of “Heys,” still eyeing each other warily.

  When Emma chose that moment to walk in, I felt like hugging her. It wouldn’t have been possible, though, since she was clutching a tray with four ice cream dishes. Each one contained a scoop of Pistachio Almond and a scoop of Chocolate Almond Fudge.

  “Here’s our ice cream!” I cried inanely. “I consider this combination my own personal tribute to the almond.”

  “I hope everyone likes—oh, hello, Brody!” Emma said. Her entire posture changed. Instead of Waitress, she was back to being Saloon Girl.

  “Hello, Emma,” Brody replied warmly. “Nice to see you again.”

  “Nice to see you, too—”

  “Emma, thank you so much for bringing in the ice cream,” I interrupted. “But we’ll need one more dish. So why don’t you hand those out and I’ll go get some for myself?”

  “I can do it,” Emma said.

  “No, really. I insist.”

  With that, I dashed out of the room, seeking refuge in the kitchen. I wished I could crawl into the freezer and spend the rest of the evening in hiding.

  I found Grams wiping splatters of melted ice cream off the counter.

  “Did I hear the doorbell again?” she asked.

  “We have another guest,” I told her. “Brody Lundgren, who just opened the shop across the street from mine. He arranges adventure tours.”

  “How nice that he’s joined us for the evening!” Grams said.

  You only think that because you haven’t seen the two alpha males pounding their chests in the living room, I thought.

  “Come meet him,” I added, figuring that the more people in the room, the more distractions there would be.

  As Grams and I returned to the living room, I saw that Jake was still sitting on the couch, while Brody had taken a seat way on the other side of the room. Emma, meanwhile, was sitting in the space between them, chattering away.

  “So I figured I’d take a year off before I decide what to do next,” she was saying cheerfully. “I’m hoping that having some time to myself, time to just think, will give me a better idea of what direction I want to go off in. And being able to live with Grams and Kate, two of my absolute favorite people in the world, is totally awesome. I’ve been working at Lickety Splits, which means I can be a help to Kate, and I’m doing some chores around the house to make things easier for Grams. Kate, too, since she’s got plenty to do with the shop . . .”

  Brody stood up when Grams walked in. “Good evening, ma’am,” he said.

  “Oh, heavens, you don’t have to get up,” Grams said, waving her hand in the air. But the bright shade of pink of her cheeks made it clear that she was impressed. “I’m Caroline Whitman, Kate’s grandmother. And Emma’s great-grandmother!”

  “I prefer to call you Grams,” Emma interjected. “ ‘Great-Grams’ would be too complicated.”

  “I’m Brody Lundgren.” He crossed the room to shake her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Jake just glowered.

  “Now if you young people don’t mind,” Grams continued, “I’m going to take my ice cream into my bedroom so I can watch TV. I don’t mean to be rude, but I just remembered that there’s a television program on right about now that I hate to miss. It’s one of those cooking shows. I believe they’re demonstrating a Grand Marnier soufflé tonight!”

  She trotted off to watch what I suspected was an imaginary cooking show. That left the four of us sitting together in a cloud of awkwardness. An uncomfortable silence hovered in the room for what seemed like forever but was probably more like five or ten seconds.

  Thank goodness, we each had a dish of ice cream in front of us. At least we could pretend we were so absorbed in eating that we couldn’t possibly carry on a conversation.

  “Wow, this is really good,” Brody commented as he shoveled in a big spoonful of Chocolate Almond Fudge. I noticed that he was one of those people who eats all of one flavor before embarking on the second flavor. Me, I like to skip around.

  “Of course it’s good,” Jake shot back. “Kate is a master. Everything she makes is incredible.”

  Brody grinned. “In that case, I’m glad my shop is located right across the street from hers!”

  Score one point for Brody, I thought. Not that there was any need to keep score.

  “I hope I don’t get fat,” Brody added. “This stuff is addictive.”

  “Maybe you’ll have to limit the amount of time you spend at Lickety Splits,” Jake countered. “Besides, won’t you be out hiking and rock climbing most of the time?”

  “Actually, I plan to hire local people to be guides. I’ve already put up ads on a couple of web sites.” Brody studied Jake for a second or two, then said, “If you know anybody who’s in good shape and is well-coordinated, send them my way.”

  Ooooh. That one hurt. A second point for Brody.

  “What is it you do, again?” Brody asked.

  “I run an organic dairy,” Jake replied tartly.

  “Ah,” Brody said dismissively. “Cows.”

  Before Jake had a chance to come up with a retort, Brody turned to me.

  “So-o-o,” he said. “Why ice cream?”


  I shrugged. “A few reasons. One reason is that I love it. And it’s a passion my dad and I shared, ever since I was a little girl. He passed away when I was pretty young, which is when my mother brought my two sisters and me here to live in my grandmother’s house.

  “And in more practical terms,” I went on, “I was looking for a way to make a living. Preferably one that didn’t involve going to an office every day. I enjoyed that lifestyle well enough while I was living in the city, but now that I’m up here, I wanted to do something different.” Another shrug. “And Lickety Splits seemed like the way to go.”

  “Very cool,” Brody said, nodding. “Just like me. Find something you really love, and make it the center of your life.”

  “I actually enjoy the dairy business,” Jake interjected. But he sounded anything but convincing.

  “I just had a great idea!” Emma suddenly exclaimed, setting her empty ice cream dish on a table. “Let’s play a game!”

  Jake cast her a wary look. “I don’t really play games.”

  “I like video games,” Brody offered.

  Jake’s expression instantly changed to one of disdain. Which annoyed me. I had yet to meet a man in his thirties who wasn’t now, or hadn’t at one point, been a video game addict, or at least an aficionado. I suspected that he was no exception.

  “Then let’s play a game that isn’t a real game,” Emma said brightly. “Let’s play Trivial Pursuit!”

  “I really don’t think—” Jake protested.

  “I’m not sure—” Brody said at the same time.

  But Emma wasn’t taking no for an answer. She’d already pulled the Trivial Pursuit box off the shelf where it was stacked up with a few other classic board games that dated back to my childhood.

  I realized immediately that her idea was a brainstorm. Answering questions about trivial matters was so much easier than dealing with the complicated matters at hand.

  “We’ll form two teams,” Emma announced. “Brody, you can be on my team. Jake and Kate, you’ll be the other team.

  “That way,” she added, “each team has a female, who’s likely to be better at the Entertainment questions, and a male, who will no doubt be better at the Sports questions.”

  “That’s sexist,” I mumbled, even though I suspected there was some truth to her analysis.

  She ignored the looks of dismay on Jake and Brody’s faces as she opened the board in the middle of the coffee table and picked out one of the colorful wheels for each team. Next, she divided the question cards into two separate piles, placing one at each end so we could all reach them easily.

  “Who goes first?” Emma asked brightly. She reminded me of a kindergarten teacher, focusing all her energy on infusing the room with enthusiasm.

  When none of us expressed the least bit of interest in that particular issue, she said, “You know what? My team will go first, since playing was my idea. We’ll be orange.”

  She threw the dice, got a three, and moved her small plastic wheel to a green space. “Green is Science and Nature,” she said. “Kate, pick a card and ask my team a question.”

  I did as I was told. “Which plant takes away sunburn pain?”

  “That’s easy,” Emma replied. “Aloe. Brody, are you okay with that answer?”

  “Sure,” he said. “It’s something I use all the time. Of course, I’m usually pretty careful about using sunblock. I wear a sun hat, too, since my coloring is so fair.”

  “Then maybe you shouldn’t spend so much time outdoors,” Jake muttered.

  “Aloe is correct!” I cried, doing my best game show host impersonation. “Emma, your team gets to go again.”

  After inserting a green wedge into her team’s wheel, Emma threw the dice again and moved to an orange space.

  “Sports,” she declared. “Question, please.”

  Dutifully I picked up another card. “Who was the last professional ice hockey player who played the game without wearing a helmet?”

  Emma looked at Brody. “I told you we needed a guy on each team to answer the Sports questions. Brody?”

  He shook his head. “I have no idea.”

  Jake was grinning.

  “Craig MacTavish,” I read the answer from the card.

  “That’s a tough one, unless you happen to be a serious hockey fan,” Brody grumbled.

  “I would have gotten it,” Jake insisted. “And I’m not that big a fan.”

  “How would you have known that?” Brody challenged.

  “Everybody knows that,” Jake shot back. “He’s Canadian. He played for the Boston Bruins, the Philadelphia Flyers, the New York Rangers . . . a couple of other teams, too, including a Canadian one. And everyone knows that one of the things he’s famous for is being the last NHL player to play without a helmet, back in the late seventies.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Emma commented. “Obviously.”

  The two men just glared at each other.

  The rest of the night proceeded in pretty much the same way. Emma and I were playing Trivial Pursuit, while Jake and Brody were playing an entirely different game.

  The only part of the evening that could have qualified as even remotely fun was when a question about the Kardashians came up. It turned out that none of us could name more than two members of a family famous for its mega amounts of money, makeup, and melodrama.

  By the time the clock struck ten, we still didn’t have a winner.

  “It’s getting late,” Emma announced abruptly. “Even though we haven’t finished the game, I’ve got to get to bed. Those of us who work in the fast-paced ice cream industry have to get up with the birds. Good night, everybody!”

  As she skittered off, Jake stood up. “And those of us in the milk industry have to get up with the cows,” he added. He glanced over at Brody. “Can I give you a lift home?”

  At first, I was startled by the generosity of his offer. But then I realized he had an ulterior motive: preventing Brody from staying behind, which would leave the two of us alone together.

  His ploy didn’t work. “Thanks, but I drove here,” Brody replied.

  But he, too, stood up to leave.

  “So, Kate,” Jake said in a voice I thought was unnecessarily loud, “I’ll be seeing you tomorrow night. The movie we’re seeing starts at seven, so why don’t I swing by to pick you up around six-fifteen? That way we won’t have to rush.”

  Brody looked shocked. I actually felt sorry for the guy. But I simply mumbled, “Sounds good.”

  By that point, I could hardly wait for this excruciating evening to end. But as I was shepherding the two men out the door, Jake suddenly said, “Hey, I don’t have my phone. It must have fallen out of my pocket. I’d better go look for it.”

  He headed back into the house. Brody, meanwhile, had no choice but to head out. After all, he couldn’t every well claim that he, too, had lost his phone.

  When I went back into the house, I found Jake standing in the living room. He wasn’t even pretending to look for a lost phone.

  “So what’s up with that guy?” he demanded.

  “You mean Brody?” I said. “Nothing. He’s just a friend. Not even. He’s merely another friendly shopkeeper.”

  “Hmph,” Jake replied. He looked anything but convinced.

  As I climbed into bed a half hour later, I expected to feel agitated about the tense evening. Instead, I was surprised that I felt as if I was floating.

  I realized it was actually fun having two men vying for my affections.

  Especially since they were both—to use an ice cream term—utterly delicious.

  The problem was that with men, as with ice cream, no matter how many delectable possibilities there were, in the end you had to make a choice.

  Chapter 8

  In January 2017, the town of Nashville, Michigan, working with the local Moo-ville Creamery, broke the Guinness World Record for the longest ice cream sundae. The Nashville sundae contained 864 gallons of ice cream, 36 gallons of chocolate syrup, 5
6 gallons of strawberries, 172 cans of whipped cream, and 7,200 Michigan-grown cherries. It was 3,656 feet long and weighed over 5,400 pounds.

  —https://www.upi.com/Odd_News/2017/01/09/Michigan-town-scoops-ice-cream-record-with-3656-foot-long-sundae/5271483972139/

  I slept well that night, reveling in my new role as femme fatale. Even though I wasn’t sure how I felt about either Jake or Brody—or even whether I wanted a man in my life at all—it felt great being pursued by not one but two suitors.

  I was in such a good mood, in fact, that I decided to indulge my creative side and try out a brand-new flavor of ice cream that I’d been unable to stop thinking about: Pear with Blue Cheese.

  Yes, I know it sounds weird. But since those two foods go together so beautifully—the sharp tanginess of the blue cheese playing off the sweetness of the pear—I couldn’t wait to see how such a satisfying combination would translate into ice cream.

  So first thing on Tuesday morning, before heading into Lickety Splits, I made a quick run to the closest farm stand, which opened when the sun came up. I picked up a big basket of organic pears that looked so luscious and smelled so sweet it was all I could do to keep from devouring them on the spot.

  Next, I pulled up in front of Let It Brie, the cheese shop a few doors down from Lickety Splits. Even though it was still early, its proprietor, Elton Hayes, was already bustling about his store, fussing with a display of Stilton. The setup he was constructing consisted not only of a tower of cheese, but also cute little Tudor houses, tiny trees, and miniature farm animals, all of it meant to recreate the quaint English town where the cheese was made.

  Elton, a sweet, slightly paunchy man who at forty has already lost most of his hair, was only too happy to sell me a generous slab of a ripe blue cheese. He was even more excited than I was that it was about to be turned into ice cream.

  Sure enough, I came up with a winning flavor. Not only was it delicious, thanks to the interplay of the two opposing yet strangely complementary flavors, but there was also the delectably creamy texture that came from the ice cream itself. As soon as I nervously tried my first spoonful, I knew I’d created something that was going to sell like hot cakes—which got me thinking that Hot Cakes might make a fabulous flavor, too. (The flavor of butter with a hint of maple, and perhaps even some bits of actual pancake . . . ? Maybe even toss in a few blueberries . . . ? )