Hot Fudge Murder

by Cynthia Baxter

It was all I could do to keep from adding, “young lady.” After all, I did sound like a protective parent.

  I knew what I was doing bordered on ridiculous. But I really did want an explanation.

  Grams sighed. “All right, Katydid, I’ll tell you. I didn’t want to say anything because it’s a little embarrassing.”

  My eyebrows shot up to my hairline. I could hardly wait to hear what she was going to say next. Was she about to admit that she was having an affair with Doug, our mail carrier? Or that she’d started sneaking off to the nearest casino because of a secret slot-machine addiction?

  Or maybe she’d found another ice cream shop somewhere in the Hudson Valley and didn’t want me to find out she’d become one of their best customers.

  Without making eye contact, Grams said, “I’ve starting going to the local senior center.”

  I blinked. To tell you the truth, I was disappointed in her answer.

  “A senior center?” I repeated. “That’s it?”

  With a shrug, she said, “I feel silly. At least, about you finding out. I don’t want you to think of me as . . . well, a senior citizen.”

  “But you are a senior citizen!” I replied.

  I was perfectly aware of Grams’s age. And it seemed to me that once you’d passed the age of seventy, you deserved a title of respect, which is what “senior citizen” was to me. She’d earned it along with whatever bonuses came along with it, including reduced ticket prices at the movies, a guaranteed seat on a bus, and being able to wear bedroom slippers in public if that was what you found the most comfortable.

  “Of course I am,” she replied. “But that doesn’t mean I want you to start seeing me that way! I don’t want you to think of me as old.”

  The expression on her face was despondent, and her shoulders were slumped. I reached over and hugged her.

  “Of course I don’t think of you as old,” I assured her as I gave her a good, hard squeeze. “You’re Grams ! You’re the most solid person in the world for me! You’re the one I know I can always count on, the one I know will always love me . . . and the one I’ll always love more than anyone else on the planet!”

  She hugged me back. “You don’t have to love me the most,” she replied. “Just make sure you keep me on your top-ten list.”

  “It’s a deal,” I told her, laughing. “Now tell me about this senior center. What do you do there?”

  Her face lit up. “Actually, it’s a lot more fun than I thought it’d be. I was getting kind of bored, staying at home. I certainly love all the crafts I do—the knitting, the sewing, the weaving, and everything else—but I’ve been feeling kind of lonely lately. Like I need to get out there and meet new people. And then I saw an article about the center in the Daily Roost and figured I’d give it a try.”

  “And you like it?” I prompted.

  Her smile widened. “I like it a lot. Oh, Katydid, I’ve met so many interesting people! There’s a man there who once competed in the Olympics. In fencing, of all things! And I’ve gotten to know so many women who are interested in knitting. Probably a dozen lovely ladies. In fact, we’ve been talking about forming a separate knitting group. And I’ve been told that once school starts in the fall, children from school bands and choruses in the area will be coming to perform. The first time I went, a representative of a travel company gave a lecture on tour groups geared toward retired people . . . I’ve already gotten so much out of it, and I’ve only gone a few times.”

  Now I was smiling. “Grams, I’m so happy for you. This sounds absolutely perfect. It also sounds as if you’re going to be going there regularly from now on.”

  Instead of agreeing, however, she simply shrugged.

  “Maybe,” was her mysterious reply. “I’ll have to give it a little more time before I decide if it’s really for me.”

  * * *

  While I was surprised by Grams’s surprising response about the long-term prospects of the senior center, I didn’t have time to dwell on it. I was too fixated on the evening ahead.

  I was strangely anxious about going to the movies with Jake. So I continued to remind myself that even if he was thinking of the evening ahead as a date, I wasn’t.

  Not when I still couldn’t bring myself to let go of the anger I’d harbored for all those years.

  So I was relieved that when he came to pick me up, he was simply his normal self. No flowers, no candy, no spiffy shirt or hair gel. Even more important, he didn’t appear to be the least bit nervous. He was just acting like, well, like Jake.

  “So has business picked up?” he asked as we drove toward Route 9.

  “Not really,” I replied. “Things in town are still ridiculously quiet.” With a sigh, I added, “I’m incredibly upset about how Omar DeVane’s murder is affecting not only me, but just about everybody in Wolfert’s Roost. Having such a horrible thing happen right under our noses has certainly cast a shadow over everyone who lives here. But it’s also turning out to be a total disaster for all the local businesses.”

  “Yeah, some of my customers were telling me the same thing earlier today,” Jake said. “One of them runs a restaurant over in Wappingers Falls. He said things have been pretty quiet there, too.”

  “So it’s not only affecting Wolfert’s Roost,” I mused. “It’s the whole area.”

  “Seems that way,” Jake said.

  “Actually,” I said casually, making a point of staring out the window, “Omar DeVane’s murder is turning out to be so disruptive that I thought I might do some poking around to see if I can find out anything that helps solve the case. You know, talk to some people to try to learn more about the man’s life and who might have wanted to get rid of him. I’m sure Detective Stoltz is doing a thorough job, but it’s hard not to want to jump in and get involved in something that’s having a negative effect on so many people.

  “I’ve already started,” I continued. “Yesterday I made up an excuse to go back to Omar’s house. I wanted to see if I could find out anything more about the people he kept close to him. And today Pippa Somers, the editor of Flair magazine and someone who’s known Omar for decades, came into the shop and asked me to cater a big memorial service for him on Sunday. After all, hot fudge sundaes were his favorite food. I’m thinking that might give me a chance to do a little sniffing around, too.”

  I glanced over at Jake, curious about what his reaction would be. I expected him to be shocked. Or at least to disapprove, launching into a speech on how dangerous it was to get involved in a murder investigation and how I would be better off leaving it to the professionals.

  So I was surprised when he said, “In that case, you may be interested in something I heard about today. I was at the bank, waiting in line, and I heard a couple of people talking about a photo shoot at Wilderstein tomorrow.”

  Wilderstein, whose name in German means “wild stone,” was an elegant estate in Rhinebeck that was now a tourist attraction but for over a hundred years had been the home of three generations of the Suckley family. I’d first visited it on a field trip back in the ninth grade. Built by a well-to-do property developer named Thomas Holy Suckley in 1853, the luxurious Queen Anne–style mansion was known for its lush interiors that had been designed by a cousin of Louis Comfort Tiffany and for its round, five-story tower overlooking the Hudson River. It was also famous for its sumptuous gardens, which were designed by Calvert Vaux, best known for designing New York City’s Central Park with his partner, Frederick Law Olmsted.

  But there was another interesting layer to Wilderstein’s history. The last member of the Suckley family to live there, Daisy, was a distant cousin of Franklin D. Roosevelt. In fact, she’s credited with giving him his famous Scottie, Fala, as a gift. When Daisy died, a stack of letters from FDR was found, their contents indicating that the two of them might have been more than friends.

  “But the really interesting part,” Jake went on, “is that the model they’re using is that famous one who was at Omar DeVane’s party Saturday night. Gretch
en Whatever-her-name-is.”

  “Gretchen Gruen,” I said. “Will she be modeling clothes that Omar designed?”

  “I don’t think so,” Jake replied. “At least, not based on what I heard. One of the people said something about this Gretchen person modeling the creations of some hot new designer. She said it would undoubtedly provide a tremendous boost to his career. I didn’t catch the designer’s name, but it didn’t sound as if Omar had anything to do with it.”

  That was good news, I figured, already plotting how I’d crash the fashion shoot. It meant that Federico wasn’t likely to be creeping about Wilderstein during the shoot. Federico of the soft silent soles and the big prying ears.

  “Do you know if the photos are for Flair?” I asked, wondering if Pippa Somers was likely to be there.

  Jake frowned. “I don’t think so. They mentioned the name of the magazine, but it definitely wasn’t Flair.”

  More good news. That meant Pippa Somers wouldn’t be at the shoot, either.

  All I needed was an excuse for me to be there. And I already had an idea.

  “So do you have any theories about who might have killed Omar DeVane?” Jake asked, glancing over at me from the driver’s seat.

  “Not yet,” I told him. “But what I’ve observed so far is that there are four people in Omar’s entourage who seem to have been particularly involved with the man. And they were all at the party Saturday night.”

  “So you’ve already put together a list of suspects.” There was a teasing glint in Jake’s eyes. “You’re faster than the folks on CSI.”

  I swatted at him playfully. “I’m just telling you what I’ve seen so far.”

  “And who are these people who’ve made your top-four list?” he asked.

  “Omar’s assistant, Federico, is at the top,” I began. “Then comes Gretchen Gruen. Another person of interest, shall we say, is his business manager, Mitchell Shriver, who’s known him since childhood. And the fourth is Pippa Somers, who’s pretty much credited with launching his career back in the eighties. But there’s apparently been some rockiness in their relationship over the years.”

  “That’s it?” Jake asked.

  “Actually,” I said thoughtfully, “there is one other person. His housekeeper, Marissa.” Quickly, I added, “But I don’t consider her a suspect. The only reason I’m even mentioning her is that she seems to have been a fairly big presence in his life.” Gazing out the window, I mused, “Besides, I get the feeling that Marissa was genuinely fond of Omar.” I thought for a moment, then said, “Of course, that’s true of Gretchen, too.”

  “Maybe they’re both just good at acting,” Jake noted. “Not that I’m cynical or anything.”

  I laughed. “True.” I thought of mentioning the confusion about the pretzel factory versus the spaetzle factory but decided it was insignificant. After all, People magazine, where I’d first read that anecdote, couldn’t possibly get one hundred percent of the facts right. Or what was more likely was that some public relations person had felt that pretzels made a better story than spaetzle, perhaps because pretzels were definitely the better-known carbohydrate of the two. Tastier, too, at least in my opinion.

  “Federico and Mitchell bicker constantly,” I went on, partly because Jake appeared to be genuinely interested and partly because I was thinking out loud. “Honestly, they act like two little kids. I don’t know how Omar could stand to have them both around.”

  “Any theories about what’s up with that?” Jake asked.

  I hadn’t really tried to come up with a reason before, but this seemed like the perfect time to do just that. “Mitchell has apparently known Omar since the two of them were children. They grew up together, which would account for Omar trusting him. At least, that’s how Mitchell tells the story.”

  “And we both know that when it comes to murder investigations, there can be a lot of different versions of the same story,” Jake interjected. “We can’t assume that anything anyone says is true.”

  “You’re certainly right about that,” I said. “As for Federico, he was apparently Omar’s right-hand man. But he strikes me as kind of a difficult person, which makes his constant presence in Omar’s life more of a puzzle. Why would Omar want to rely on someone who’s obviously self-centered and extremely temperamental? But the other side of the coin is that Federico seems to know a lot about style. He looks as if he truly belongs in the world of design. He was probably a real asset to Omar when it came to making decisions about fashion and trends and what would sell.”

  Thoughtfully I added, “I also wonder if Federico and Omar might have been involved in other ways, aside from business.” I let out a deep sigh. “Federico definitely strikes me as someone worth finding out more about.”

  “Hey, a parking space!” Jake suddenly cried. “Right near the theater, too.”

  By that point, we’d reached the center of Rhinebeck, a town that’s at least as cute as Wolfert’s Roost. I was surprised that we’d gotten here so fast. And relieved that we’d arrived without any awkward moments.

  While discussing a recent murder wasn’t exactly what I considered casual conversation, it had given Jake and me something to talk about. Something that didn’t involve us, that is.

  The movie was absorbing, both the funny parts and the heartbreaking parts. Still, as Jake and I sat together in the dark, I was back to feeling tense. But the only time our hands touched, it was an accident. We happened to make contact in the process of sharing a huge tub of buttery popcorn.

  Which reminded me that I really had to try making that Couch Potato’s Dream ice cream, the caramel flavor with the popcorn, pretzels, and potato chips.

  “That was a terrific movie,” I commented as we strolled out of the theater. “Thanks for inviting me.”

  “Thanks for coming.” Glancing at his watch, Jake said, “Hey, it’s only nine-thirty. Want to go somewhere for a drink or coffee?”

  “How about some ice cream?” I suggested, grinning. “I happen to know where to get the best ice cream in the Hudson Valley. For that matter, the best ice cream in the entire New York metropolitan area.”

  Jake feigned surprised. “What? You mean it’s not the best ice cream in the whole universe?”

  “Could be,” I said, laughing. “I heard about this one place on Mars that sounds like pretty stiff competition.”

  “In that case,” he said, “I’d be happy to settle for the closer place. I have to be up too early tomorrow to drive us all the way to Mars.”

  “Then Lickety Splits it is,” I said.

  * * *

  When we walked into my ice cream shop, Emma was standing behind the display counter. But she was clearly very bored. Her laptop was set up on the counter, and she was staring at the screen dully.

  A guilty look crossed her face as soon as she spotted us.

  “Kate!” she cried. “I was just—”

  “It’s fine,” I assured her, glancing around. “I can see that this place isn’t exactly bustling. In fact, why don’t you go on home? Or wherever you want to go.”

  “Home,” she said quickly. Too quickly.

  Even Jake seemed to notice. He caught my eye and raised his eyebrows questioningly. I just shrugged.

  Once we were alone, he commented, “I thought Emma and Ethan were the new Romeo and Juliet.”

  “They are,” I told him as I headed over to the display case. “But they’ve had more time together than Romeo and Juliet ever did. Which means it was inevitable that sooner or later some sort of conflict would arise.

  “I mean, can you imagine if Romeo and Juliet had gone on to have a long-term relationship?” I continued. “Or even got married? Think about the first time a major holiday came around. Midsummer Night’s Eve or something. Romeo would say, ‘My mom expects us to go to her house for dinner.’ And Juliet would say, ‘But your family hates me! Besides, my mother always makes a huge fuss. Midsummer Night’s Eve is her favorite holiday, and she always makes her special hedgehog pot roast.
She’d be devastated if we didn’t go to her house!’ ”

  Jake laughed. “Yeah, you’re right. I guess it’s impossible for any couple not to have some conflicts.”

  Time to change the subject.

  “So what flavors can I dish up for you?” I asked brightly, poised behind the counter with an ice cream scoop in hand. “Perhaps you’re in the mood for a Bananafana Split? Or may I suggest a Rootin’-Tootin’ Root Beer Float? Or maybe you’d like to go with Lickety Splits’ famous Hudson’s Hottest Hot Fudge Sundae?”

  “Definitely not a hot fudge sundae,” Jake said, pretending to shudder. “How about a big scoop of Cherry Cheesecake and . . . let’s see, a scoop of Dark Chocolate Hazelnut?”

  “Both are excellent choices,” I told him, already digging in. “And those two flavors happen to complement each other really well.”

  For me, I scooped up some Berry Blizzard, which is strawberry ice cream with locally grown organic strawberries, raspberries, and blueberries. I also added two delightful spices, cardamom and cinnamon, to give it extra zing.

  Even though the single scoop was generous, it looked lonely. So I added a second scoop: Chocolate Marshmallow.

  “Chocolate Marshmallow was one of my dad’s favorite flavors,” I said as I sat down opposite Jake at one of the round marble tables. “I remember him making me an ice cream cake for my third birthday. It had three layers of ice cream: chocolate marshmallow, vanilla fudge, and chocolate mint chip, which was my favorite at the time. In between he put crushed-up cookies. And there were sprinkles on top, along with candles and this crooked sign he made that said, ‘Happy Birthday, Kate!’ I still have pictures of it. It was easily the best birthday cake I’ve ever had.”

  “You were really close to your dad, weren’t you?” Jake said softly. “That’s something I remember you talking about when we were younger.”

  I nodded. “As I was saying the other night, he’s one of the main reasons I started Lickety Splits. There were a bunch of other reasons, too, of course. But my father loved ice cream so much that Lickety Splits is kind of a tribute to him.”