Hot Fudge Murder

by Cynthia Baxter

  As I rang the doorbell, my heart was pounding. I wished I’d taken the time to get my nails done and my eyebrows threaded. Or at least washed my hair.

  The door opened, and I found myself face-to-face with a pretty young woman in a black dress and white apron. Her blond hair was pulled back into a neat bun.

  She looked about as out of place in this house as a pink flamingo lawn ornament.

  “You must be Ms. McKay,” she greeted me. She spoke with an accent that sounded Eastern European.

  “That’s me,” I replied, holding up the folder I’d brought along with me as if to prove my identity.

  “Please come in,” she said, moving aside. “Ms. Somers is expecting you.”

  I expected the house’s interior to be just as distinctive as the exterior. And as I followed the housekeeper, I saw that I was correct. The furniture was ultramodern: an S-shaped swerve of leather that was a chair, a coffee table that appeared to be suspended in midair. The artwork was similarly stark, from the painting that appeared to be nothing more than a blank canvas to the piece of sculpture in one corner that was a series of three-foot metal sticks standing parallel to each other.

  But what I didn’t expect was that pretty much everything would be white.

  The walls were white, the furniture was white, the carpets were white. Even the art, like the blank canvas, was white. A bouquet of white roses stood on a table, their dark green stems practically garish.

  You could perform surgery in here, I thought.

  I wished I’d brought Emma with me. Given her artistic talents, I would have loved to hear her take on how to inject color into this stark, impersonal backdrop.

  The housekeeper walked me into a giant living room. Surprise: more white.

  Pippa was perched on the edge of the stark white couch, talking on a cell phone. Her outfit was pale gray, consisting of another pair of perfectly tailored pants and a simple sleeveless top. Still, the contrast of the color of their fine linen fabric against the backdrop of her completely white surroundings was positively startling.

  As always, her hair was carefully styled in her signature flip, with not a single strand out of place. Her nails, her eyeliner, her light dusting of blush . . . it all looked exactly the way you’d expect from the world’s most famous and influential fashion editor.

  I tried not to be rude by listening in, but since she was only a few feet away from me, I couldn’t help overhearing.

  “Desmond, darling,” she was saying sweetly, “I suggest that you remind him that merely showing a swatch of his third-rate made-in-China faux leather in Flair would be enough to get him and his dim-witted wife and his ugly children out of Yonkers and into a town that matters, someplace like Chappaqua or Scarsdale or Bedford Hills. Perhaps then he’ll see his way to extending the payment date.”

  She ended her call and smiled at me. “Kate! How nice to see you. Please sit down.”

  I did as she suggested.

  “Thank you so much for coming by,” Pippa continued. “I did think it was important for you to see the space.” Raising both arms dramatically, she indicated the rooms around her. “Here it is, my own little ‘Hudson hideaway.’”

  “Your home is lovely,” I said politely. But what I was thinking was that we’d better avoid dark-colored ice cream like chocolate and strawberry and even coffee. Vanilla, yes. Butter Pecan, maybe. Meyer Lemon, possibly.

  Then I remembered that hot fudge sauce was to be at the core of my ice cream offerings. Involuntarily, I shuddered.

  “Before we start, may I offer you anything?” Pippa asked graciously. “Coffee or tea?” Her face lit up. “How about some champagne?”

  I automatically glanced at my watch, wanting to make sure that it really was only eleven o’clock in the morning.

  “Um, coffee sounds good,” I said. I made a mental note not to spill any on the white carpet.

  Pippa was already calling to her housekeeper. “Katarina, would you please bring in some coffee for our guest? And some champagne would be lovely, as well. You can bring the bottle that’s already open. Thank you so much.”

  Turning back to me, she commented, “I think starting the day with a glass of champagne is so civilized. Don’t you?”

  Actually, I’m a Cappuccino Crunch girl, I was tempted to say. But I simply smiled.

  Katarina came in almost immediately with a tray. No doubt she had been anticipating Pippa’s request. On it was a sleek, modern-looking silver coffeepot with a matching creamer and sugar bowl. Two snow-white linen napkins were neatly folded into triangles that stood up like tiny Himalayas. I sat up straighter, feeling like Lady Mary from Downton Abbey.

  The tray also had a champagne flute on it, along with a bottle of the stuff. I noticed that the bottle was half empty.

  Katarina poured me some coffee, then filled the champagne glass almost to the top.

  “Thank you, Katarina,” Pippa said regally. “That will be all for now.”

  I watched her pick up the slender flute, expecting her to take a teensy sip and then set it down. But by the time the bottom of the glass made contact with the table again, it was half empty.

  “Much better,” she half-whispered. “I feel more refreshed already.”

  She smoothed her hair, then asked, “Now, where were we?”

  Her words came out sounding a bit fuzzier than before. I realized that this probably wasn’t Pippa’s first glass of champagne of the day. In fact, given how much was missing from the bottle, I’d guess it was probably her third or fourth.

  “I thought I’d begin by running some ideas by you,” I said, pulling out the folder containing the notes I’d prepared. “I’ll be serving classic hot fudge sundaes, of course, as we discussed. But I thought we could offer a few other options, as well. A couple of more inventive twists on desserts that also incorporate hot fudge.

  “One idea is Coconut Balls with hot fudge sauce,” I continued. “Those are balls of ice cream—vanilla, for sure, and, uh, possibly lemon—that have been rolled in coconut flakes and topped with hot fudge. Another idea is Donut Sundaes, which consist of warm donuts—chocolate or cinnamon or even just plain—served with a scoop of ice cream and a dollop of hot fudge sauce . . .”

  Pippa didn’t appear to be listening. “Omar certainly loved his ice cream,” she interrupted. She was gazing off into the distance, her eyes shiny and faraway. “He loved a lot of things,” she said. “He was one of those people who was in love with life.”

  “I’m sure you’re devastated,” I said quietly. “It sounds as if you two were extremely close.” Aside from that time you gave him a Chanel No. 5 shampoo, I was tempted to add.

  “We were close,” she said, her voice as dreamy as the look in her eyes. “Omar and I knew each other for a long time. Of course, for someone in my position, maintaining a solid relationship with a designer without getting too personally involved is always a challenge. You must understand that I have to be careful not to show favoritism.

  “Still,” she noted sadly, “the man was a true genius.”

  I was dying to find a way to bring up the feud I’d read about online. But there didn’t seem a way to do it gracefully.

  So instead, I said, “It’s nice that so many of Omar’s close friends are around to support each other through this. Federico, Mitchell, Gretchen . . .

  “I really like Gretchen,” I commented, hoping to engage Pippa in conversation about her. “And I must admit, I’m kind of surprised that she’s so nice. I would have expected that someone who’s that beautiful—not to mention famous and successful—would be a snob. Yet even though she’s had such a golden life, she seems sweet.”

  Pippa cast me a wary look. “That’s certainly a lovely sentiment, but I’m afraid you’re wrong on both counts.”

  I blinked.

  “The woman hardly had a golden life,” she said. “She came from quite humble beginnings.”

  “I guess working in a factory isn’t exactly glamorous,” I commented, stirring sugar
into my coffee. “Even if the factory makes something fun like pretzels.”

  I made a point of adding that last line. I had a feeling that Pippa was someone who could clear up the question of whether Gretchen’s place of employment at the time Omar “discovered” her was a pretzel factory or a spaetzel factory.

  Pippa let out a contemptuous snort. I had no idea that a creature so thin and so stylish was capable of making such a sound.

  “Gretchen’s ‘factory’ produced something a lot more ‘fun’ than pretzels,” Pippa said sharply.

  Ah. So it was spaetzel, I thought. Not that I thought that spaetzel was more fun than pretzels. In fact, between those two foods, I was pretty sure that most people would think—

  “How about a flesh factory?” Pippa said, her eyes glittering.

  I dropped my spoon. Literally.

  “Are you saying that the famous story about Gretchen isn’t true?” I asked.

  “Not even close,” Pippa said dryly. “The real story is that Omar first met her when he was on a business trip in Germany. The men he was meeting with—wool manufacturers, I seem to recall—insisted on taking him out to a strip club. Apparently they didn’t get that Omar wasn’t into women.”

  “Gretchen was a stripper?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even.

  “I think she was actually a pole dancer,” Pippa replied matter-of-factly. She paused to finish off the rest of the champagne in her glass. “Strippers are so outdated, don’t you think? My impression is that it’s all about pole dancing these days. We probably have The Sopranos to thank for that.”

  My image of a young Gretchen Gruen twisting rolls of dough into pretzel shapes, dressed in a Bavarian outfit—dirndl skirt, white apron, ruffled blouse—vanished into thin air. It seems there had been plenty of twisting going on, but it had been of an entirely different nature.

  And then an idea popped into my head: Was it possible that Omar had been blackmailing Gretchen about her past?

  But I quickly dismissed that thought. After all, sullying her name would only damage his own brand. Why would he want the world to know that the elegant Gretchen Gruen, the face of Omar’s fashions and his perfume and all the other luxury products that comprised his fashion empire, had started out writhing around on stage practically naked?

  “There’s more to her unsavory past,” Pippa went on, waving her glass in the air. She stopped, as if suddenly realizing it was empty. She grabbed the champagne bottle, refilled the delicate flute, and took a sip. Then another. Then another.

  “Who knows how many of the rumors are true?” she said. “The stories about her being involved with unsavory people, the possibility that perhaps she had done a few other scandalous things besides dancing in a sleazy club . . . We’ll never know the whole story. Omar was never able to find out, and in the end, he decided that none of it mattered. All that did matter was how beautiful Gretchen was—and how good her lovely face and body were at selling his designs.”

  My head was spinning. But I remained silent, hoping that Pippa’s inebriated state would cause her to tell me more. I was especially interested in her claim that the second half of my statement about Gretchen was also wrong—that she wasn’t “sweet.”

  So I was disappointed when she said, “But let’s get back to what we’re here to discuss: Omar’s memorial service.” Pippa’s mouth drooped a bit as she added, “Omar was such a special person that I want to make sure this celebration of his life and his achievements is worthy of the man.”

  And then her entire face crumpled. She began to cry, gasping for breath as raw sobs choked their way out of her, almost like hiccups. She clasped her hands over her face.

  I stayed in my chair, paralyzed. I didn’t know what I should do. Rush over and hug her? Say something consoling? Call Katarina for help?

  But while I wasn’t sure how to react, there was one thing I was quite sure of. And that was that I was witnessing something rare indeed.

  And that was the great Pippa Somers showing sincere emotion. A woman who was known all around the world as the ultimate professional, someone who’d been called an Ice Queen and a Pulverizer and even the Pippanator. Allowing herself to break down in front of someone else was clearly completely out of character for the woman.

  As I listened to her deep, throaty sobs, I felt like crying myself. The rawness of her sadness truly touched me.

  But then it occurred to me that her display of grief could simply be the result of drinking too much champagne.

  Or worse, that it was all just an act.

  That had been Jake’s take on it. Or at least he had raised it as a possibility.

  I felt bad for even thinking such a thing. Yet I knew it wouldn’t be wise for me to simply ignore what I’d read about the woman online.

  As real as Pippa’s grief seemed to me, given the fact that the man we were talking about had been murdered, I knew I had to be at least a little bit wary.

  After all, she was one of the people who had had the opportunity to kill Omar DeVane. And while it was difficult to believe that this accomplished, well-mannered woman with impeccable taste and flawless hair could possibly be capable of such an act, she was known for her vengefulness.

  I wanted to know more about Pippa. Gretchen, too. And Federico and Mitchell . . .

  I realized I needed to talk to someone who was an insider, someone who had access to Omar’s world, but who was also able to be objective about the people who had been closest to him. Someone I could trust. Certainly someone I was pretty sure had nothing to hide.

  And I knew exactly who that person was.

  Chapter 12

  “About 10.3 percent of all the milk produced by U.S. dairy farmers is used to produce ice cream, contributing significantly to the economic well-being of the nation’s dairy industry.”

  —www.idfa.org/key-issues/nutrition-health/national-ice-cream-month

  I drove straight from Pippa’s house to Omar’s, hoping to find Marissa. Sure enough, through the screen door I could see her in the kitchen, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of an open cabinet.

  “Hey, Marissa,” I called through the screen. “It’s me again.”

  “Come on in, Kate,” she called back. “It’s not locked.”

  I let myself in.

  “It’s been so darned hot the last few days that I’ve been leaving the doors open,” she explained, glancing up from her task: pulling out dinner plates and wrapping them in newspaper.

  Grimacing, she added, “This kitchen is the worst. You’d think that in a fancy house like this, the air-conditioning would manage to cool off all the rooms.”

  Instead of wearing her maid’s uniform, today Marissa was dressed in jeans and a pale pink tank top. Not only was this the first time I’d seen her wearing regular clothes; it was also the first time I’d seen her without her hair up. Her shiny dark locks hung halfway down her back, the long strands in front sweeping over her face in a way that highlighted how pretty she was. That was something else I hadn’t noticed before.

  “It looks like you’re busy,” I observed. “I hope I’m not coming at a bad time.”

  “Not at all,” she assured me. “I’m just getting a head start on packing up Omar’s things, since sooner or later, they’ll have to be moved.” She let out a long, deep sigh as she surveyed the stack of plates in front of her. “Frankly, it’s nice to have some company.” Rolling her eyes, she commented, “Aside from Federico, of course. Mitchell, too.”

  Trying not to sound too interested, I asked, “Oh, really? They’re both staying at the house?”

  “Federico is still here,” she replied. “Mitchell’s been in and out, dealing with paperwork. But Federico has been going through Omar’s personal things. His clothes, mostly. He’s been deciding what to give to friends and what to donate to charity.

  “It’s good that he’s getting that done, since it’s a tough task,” she continued. “But I’m sure he’s keeping plenty for himself. He and Omar didn’t come close to wear
ing the same size, but I’m sure Omar had plenty of neckties and cufflinks and who knows what else that Federico is helping himself to.”

  “What about Omar’s more valuable things?” I asked. Gesturing vaguely in the direction of the sculpture garden, I added, “His art collection, for example?”

  “I imagine that Omar made provisions for everything he owned in his will,” Marissa said. “I guess the lawyers will sort all out those details.”

  “I suppose they’ll figure out how to handle Omar’s business, too,” I mused.

  “Oh, no,” Marissa said. “Mitchell is doing all that. After all, he’s been involved in all the details of Omar’s various companies from the very start. I can’t imagine a bunch of lawyers trying to figure out something so complicated without any background.”

  “I guess it’s lucky that the two of them can help get things settled,” I commented.

  “I suppose so,” Marissa said. “It’s just annoying the way those two bicker all the time. Anyway, what brings you here?”

  “Believe it or not, I realize I left behind a few other things,” I told her, hoping my nose wasn’t growing any longer. “I’m afraid the events of this past week have turned me into a complete scatterbrain.”

  “Be my guest,” she said, making a sweeping motion toward the kitchen. “In fact, if there’s anything here that you’d like, feel free to take it. I don’t think Federico or Mitchell or anyone else is interested in Omar’s pots and pans. I wouldn’t be surprised if all this stuff ended up being donated to charity.”

  In order to continue my charade, making it look as if I’d actually had a legitimate reason for this visit, I riffled around inside a big cabinet until I found a large metal cookie tray. It was pretty banged-up, the kind of thing no one was likely to want. That kept me from feeling bad about turning this poor unsuspecting tray into a pawn in my little deception.

  “Here it is!” I cried. “I wonder how this ended up in here?”

  My Oscar-level performance was wasted on Marissa. She was barely watching me.