Hot Fudge Murder

by Cynthia Baxter

  “So we get to go again,” Brody said, rubbing his hands together.

  Jake rolled the dice and moved their marker. “Geography!” he cried. “We got this.”

  “We’ve totally got this,” Brody agreed.

  When the boys’ team won, whooping and hollering and slapping each other on the back, I was thrilled. Emma and I simply smiled at each other as we watched the two members of the boys’ team carrying on as if they’d just won the Super Bowl themselves instead of a mere game of Trivial Pursuit.

  “And now,” I announced, standing up, “I’d say it’s time for some ice cream.”

  * * *

  As I lay in bed that night, I couldn’t help smiling. It wasn’t as if Jake and Brody were about to become best buds. But it was interesting the way in which two men who’d started out as enemies had managed to work together once the stakes were high enough.

  Suddenly, I stopped smiling. In fact, I sat bolt upright in bed.

  Oh my, I thought, my head spinning and my heart pounding. Oh my, oh my, oh my.

  A very bright light bulb had just flashed on in my head. What I’d witnessed tonight, I realized, could be applied to much more than a board game.

  Chapter 16

  The popular Ben and Jerry’s flavor, Cherry Garcia, was proposed by a fan in Maine who sent a postcard to the company’s headquarters in Burlington, Vermont. Created as a tribute to Jerry Garcia, the leader of the rock group the Grateful Dead, it is made with cherry-flavored ice cream, rather than the traditional vanilla that’s usually used in Cherry Vanilla ice cream.

  —http://www.benjerry.com/whats-new/2015/cherry-garcia-story

  Another sleepless night.

  I couldn’t shake off the gnawing feeling that I’d stumbled upon the answer to the question that had been dogging me for the past week.

  Jake and Brody. Federico and Mitchell.

  Two men who had acted as if they’d hated each other . . . or perhaps really had hated each other . . .

  Yet when there was reason to work together, they were able to put aside their differences in order to get the job at hand done.

  Was it possible that Federico and Mitchell had done exactly what Jake and Brody had done? Had two rivals acted together to do away with Omar before he had a chance to cut them both out of the will?

  All the information I’d gathered over the past few days was so jumbled in my head that I had to struggle to focus on the few pieces that suddenly seemed the most important.

  One of the most crucial bits had come from Omar’s brother. I remembered what Arthur had said about Mitchell when he’d talked about the three of them growing up together.

  “Even as a kid,” Arthur had told me, “I always got a sense that there was some competitiveness on Mitch’s part.”

  He had gone on to say that his brother was smarter and more popular than his best friend. That young Omar had invariably gotten all the credit even though his sidekick Mitchell had often done most of the scut work. That Mitchell was always backing up his best friend but that he never got the glory.

  Then there was Federico. Everything about the man was a lie. He wasn’t from Italy; he was from Indiana. His hair was dyed. He wore tinted contact lenses—and eyeliner.

  His name wasn’t even Federico. It was plain old Fred.

  But he hadn’t been content to be plain old Fred. He’d wanted more, much more. And based on what Marissa had told me, it sounded as if he had played Omar from the very start.

  As far as Federico was concerned, Omar was his ticket to greatness.

  But perhaps it wasn’t coming fast enough—or to a large enough degree. And to lose out on being one of the primary heirs to a fortune the size of Omar’s must have been devastating for him.

  Then there was the fact that at times I’d observed that there was something almost theatrical about the constant bickering that went on between Federico and Mitchell. At the time, I’d written it off as Federico’s flair for the dramatic combined with Mitchell’s in-your-face New York style.

  But now I wondered if what had really been going on was that they routinely made a point of acting like enemies whenever anyone was within earshot.

  Even me, a mere ice cream caterer.

  And then another thought popped into my head. I suddenly remembered what Federico had said to me the first time we spoke on the phone.

  “Is this party going to be some sort of celebration?” I’d asked him when he’d told me about the event he was planning.

  After thinking for a few seconds, Federico had replied, “I suppose we’re celebrating Omar’s life.”

  I now wondered if he’d already known that the night of the party would turn out to be the end of Omar’s life, which would have given him all the more reason to celebrate it.

  I tried to keep my mind from racing at a hundred miles per hour. I was desperate to find Omar’s killer, which I knew could cause a person to distort facts and remember things incorrectly. I had to remember that it was possible I was simply reading more into what I’d seen and heard than there really was.

  I wasn’t doing a very good job of keeping my racing thoughts in check.

  And my desperation was worsened by the realization that once Pippa had held the memorial service, the members of Omar’s entourage would scatter. Marissa would find a new job, Federico and Mitchell and Pippa would head back to New York, Gretchen would run off to Paris or Milan to continue her modeling career or even launch her own line of fashions . . .

  And Wolfert’s Roost would be left with its horrible status as the Home of Omar DeVane’s Unsolved Murder.

  Sunday afternoon’s memorial service, I knew, would be the last time that all the people who knew Omar would gather together—including whoever had killed him.

  Which meant the amount of time I had to solve this mystery was growing shorter than a 1960s miniskirt.

  The next step was to test my theory that Mitchell and Federico had worked together to murder Omar. Fortunately, I already had an idea.

  Not surprisingly, it involved ice cream.

  * * *

  There’s something about eating ice cream that makes people let down their guard.

  Maybe it’s because the experience is always so pleasurable. The melt-in-your-mouth creaminess, the perfect amount of sweetness, the infusion of some delightful flavor like rich chocolate or soothing vanilla or tangy berries . . . It’s no wonder the stuff has such a magical effect. It’s as if whoever is eating it becomes so consumed by the simple, joyous act that they go back to being their true selves.

  Since my goal was to uncover the true nature of the relationship between Federico and Mitchell, ice cream was the most obvious weapon.

  My plan wasn’t exactly foolproof. Then again, ice cream had never let me down before.

  Thanks to the fact that I’d already been to Greenaway several times, I was pretty familiar with the way things worked there. So I parked my truck on the driveway, far away enough from the house that no one inside was likely to spot it. Then I hurried across the expansive front lawn, darting among the trees in the hopes that they would shield me from view.

  Under one arm I carried a tub of Chocolate Almond Fudge ice cream wrapped in a towel to protect my skin from freezer burns. The thick terry cloth also kept it from banging against the tender black-and-blue mark on my hip, which was the size of an ice cream scoop.

  Chocolate Almond Fudge was a flavor that few people could resist.

  When I got close to the house, I began tiptoeing around the edge, peering through the windows. I felt like a cat burglar in a Looney Tunes cartoon.

  Except that instead of stealing something out of the house, my intention was to put something into it.

  The kitchen appeared to be empty. And just as I’d expected, the back door was open.

  My heart was pounding as if I were committing a crime. I reminded myself that sneaking ice cream into someone’s residence wasn’t exactly cause for an arrest.

  Then again, trespassing was. />
  I tried to put aside the legal debate and instead concentrate on doing what I’d come here to do. I placed the tub of ice cream on the counter closest to the door that opened onto the hallway that ran past Mitchell’s office.

  That was the easy part. The hard part—the really scary part—came next.

  And that was hiding in the pantry.

  I had an excuse ready in case anyone found me. A weak excuse, granted, but I didn’t expect that there would be much cooking going on at Greenaway today. Not with Pippa’s memorial service only a few hours away.

  And if anyone did happen to open the pantry door and find me crammed inside, it was most likely that someone would be Marissa.

  I didn’t think she’d call the cops on me. Not if I explained that I’d come back to retrieve one more forgotten item, found that the back door was open, and taken it upon myself to come into the house to get it without bothering anybody. As for the hiding-in-the-pantry part, I figured I’d just say I heard someone coming and was afraid I’d get in trouble.

  By that point, I hoped to be halfway out the door.

  It was stuffy in the pantry. Boring, too. Fortunately, there was enough light creeping in from under the door that I could at least read the labels on the foods that were lined up neatly on the shelves.

  Extra-virgin olive oil from Italy, raspberry-flavored balsamic vinegar, fancy Greek olives, eggplant caponata from Sicily . . .

  Some of the bottles and jars, I noticed, were actually dusty. I figured they were items that had looked enticing in the store, but once they were brought home no one ever found a use for them.

  The labels on gourmet food items didn’t exactly make for the most scintillating reading. Fortunately, less than ten minutes had passed before I heard footsteps, followed immediately by a booming voice.

  “Hey, check this out,” I heard Mitchell say. “Some idiot left a whole tub of ice cream out.”

  “It’s just sitting there, melting,” Federico said disdainfully. I noticed that his Italian accent had been replaced by one that was more Indianapolis than Milan.

  “We should put it in the freezer,” Mitchell said.

  “I have a better idea,” Federico said. “Let’s eat it.”

  “Why not?” Mitchell said.

  “Here’s a spoon,” Federico said. “Dig in!”

  Fireworks were going off in my head. I’d been right! The two of them were secretly friends. Or at least two people who got along just fine when they thought no one else was within earshot.

  I still didn’t know for sure if they were the killers, however.

  There was silence for a few seconds. Then Federico cried, “Wow, this is incredible! That ice cream lady may be too nosy for her own good, but she sure knows ice cream.”

  “Yeah, this is good stuff,” Mitchell agreed.

  Lowering his voice, Federico said, “You don’t think she’s going to—you know—make any trouble for us, do you?”

  “Hah!” Mitchell replied. “She’s nobody, Freddie. Believe me, we have nothing to worry about. Especially now.”

  I wished I’d thought to bring along a voice recorder. Or that I’d at least set up my phone to record what they were saying. Then again, I hadn’t expected my ice cream trap to do much more than give me some insight into whether Mitchell and Federico really were the archenemies they pretended to be.

  Yet I was now more convinced than ever that they had worked together to kill Omar.

  There was more silence as they both continued to pig out on ice cream. Even though I couldn’t see them, I could tell that was what they were doing by the slurps and sighs of pleasure I heard through the closed door.

  And then Mitchell said, “You know, Freddie, it’s too bad that you and I didn’t figure this out years ago.”

  “Figure what out?” Federico asked.

  “That you and I would have been better off working with each other instead of against each other,” Mitchell replied.

  By this point my heart was pounding so loudly that I was sure the sound must be resonating through the entire house. I hoped I wasn’t about to blow my cover.

  But then something even worse happened.

  I felt a sneeze coming on.

  The dust on the shelves that surrounded me was clearly having an effect. I inhaled sharply and held my breath. But the tickle in my nose wouldn’t go away.

  And then: Ah-chooo!

  It was one of the softest sneezes ever made by a human being. But it was apparently loud enough that Mitchell and Federico heard it.

  “Hey, what was that?” I heard Federico say.

  “It sounded like it came from inside the pantry,” Mitchell said.

  I knew I had to act. If they opened the door and found me, I’d be cornered. And there were two of them and only one of me . . .

  So I flung open the door and burst out of the pantry, making a beeline for the back door.

  “Hey, it’s her!” Federico cried.

  “Grab her!” Mitchell yelled. “You! Kate! What do you think you’re doing?”

  But I was out of the house by then. I sprinted toward my truck, my breaths coming out as gasps as I ran as fast as I possibly could.

  As soon as I climbed behind the wheel, I locked the doors, turned the ignition, and drove off lickety split.

  As I careened around a curve in the road, I spotted Mitchell and Federico in the rearview mirror. They were both standing outside the back door, waving their arms and yelling. I could still see them as I grabbed my cell phone to call the police.

  * * *

  Detective Stoltz was unavailable, I was informed by whoever answered the phone at the precinct.

  So I left him a long, detailed voice-mail message. I tried not to sound too crazed as I laid out my theory. I even quoted the words I’d overheard Federico and Mitchell say. Fortunately, Detective Stoltz knew that I’d been helpful in solving a murder once before. I hoped that would give me enough credibility that he’d take me seriously and call me right back.

  But for now, as bizarre as it seemed, I had an event to cater.

  I’d barely had a chance to catch my breath before I sailed into Lickety Splits. I found Emma and Willow already dressed in their cheerful bubble-gum-pink Lickety Splits polo shirts and spanking-clean white pants. They were busily packing up tubs of ice cream, silver serving trays, and a big supply of Sterno to keep the chocolate fudge sauce hot.

  I could have used Ethan’s help, too, but he had claimed he wasn’t available. Perhaps he was busy brushing up on European languages. But what was much more likely was that he and Emma still weren’t on speaking terms.

  I dashed into the back of the shop and changed into my Lickety Splits shirt and white slacks. As I did, I kept my phone in full view, glancing at it every five seconds as if I could will Detective Stoltz to call me back.

  I also rifled through the drawer underneath the counter, pulling out a pair of poultry shears I kept on hand and sticking it into my back pocket. They weren’t the sharpest, just scissors I kept around for cutting into boxes or snipping herbs into tiny pieces. But they would have to do. Besides, if I was going to start carrying a concealed weapon, it had to be one that wouldn’t tear through my clothes.

  And as my ’Cream Team and I loaded up the truck, I also kept my phone in my pocket. I wanted to make sure I felt it vibrate if Detective Stoltz called.

  Nothing.

  I had no choice but to carry on, acting as if everything was fine as I drove to Pippa’s house. Emma, who sat beside me, could barely keep still.

  “I know this is a really sad occasion, but even so, I’m excited about being at such a big event,” she chirped. “And I can’t wait to see Pippa Somers’s weekend house! Were you kidding when you said that practically everything in it is white?”

  “That’s pretty much the case,” I replied, veering around a sharp curve. I was silent for a few seconds. “By the way,” I went on, trying to sound casual, “I’m going to let you and Willow do the serving today. I think I’ll
stay behind the scenes.”

  I didn’t tell her that it was because I was avoiding two of the event’s guests.

  “Okay,” Emma agreed. “But you’ll miss out on seeing all the celebrities!”

  “That’s okay,” I assured her. “My main concern is making sure that everything runs smoothly. I think the best way I can do that is by holing up in the setup room, doing all the backup work.”

  “You’re the boss,” Emma said with a little shrug. I got the feeling that her eyes were so filled with stars in anticipation of the afternoon ahead that that arrangement suited her just fine.

  * * *

  It turned out that “behind the scenes” was exactly where Pippa wanted us to base our operations. As soon as we arrived at her snow-white mansion, her housekeeper, Katarina, led Emma, Willow, and me to a small room off the kitchen. She referred to it as a butler’s pantry.

  Why a butler needed his own pantry was beyond me. But I instantly knew that I wanted a butler’s pantry even more than I wanted a butler. Especially at Lickety Splits.

  Everything in the small room was white, just like the rest of the house. White walls, white counters, white cabinets with glass-paneled doors that reached all the way up to the ceiling. Inside them I could see rows of neatly stacked white plates, white mugs, and white mixing bowls. The backsplash was composed of white subway tiles.

  While the compact, windowless room was stark, to me it was the ideal workspace. It felt so clean and simple and efficient that I couldn’t wait to get busy.

  “Okay, let’s get this party started!” I told Emma and Willow.

  Almost immediately I became so absorbed in doing that—literally—that I lost all sense of time. I stood at the counter, rolling Classic Tahitian Vanilla and Meyer Lemon ice cream balls in coconut and placing dollops of cinnamon ice cream on oven-warmed donuts. Perhaps most important, I heated pots of hot fudge on the stove, then placed serving bowls filled with the stuff over the cans of Sterno I’d brought to keep them warm.

  Even though I was tucked away in the butler’s pantry, I could hear the crowd in the living room growing larger and larger. Getting louder and louder, too.