In Hot Fudge And Cold Blood

by A. R. Winters

  In Hot Fudge And Cold Blood

  A.R. Winters

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  In Hot Fudge And Cold Blood

  Copyright 2019 by A. R. Winters

  www.arwinters.com

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  Standing at the front counter of my currently empty bridal shop was my employee and dearest friend, Sarah, staring intently into the eyes of my parrot.

  “Scrapbook,” said Sarah slowly. “Scrap. Book.”

  “Fudge!” said Kiwi, my parrot and familiar, though Sarah wasn’t privy to that second detail.

  I couldn’t help but giggle listening to the two of them ‘talking’ to each other. Sarah had been at it for several minutes now, trying to no avail to get Kiwi to acknowledge her latest passion-slash-hobby: scrapbooking.

  “When he’s obsessed with something, there’s no helping it,” I explained to Sarah, though I could have just as well said the exact same thing to Kiwi about her.

  “But I’ve taught him lots of words before.” There was an air of beleaguered complaint in Sarah’s tone.

  Actually, she hadn’t taught him any words at all. Kiwi already had a remarkably large vocabulary but he didn’t share most of it with anyone but me. With everyone else, he pretended to be a regular ‘dumb’ parrot instead of the hyper-intelligent magical familiar that he actually was. But sometimes, Kiwi humored Sarah and pretended to learn a new word for her—usually because she was offering a snack as a reward.

  “Maybe he’s just not as interested in scrapbooking as he is in, well, fudge.” As I finished speaking, Kiwi turned his head toward me and there was a brief flash of acknowledgment in his eyes. Yep, I was right. Scrapbooking wasn’t doing it for him.

  Sarah nodded her head slowly, sending her brown braids bouncing around her shoulders.

  “Do you have any pictures of Kiwi from when he was little? I’d love one for my scrapbook.”

  I shook my head. “Nope. He was pretty much fully grown when I found him.”

  “I bet he was adorable.”

  “Hmmm,” I said. “Perhaps.”

  Kiwi let out a loud squawk, and then, bored with us, hopped off the counter into the air and with a couple of flaps soared up, landing on top of the bookcase I kept along the right wall of the shop, from where he could look down on us all.

  “I can’t believe you don’t have a scrapbook,” said Sarah, shaking her head as if the very idea of not having one was mind-boggling.

  “You’ve only had one for two minutes!”

  Sarah waggled a finger at me.

  “You know that’s not true. I bought it yesterday,” she said with a sniff.

  “I didn’t literally mean two minutes.”

  “But seriously, Aria, I think scrapbooking would be good for you.” Her earnest eyes and open face always brightened my day, and I found myself smiling along with her even though I had no intention of starting a scrapbook of my own. “Ooh!”

  She intoned her exclamation as if a brilliant thought had just struck her.

  “What?”

  “I’ve got a great idea! You should make a scrapbook about your father!”

  My father. The father I didn’t know existed until a certain dark witch—Hazel Crane —had shoved a picture of him in my face and let me know of his existence a few weeks earlier.

  “I don’t know anything about my father. All I’ve got is that picture. One single picture.”

  “And your birth certificate. I bet we can dig up all sorts of stuff! We’ll ask your Mom and some of the older people around town. I bet they’ve got pictures or something. Maybe we can even track him down!”

  “Wait. Hold on. This scrapbooking seems to have gone to your head.” I squeezed Sarah’s upper arm, as though that would help my words to get through to her. “Slow down a minute. I only just found out he existed and now you want me to... make a book about him?”

  “Not a real book, a scrapbook! It’s fun! Look, in mine I’ve got a picture of me with the designer Zola Cates, there’s a receipt from the man I used to buy my water from, there’s a scrap of hair from that annoying cust—”

  “Wait, WHAT!?”

  Sarah shrugged her shoulders. “I like to keep all memories, good and bad.”

  “Don’t tell me how you got it,” I said to her sternly.

  She responded with the sweetest, most innocent smile she could manage, which left her looking, at best, mischievous.

  “You can see it’s fun, right?” She pulled open a plastic bag that had been sitting on the counter. “Look, I’ve got glitter, glue sticks, stars, string, wool, and everything else!”

  Goodness. It was like a kindergarten craft station in my shop.

  “And what do you do with it when it’s finished?”

  She cocked her head at me. “Finished?”

  “Yeah. When the book’s full, what do you do?”

  I knew the question would be moot anyway. Sarah was excellent at starting hobbies, with all the enthusiasm you could want, but after a few days or weeks—or just hours, sometimes—she would become distracted by something new and shiny instead. Skydiving to crocheting, Indian cooking to snorkeling, kites to whittling. This week, it was scrapbooking and she was going all in.

  “I suppose I’ll start another one.” She shrugged her shoulders and smiled; she knew as well as I did she’d be lucky to get halfway through this scrapbook, let alone start another one. “But we must get you one. We’ll make a pretty title page with ‘Aria’s Journey to Discover Her Father’ or ‘Aria and Papa, A Mystical Path’ or something. You can borrow my glitter!”

  With a grin, I shook my head. Her enthusiasm was infectious, even if the subject of her current zeal didn’t appeal to me at all.

  “I think the journey to discover my father is over before it ever really began. Hazel Crane surprised me with a photo of my father, refused to divulge anything else, and Mom...”

  “Your mom hasn’t helped?” said Sarah in disbelief.

  I sighed. “She’s worse than useless. All she said was he ran away to Australia and Donovan, Donovan, Donovan. Blah blah blah.”

  “Donovan?” asked Sarah, wrinkling her nose.

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “She won’t even talk about my father. All she’ll talk about these days is Donovan Charlston, Mayor of Sequoia Bay and the love of her life, according to her.”

  “Really? The love of her life? Him?” Sarah shook her head like a cat shaking off a sprinkling of water.

  “I know. But what can we do? It’s her life.”

  “Her life? No. It affects you too. You should break them up,” she said with a wicked grin.

  I
shook my head. “No way!”

  “Well, we’ll think about it,” said Sarah, half to herself.

  Before I could get around to explaining to her that I didn’t meddle in my mother’s personal affairs, someone else came in to meddle with my mother’s affairs.

  Ding!

  “Fudge!” screeched Kiwi from on top of his bookcase.

  “Fudge!” shouted the angry woman who’d burst into the shop with quite the animated shove against my poor front door. “That’s the problem! I don’t ever want to hear ‘fudge’ again!”

  “Fudge!” screeched Kiwi, following it up with a cackle that sounded more like it belonged to a fairytale witch than a parrot.

  “Err, hello?” I said to the woman.

  She was middle-aged and dressed in what seemed to be horse riding apparel, though I was no expert in the subject. But it wasn’t her clothing that was most striking, it was the look of complete and total annoyance on her face that really stood out. It was the kind of look I got after spending too much time with my mother.

  “Hello,” she said with a frown. “Where is Annabelle? She owns this shop, right?”

  And just like that, annoyance crept its way into my face too. Annabelle was my mother, who only vaguely understood the concept of ownership when it came to my things. Mom often told people my bridal shop was hers, following the logic that I’m her daughter and thus everything of mine is also hers. At least, that’s how I can best figure it.

  “Annabelle does not own this shop. It’s mine. Aria Whitmore,” I said, offering her my hand.

  “Molly Anderson,” she said squeezing my hand. “You’re the daughter?”

  “Yes,” I said with a wry grin. “I am ‘the daughter.’ And the owner of Blue Moon Bridal. Annabelle occasionally helps out.”

  “Oh. Well, I don’t know about the technicalities.”

  Technicalities? They’re not technicalities when it comes to paying the bills every month! I smiled at Molly while I waited for her to go on.

  “So is there anything we can help you with? Do you have a daughter who is engaged, perhaps?” I asked.

  It was not uncommon for mothers and even mothers-in-law to take the lead in wedding preparations, often to the annoyance of the bride and groom themselves. Usually a battle would commence during the planning process with the bride eventually seizing control from whichever matriarch was trying to wield it.

  “Engaged for a wedding?” she asked, frowning at me.

  “Err, yes?”

  The woman looked around the shop, turning in a complete circle as she took it all in. The dresses on display, the gloves and veils and other accouterments, the bridal magazines and books and the whole air and ambiance of the shop.

  “I thought this was a bridle shop? Blue Moon Bridle, no?”

  “It is a bridal shop. For brides. People getting married.”

  The woman blinked several times.

  “They have shops just for that? People will buy anything.”

  “I know what you mean,” chimed in Sarah. “I don’t know why they insist on making such a big fuss about weddings.”

  I jabbed Sarah in the side with my elbow, glaring at her all the while. She gave me an innocent look in return. Sarah didn’t share my love for perfect, traditional weddings, despite the fact that they gave her gainful employment.

  I managed to contain a sigh and keep my best retail smile plastered on for Molly, even though it was clear she wasn’t going to be a customer. I don’t mind my mother’s mistruths if they lead to some business for the store, but it didn’t look like it would happen in this case.

  “Right, so my mother isn’t here at the moment. What exactly do you need help with?” I asked. The woman hadn’t been offensive but she wasn’t exactly a barrel of laughs either. I would gladly rather get back to chatting with Sarah.

  “You see, it’s about my neighbor, Sandra Webb.” She gave me a knowing look with arched eyebrows and a mean glint in her eye.

  “Sandra Webb? Isn’t she...”

  “Fudge!” screeched Kiwi from atop the bookcase.

  “The fudge lady!” said Sarah, clapping her hands together delightedly.

  I joined Sarah in smiling. It was an involuntary reflex, summoned by the memories of those soft, chewy, creamy sweet treats she concocted.

  “Yes. The fudge lady,” said Molly with a dark frown. “She’s been making it and selling it out of her home. Which is right next to mine.”

  “Is that a problem?” I asked.

  “Problem!? Of course it’s a problem! It’s a residential neighborhood that’s now being filled with sweet-toothed addicts driving in and out of the area at all times of the day and night! Filling up the street with their cars, banging on her door, causing all kinds of chaos.”

  “Is it that bad?” I asked her in some surprise. I couldn’t really imagine one lady selling fudge out of her kitchen could cause that much disruption.

  “Bad? Bad? Well, I tell you it was terrible. In one day alone, I counted nine different cars that parked on our street to go into her house. Nine! And three of them came at once! It’s ridiculous!”

  “Wow. Three cars at once?” I said, forcing my eyebrows up and my mouth open to feign shock and surprise.

  “Nine in a day?” said Sarah, clasping her hands against her cheeks like a ‘50s starlet pretending to look shocked.

  “Yes. It’s beyond obnoxious.” Molly had a tight-lipped smile now, seemingly pleased by our response.

  “But I’m a little confused. What’s this got to do with my mother?” I asked.

  “I’ll tell you!” she said loudly, slapping her palm against the counter.

  Sarah and I both folded our arms across our chests and watched her. I must say: I was actually quite interested in where my mother fit into all of this. She certainly didn’t know how to make fudge, nor did she live in the neighborhood in question.

  Molly rested one arm on the counter.

  “As I said, I was most annoyed by all the riff-raff we’ve been getting in the neighborhood. So I did the right thing. I reported that awful cook to the city and got her shut down for zoning violations.”

  I nodded. “Right. The only possible solution.”

  Molly nodded at me in agreement, completely unaware of my sarcasm.

  “But that wasn’t the end of it. Oh, no. She’s not just an overrated cook, she’s also...”

  Sarah and I leaned in while Molly lowered her voice to a whisper.

  “...a y’know... woman.”

  “A... woman?” I asked.

  Molly nodded at me with a calculating look in her eye.

  “I mean, she’s a… compromised woman. A Jezebel.”

  “A Jezebel!?” said Sarah with more shock-on-demand than was quite necessary.

  Molly nodded. “She wasn’t happy about being shut down so she’s been inviting someone over to... well, I don’t like to speculate. Perhaps ‘sample her wares’ might cover it.”

  “Someone?” I asked. “What kind of someone?”

  Molly leaned in close and licked her lips before she continued.

  “The mayor. Mayor Donovan Charlston. He’s been visiting her house!”

  Sarah and I both gasped, and this time it was entirely genuine. We weren’t just putting on a show for Molly. Was Donovan really cheating on my mother with the town’s foremost fudge-maker?

  “He’s been going over to her house? And Mom doesn’t know about it?”

  Molly gave a firm nod and seemed pleased with herself to have been the deliverer of such juicy gossip—something I usually tend to avoid. But in this case, it affected my family directly.

  “He has. I wanted to tell your mother directly. She and I need to work together to stop this whole thing. Sandra is obviously using the mayor to try and get the area rezoned and turn our neighborhood into some kind of fudge-ghetto.”

  “A fudge ghetto?” said Sarah. “Sounds awful.”

  “I can’t believe Donovan would be so... blatant,” I said with a frown. �
��I know he’s a politician, but I still expected better of him. Perhaps that was foolish of me.”

  Molly nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly. It doesn’t surprise me one bit, a politician and a criminal fudge-maker being in cahoots with each other.”

  “Criminal? That’s a bit strong, isn’t it?” I asked.

  “Our exclusive suburban neighborhood is not zoned for retail or…” She shook her head in disgust. “Cooking or whatever she calls it. She’s breaking the law, so she’s a criminal.”

  “Fudge criminal!” screeched Kiwi from atop the bookcase.

  “Clever bird,” said Molly, giving Kiwi an admiring glance.

  “Yeah. Sometimes.” I glared at Kiwi, warning him to shut his beak.

  “So I want your mother to do something: reel her gentleman friend back in because I will not stand for Sandra’s shenanigans. If she thinks she’s going to—pardon my language—fudge her way into rezoning the neighborhood by becoming overly friendly with the mayor, she’s got another thing coming.”

  “Ooh,” said Sarah, nodding at Molly’s spirited argument.

  “I’ll let my mother know what you told us,” I said to her. “I’m sure she’ll deal with it in her own way. She’s not one to be trifled with.”

  “Or fudged with,” said Sarah with a smirk.

  I smacked her on the arm.

  “Well, I’ll leave you girls to it.” She paused to look around the shop again before she left. “And you’re sure you don’t have any riding gloves?”

  When Molly had left, Sarah and I both looked at each other.

  “Maybe you were right,” I said. “Perhaps Mom should break up with Donovan.”

  Sarah nodded.

  “Of course I’m right. I’m always right, aren’t I? Don’t answer that. What we need is an intervention.”