Five-Alarm Fudge

by Christine DeSmet

  John nodded. “But they’re Mercy’s clothes.”

  Pauline said, “All that matters is that we get you out of her house.”

  Dillon found a Packers-logo sweatshirt, and then he had the audacity to hold up a giant pair of grandma-style panties. “She’s got clean undies, but I think you’ll want to let the boys hang loose for this ride.”

  “You got that right,” John said.

  We all shared a needed chuckle.

  Pauline and I left the room while Dillon helped John take off the nightgown.

  In the living room, Pauline said, “That woman has gone over the edge. I bet she murdered Tristan Hardy, ran into John for some reason, or ran him off the road, then brought him here to wash off all the evidence.”

  “You’ve been reading suspense novels again.”

  “What of it? There are only so many picture books about puppies that I can handle. Why aren’t you suspicious of this? We just came from your mother’s place and the church where the sheriff and medical examiner found the body. We saw the body. There was blood. What if that blood on John was Tristan Hardy’s blood that came off Mercy’s hands after she killed Tristan? What if John had gone down to the Namur church for some reason and stumbled across the murder?”

  With Pauline’s imagination, I wasn’t going to need to tell her what Mercy told me about the church and the fight.

  She collapsed into a nearby chair covered with a quilt. “We need to find his car. Why can’t he remember things, Ava?”

  “I don’t know, Pauline.”

  “I’m scared.”

  A sharp bang caught our attention.

  I said, “The dog. We forgot about Lucky Harbor.”

  Pauline and I rushed to the kitchen. A large roaster pan sat upside down on the vinyl floor. Lucky Harbor had already scarfed up whatever had been in the pan. He was mopping the floor with his tongue. I tossed the pan on the counter, and then we got the heck out of there.

  * * *

  After Dillon dropped me off at the fudge shop, he and Pauline headed to the hospital with John.

  I whipped on an apron with orange pumpkins embroidered on it.

  Cody was handling both sides of the shop. Bethany wasn’t there; she was studying for a test, Cody explained.

  But efficient Lois Forbes in her red-dyed hair and Dotty Klubertanz, a plump lady with short white hair and dressed in her usual pink sweats with sequins, were ringing up sales of fudge and aprons on my side of our little outpost on the harbor. Both ladies were in their sixties and part of the church ladies brigade that always seemed to frustrate me as much as it helped me. If I didn’t keep a firm hold on my shop as manager, Dotty and Lois could turn the place into a church bazaar fund-raiser within the time it took to recite the Lord’s Prayer.

  Dotty rushed over to help me tie the back of my apron. “Honey, we sold out of the Rapunzel Raspberry Rapture Fudge.”

  “How am I doing with the Cinderella Pink Fairy Tale Fudge?”

  “Getting low on that, too. And Kjersta called. She can hang in there another couple of hours, she said, but several cars have stopped for lunch and the cheese selection is getting low. She said the mild cheddar paired with the Cinderella Pink cherry-vanilla fudge is a combo that’s selling fast.”

  “I’ll call my mom. Thanks, Dotty, for coming to the rescue today. Again.”

  “No worries. That nasty business in Namur isn’t getting you down, is it? Kjersta said you discovered the body.”

  “It’s unfortunate. I think Cherry and his colleagues were coming close to finding out why Kjersta’s orchard and the Prevost vineyards weren’t performing the way they should.”

  Dotty leaned in close, motioning me to her. She was shorter than me, so I lowered an ear toward her. She said, “It has to be about the divinity fudge recipe.”

  “How so? Can we talk while I gather ingredients in the kitchen?” I wanted to get out of earshot of the customers.

  In the galley kitchen, I began collecting Belgian chocolate kilo bars, a twenty-pound bag of sugar, butter, and cream. Making fudge was helping me build big muscles in my arms. In spring when I first started, I’d made and sold fifty or so pounds of fudge a week. After my first fudge festival in July, I’d begun seeing my sales go up. Then with the introduction of Ava’s Autumn Harvest this fall, I now made and sold over three hundred pounds of fudge a week. It scared me to think of what would happen in winter, because I’d have no roadside market. The tourist trade went way down and my sales would, too.

  Dotty was loading her arms with ingredients, too.

  I asked her, “Why are you so sure Tristan Hardy’s death is about the recipe?”

  “Holy wars.”

  “Holy wars?”

  “Yes. The other ladies and I were online today discussing it. People are willing to kill for two reasons: love and beliefs. My friends and I doubt that anybody would use the church to hide a love affair, so it has to be about finding the recipe.”

  “Because it could be worth a lot of money.”

  Dotty stacked one more pound of Oosterlings’ organic sweet cream butter on the load in her arms. “Money is good, but this is about somebody wanting to live in the steps of Sister Adele Brise.”

  Dotty said the name with an inflection and flair, as it might be said in the French patois in the Walloon regions of Belgium. Belgium is a country divided into Wallonia with its French-speaking provinces, and Flanders with its Flemish provinces. Namur is the capital of the Wallonia region.

  “What are you saying, Dotty? That a woman killed Cherry?”

  “I don’t know that. But I’m sure people want to touch all the spots that Adele touched and walk the paths she walked. They want to bask in her love.”

  “If this is about love, how could anybody murder Tristan Hardy? For a fudge recipe? What would be the motive?”

  “You haven’t been listening. This is about somebody lost in their faith.”

  “Well, Dotty, that’s a given. Murder is a mortal sin.”

  Dotty’s sweet pink face grew a bit red in obvious frustration with me. She led me out of the kitchen. Both our arms were overloaded. Pausing in the hallway, Dotty said, “This murder is about the glory that somebody needs. Holy wars are about claiming glory. Somebody wanted glory from this murder.”

  “What do you mean by glory?” I felt as if I were back in grade school catechism class.

  “They want to triumph, Ava. Somebody wants revenge about something. Revenge is why Tristan Hardy was killed. At least that’s how we church ladies voted online about an hour ago. Money came in third.”

  “What was the second-place motive?”

  “Sex.”

  Chapter 9

  The dark chocolate, sugar, and cream had barely started heating in the copper kettle when questions arose about Tristan Hardy and the divinity fudge recipe. About twenty customers had gathered near my kettle at the front of the shop after lunchtime on Sunday. Raindrops splattered the big bay windows overlooking the harbor.

  My arms were on autopilot stirring the fragrant, sweet concoction in the kettle. My brain was stirring the motives for the murder voted on by the church ladies: glory, money, and sex.

  A woman in the crowd said, “Divinity fudge didn’t become popularized until the early 1900s, after Sister Adele passed away. Why would you think the holy recipe even existed?”

  The crowd quieted at this bold question that had apparently caught all of Door County and me—the fudge expert—in a huge mistake. But it was not a mistake.

  “Not so about fudge,” I said. “Yes, the meringue-type candy became popular here after the invention of corn syrup, which was introduced in the United States in 1902, but it existed far earlier in various forms.”

  Thanks to the cookbook collection in Lloyd Mueller’s house that I had inherited, I knew that divinity fudge was made by 1915 at least, but it was evident it existed earlier, because a form of it was a candy for the Egyptians, which I told the crowd.

  “Divinity candy is related to
marshmallows.”

  A giggling boy of maybe six with curly red hair and freckles said, “Marshmallows? The Egyptians roasted marshmallows outside their pyramids?”

  “They could very well have done that,” I said. “What’s your name?”

  “Josh.”

  “In only a few minutes, you can help me with the fudge if you like.”

  “Sure!” His mop of red hair flopped as he nodded.

  Stirring, I said, “In two thousand BC, the Egyptians boiled the root of the marsh plant called the mallow, or marsh mallow, then combined it with sugar and honey. The candy was made expressly for royalty.”

  Josh said, “Like your prince? If the prince likes your fudge, will he marry you?”

  Everybody laughed, including me.

  “I’m not sure fudge would make him marry me, but he’s very interested in divinity fudge. That’s one reason why he’s coming to Door County.”

  The woman with the earlier questions, who appeared to be Josh’s mother, asked, “So, what’s the connection between the old marsh mallow plants and today’s divinity?”

  “Modern marshmallows were made in France in the 1800s using corn syrup, water, and the mallow sap, and egg whites to bind them. The introduction of egg whites into the recipe—which is what is used now in divinity fudge—tells me that Sister Adele could very well have made divinity fudge in the late 1800s.”

  Josh said, “How’d she get eggs? Did she steal them from wild turkeys?”

  I brought my ladle up into the air to test the state of the chocolate-coated crystals. A ribbon of chocolate whipped about, to the crowd’s delight.

  “Chickens,” I explained, “including Belgian breeds like Brakels, were probably brought over on the early ships with immigrants to Door County. The term ‘fudge’ appeared in newspaper articles at the same time in the late 1800s when the Vassar College women made the candy for fund-raisers using a cooking method over a Bunsen burner, not unlike what I’m doing right now.”

  Another woman raised her hand. “My grandmother made divinity with coconut.”

  “Oh yes, divinity fudge loves to have a few things added. Peppermint flavoring is a favorite at Christmastime, and in the South confectioners make divinity with pecans. What should I put in my recipe to create something that Sister Adele might have found back in the 1860s and 1870s here in Door County?”

  The crowd shouted, “Walnuts” and “wild blackberries” and “blueberries.”

  Josh added, “Fish.”

  Laughter resounded.

  I invited him up to stir the Rapunzel Raspberry Rapture Fairy Tale Fudge.

  I told the crowd, “Josh is doing a great job with that four-foot maple paddle. While he’s stirring, I’m going to add the organic butter. We add the butter at the end—often frozen butter—to regulate the temperature a bit.”

  I showed the crowd the thermometer dangling off a hook nearby, which I could use if needed. I was experienced enough now that I rarely tested officially for the temperature. I could tell by the look of the concoction in the kettle how it was doing. “The colder and drier the air in the shop and outside, the lower the temperature it takes for fudge. However, if I were making my Cinderella Pink Fudge, I’d want a slightly warmer temperature. Vanilla fudge requires about four degrees more than dark chocolate. Okay, Josh, that looks good. Let me take over again. Thank you for your fine help.”

  The crowd applauded him as he raced back to be with his mom.

  The fudge was soon ready for loafing. I poured it on the marble table. The glistening, rich, dark chocolate flowed like sweet lava, steaming.

  I exchanged my heat-proof gloves for sanitary plastic gloves, then grabbed my loafing tool—a large flat knife made of wood—to massage the molten chocolate.

  “Josh, would you like to help?”

  He nodded. I slipped plastic gloves over his hands. The gloves were oversized for him, but he was smiling proudly. I picked him up to set him on the stool I kept near the table. Outside, the rain had stopped. The sunshine was causing steam to rise off the docks.

  “The marble table pulls the heat out of the fudge. By loafing—or massaging—the fudge, we coat all the crystals with the fat that comes in the butter and cream, which makes the fudge smoother. After loafing about four batches of fudge in a row, I have to let the marble table cool down again or the fudge won’t set up properly.”

  Josh massaged the goopy mass of raspberry fudge, sending a wonderful aroma into the room. To appease the crowd, I brought out a batch of fudge made yesterday and showed them how to eat it with a dollop of whipped cream on the side and fresh berries or some homemade raspberry jam to dip the fudge pieces in.

  Everybody flocked to my glass cabinet to buy several flavors of fudge to take home. I gave Josh a free bobber from Grandpa’s side of the shop.

  About an hour later I drove down to Ava’s Autumn Harvest. It was going on three o’clock. Dillon had texted twice but had no news yet about John Schultz’s condition.

  How had John lost his memory? How had he gotten the goose egg on the back of his head?

  Daniel was helping Kjersta load pumpkins in the back of a customer’s car along with a box of pickling cucumbers. He called over, “Your fudge sold out.”

  “I brought some.”

  I put out pumpkin fudge I’d made yesterday, maple fudge, and my unique Rose Garden Fudge. This rose fudge was white with what looked like confetti in it made from yellow, pink, and red roses I plucked from Lloyd Mueller’s backyard organic garden. I also brought along small bags of crystallized rose petals. The fragrant, delicate chips the size and texture of cornflakes always sold well alongside the rose petal fudge. I froze them, too, for making rose-flavored fudge later in winter.

  The wine stock seemed low on one outdoor table. “Didn’t Michael bring us more bottles?”

  Kjersta shrugged as she placed a bucketful of her freshly dug potatoes on a corner of the flatbed wagon that held cucumbers, cabbages, and green and yellow peppers. “Mike is practically having a party over at his winery. I called him, but he said he was too busy pouring free wine.”

  “Why the party?”

  “Michael said he’s celebrating that Tristan is gone.”

  Stunned, I said, “He’s celebrating Cherry’s death? And telling people that? That’s foolish.”

  We began walking together back to the stone barn.

  Kjersta swung her empty bucket. “I can’t blame Michael.” She paused at the door of the barn, her big brown eyes showing weariness. “Cherry was causing the huge rift between Jonas and Michael. Jonas was fed up with Cherry. I know that Jonas complained to the university about Cherry. He told me he wrote to his dean.”

  “When was this?”

  “A couple of weeks ago. Start of the university’s semester.”

  “Did you tell this to the sheriff when he stopped by earlier?”

  “No. He only asked about cars going by last night.”

  We went inside. The barn smelled of something sweet, like clover hay. “What’s that?” I sniffed Kjersta. “A new perfume?”

  Kjersta laughed. “My new soaps. I figured I could best Fontana at her own game.” She led me to a small stack of soap cakes wrapped in clear cellophane on a shelf across from the cash register.

  Giving her a sly smile, I said, “You’re not jealous of your husband’s ex-wife, are you?”

  “Ha, she’s jealous of me. Now she’ll be even more jealous. These soaps are far better than what she sells.”

  She showed me the soap bars. They were a pale pink, the hue of clover when it first blooms after a rain.

  I said, “They match the color of my Cinderella Pink Fairy Tale Fudge. Women will love buying these as gifts.”

  Kjersta said, “I use the milk from sheep and goats. Fontana uses cow’s milk.”

  “You use Jonas’s goats and sheep?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But you seem to think he could have murdered Tristan Hardy.”

  The pained look on Kjersta’s
face showed me she was conflicted. “No. It must have been a bad accident. They must have argued in the church basement and shoved each other and Cherry fell.”

  “But you’ve no proof.”

  She shook her head. “I just have this bad feeling about Jonas sending that letter to the dean. Cherry would have found out, I’m sure. It could’ve been Cherry planning to harm Jonas, but it turned out the other way.”

  That chilled me. My family respected both men. “Are you still using Jonas’s animals to mow in your orchard?”

  Daniel Dahlgren and Michael Prevost had used Jonas’s goat herd and flock of sheep for a few years to eat or “vacuum” dead leaves and weeds. The goats were turned into the Dahlgrens’ orchard, but not the vineyard because they would eat the grapevines in addition to anything else except for the wire fencing. The sheep ignored the grapevines, though, and thus were used in the vineyard to eat the ground cover there. Eating the fallen leaves prevented molds from forming and growing.

  Kjersta said, “Daniel is suggesting it’d be best if we cut ties with Jonas entirely. Especially now.”

  The sweet smells inside my little barn took on a sour note. I remembered that Sam had told me Kjersta had said Fontana had something to do with the murder.

  After swallowing hard to drum up courage, I said, “Fontana says you blamed her for Cherry’s death.”

  Kjersta didn’t even blink. “She had some role in the death, if you ask me. Don’t you agree that she loved having two men fight over her?”

  My friend returned to her own gardening chores with her husband while I finished the afternoon working at my roadside market wondering what had really happened in that church basement. Was there a lovers’ triangle? Could Fontana and Jonas be harboring a horrible secret?

  Thankfully, a steady stream of customers saved me from my maudlin thoughts.

  As I was heading to my truck at six o’clock, the sheriff’s squad car pulled into the grassy flat next to the empty wagon where pumpkins had sat earlier. Jordy got out, shutting the door with a solid ker-thunk.

  I sighed. “Hello, Jordy.”

  He touched the brim of his hat in salutation, then removed his sunglasses. The sun was lower now and behind his broad shoulders. “Just talked with your friend.”