Five-Alarm Fudge

by Christine DeSmet

  “Which one? I have more than one.”

  “The one without a memory.”

  “John Schultz? How is he?”

  “Something called transient global amnesia. Can’t remember where he’s been in the last day. Seems mighty convenient.” He took a deep breath, expanding his already-broad chest. “And connected to you.”

  My goose bumps were back. “Why do you say that?”

  “He can’t remember where he’s been. He can’t remember where his car is. And I can’t seem to find Tristan Hardy’s car. Two cars are missing, a man is dead, and you found the body. Want to tell me the truth now?”

  I fingered the keys in my right hand. “You forgot the knife. How is all that connected to the Buck knife in the choir loft and the blood on the music sheets? And the fire? What burned anyway?”

  “I can’t tell you. I’d like to hear the perpetrator tell me.”

  “Sorry, Jordy, but you’re messing with me. I found the body and the knife. I’ll give you that much, but you know I didn’t kill anybody. Or set a fire. In the organ bench.” I was guessing, but it worked.

  A hiss escaped across his lips. “Are you holding back information about your friends?”

  My blood pressure was surging. “Do I need a lawyer?”

  “Wouldn’t hurt. Probably wouldn’t hurt for whomever you’re protecting, too. You willing to come down to my office tomorrow for a chat?”

  “No, Sheriff Tollefson, sir. Because I don’t know anything.”

  After a long moment in which he glared at me, he got in his car, then drove away.

  All of a sudden the breeze sweeping across the treetops and farmland from the Lake Michigan bay felt frosty. I ran for the barn to grab my sweatshirt I had left there, sucking the air to catch my breath. I couldn’t let my mother be questioned by Jordy. His ability to thrust a laser stare through a person would wilt Florine. She would confess without even realizing it, then end up vacuuming a jail cell.

  Chapter 10

  By seven that Sunday night, I was alone with Lucky Harbor in my cabin. The dog had thrown up on my kitchen floor. I wondered what he’d eaten at Mercy Fogg’s house. It appeared to be raw meat loaf, replete with chopped onions, but I could swear there were also colored marshmallows in it, of all things.

  I called Dillon. Dillon said, “He’s eaten and regurgitated worse. As long as he’s breathing okay and wagging his tail, I wouldn’t worry about it. Want me to come clean it up?”

  The water spaniel had lain down already in a corner of the kitchen next to the refrigerator, his head between his front paws. His contrite eyes followed my every move.

  “No, I can handle it. You keep an eye on John.” He’d volunteered to keep John with him at the Blue Heron Inn for the night.

  “Pauline’s here.”

  “Tell her hi.”

  I turned my attention to the vintage cookbooks that filled boxes in my cabin. Like panning for gold, I kept flipping pages for anything about divinity fudge or history related to my family.

  A knock on my door startled me.

  It was Mercy Fogg, of all people. She had never graced my door in all the months I’d known her. She still wore her bus uniform. I got the feeling she was proud to wear any kind of uniform that took her a notch above her usual coveralls worn when driving our county’s road-grading equipment or the snowplows in winter. She’d prefer a crown and an ermine robe, I felt sure, with a scepter in one hand.

  “Something wrong, Mercy?”

  “Why do you assume that something’s wrong?”

  “Because you don’t like me much, for starters. Why is that, anyway?” I knew it was jealousy, disappointment, and a general mad-on against most of Fishers’ Harbor, but I loved pimping her anyway. “Why don’t we put all the cards on the table, as we say, and be done with it?”

  “Life is more than a game of cards.” She practically shoved me out of the way as she tromped into my small rental cabin.

  She sniffed the air, flipping her head about, her blond bouffant curls bouncing. “What is that putrid smell?”

  “The dog upchucked whatever it was you had in that pan at your house.”

  “My venison meat loaf,” she growled. “And that was the last of my stash, too. Now I have to wait for the deer hunting seasons to start to replenish my larder.”

  “So you hunt?”

  “Bow and gun. Since a little girl. With my dad.”

  “You still hunt with him?”

  “He’s . . .” Her voice caught. “He’s in a nursing home. I made the meat loaf for him and his friends there. I was going to bake it after I drove the bus.”

  I didn’t feel as tall as usual. We were both looking at Lucky Harbor lying in the kitchen. His tail thumped once.

  I said, “You make your meat loaf with marshmallows. I’ve never heard of that.”

  “I ran out of eggs to bind it together. I figured they’d do.”

  “If it helps, Lucky Harbor loved it going down.”

  Mercy gave me a sideways glance. Her eyes were watery. “Thanks, Ava.”

  Then she perused my small cabin. “Quaint. These cabins almost belonged to me, you know.”

  “Almost. You would have had to buy this property from Lloyd Mueller. It’s the fudge shop you ‘almost’ owned.”

  “One piece of real estate begets the next.”

  When Mercy was village president, she’d swung a deal several years ago that could have made her the owner of the bait-and-fudge shop if my grandfather missed paying his taxes for too many years. She had also wanted the village to buy up the cabins on Duck Marsh Street to tear them down and expand the harbor with fancy condos and shops. She was all for Lloyd Mueller selling out to a Milwaukee tour and travel company to plow us asunder. That was the same company that had fired John Schultz. All of Mercy’s fancy plans, however misplaced, were nixed when John threatened the corporate vultures with a hefty lawsuit over age discrimination.

  Everything turned out well for Grandpa and me because Lloyd had left a will that put Cody Fjelstad in charge of Lloyd’s estate. Cody could take over when he turned twenty-five. He had just turned nineteen, which rankled Mercy because another nineteen-year-old, Erik Gustafson, had ended up as mayor. Mercy was turning sixty soon, but she was increasingly hemmed in by youngsters. Based on my own angst about turning thirty-two I guessed the dreaded feeling of getting older was pressuring her, too. Despite our differences, I understood Mercy sometimes.

  Mercy was inspecting the living room area’s stone fireplace. Then she picked up the cookbooks on the couch and sat down. The springs popped.

  Titus, my ever-faithful mouse, appeared under the back of the couch, his pinkish nose wiggling, sniffing for an escape route. He noticed the dog, then left stage right.

  I stepped around the couch to face Mercy. “You’ve got a reason for this visit.”

  Mercy capped her knees with her beefy hands, tapping her fingers, nervouslike. “You should know something about your grandparents.”

  My heart startled. “What?” I crossed my arms.

  “It’s about today’s vineyard tour they were on.” She tapped her fingers on the couch arm. “They were quite entertaining. At least your grandmother was.”

  “How so?”

  “Your grandmother got stinking drunk.”

  That made me lurch. “She never drinks to excess.”

  “When we got to the Prevost Winery, Mike wasn’t only giving away sips in those dinky sample cups. He was handing out full glasses.”

  “But that still doesn’t explain her drinking to excess.”

  “Everybody was toasting her relatives.”

  “Oh no.” I slumped onto the raised hearth.

  Mercy nodded. “I could tell something was wrong about the relatives. The more people asked her about Prince Arnaud and Princess Amandine, the more she glugged the wine. Your grandfather finally saw what was going on, but too late. He helped her on the bus, where she passed out.”

  “Passed out?” I rushed ov
er to the window to look across the street. Their lights were off or I would have gone straight over there. “It looks like they went to bed early.”

  “Is there something wrong with her relatives? Do they have a disease? You’re not a carrier of something awful, are you? Is that why you haven’t had kids yet? You’re afraid they’ll be born with whatever your prince and princess have?”

  Mercy sounded ridiculous. But then I wondered if she’d put her finger on what might be troubling Grandma about her royal relatives. Maybe there was one of those whispered secrets families hand down through generations.

  “Thanks, Mercy, for telling me this. My grandmother is going to be really embarrassed in the morning. I’m sure she’ll apologize to you.”

  Mercy pushed her hefty frame up with a grunt. “Don’t worry about it. No locals were on the tour. All Chicago people. But Mike Prevost saw her getting tipsy.” We were at the door when Mercy added, “He’s got his own troubles.”

  “How so?”

  “Mike said he ran into somebody last night with his car. He said the person was parked along Highway C down there where you’re from. Mike says he swerved for a raccoon and slammed to a stop behind the parked car. Wrecked a headlight on Mike’s car. The other guy started to get out, then thought better of it, it seems, and took off. Probably a drunk.”

  This was corroborating Kjersta’s story. “Did he say what the guy looked like?”

  “He said he only got a glimpse. Some kind of Hawaiian shirt.”

  I winced. John Schultz wore those shirts. “Did Mike say who it was?”

  “No. He said he never saw the guy’s face. But you and I know who it was.”

  Mercy gave me a look filled with more subtext than a soap opera scene, then left. Lucky Harbor sailed out the door after her, heading up the hill to Dillon.

  I couldn’t concentrate on my cookbooks. I had to tell Pauline what I’d learned. I called Dillon to see if she was at the inn visiting John.

  “Sorry, Ava. Pauline left. I made popcorn and rented a couple of Grand Prix racing documentaries for John and me to watch.”

  I felt like a discarded autumn leaf left to drift in the wind. “Did he remember anything of importance yet?”

  “No, but it’s only supposed to take a day and not over forty-eight hours.”

  That would mean it might take him until Monday night. “Take notes.”

  “Of course, Ava. I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too. I sent Lucky Harbor back to you. Good night.”

  Like sugar crystals scrambling to make sense of the heat in my copper kettles, my brain sought meaning in the maze of happenings I’d experienced in two days. Why had John been on that road? A road that wasn’t far from the Namur church? What had he seen? What had Michael Prevost seen? Had he been on his way to the church? Heck, that church was starting to sound like a late-night party place, if Michael, John, Jonas, Fontana, and Cherry had all been there.

  Although it was early, only about eight now in the evening, I shut off the lights, ready to fall into bed.

  A scratch at my front door signaled Lucky Harbor was back. He was wagging his tail as he trotted inside. His collar had the bright orange, floatable key holder attached. A warm feeling came over me.

  I opened up the key holder, then withdrew a piece of paper. Forgot to say I love you. Dillon.

  I smiled. A bit of peace washed over me.

  Lucky Harbor trotted to the bedroom. He adored sleeping on my bed curled up at my feet.

  As I headed to my bedroom and my borrowed dog, the pitter-patter behind me on the floor indicated Titus was running from the kitchen back to underneath the couch. The normalcy of Titus’s routine soothed me, too.

  But I still had a tough time sleeping. My grandmother had gotten drunk. Sheesh.

  * * *

  On Monday morning I was at the fudge shop by five o’clock to cut and wrap the Rapunzel Raspberry Rapture Fairy Tale Fudge that had been loafed near the window the day before. My thoughts weren’t on fudge, however.

  I was thinking about my grandmother and what awful secret she might have about our ancestors. I tied on a pink apron with a bib top and frilly skirt over my jeans and long-sleeved pink T-shirt.

  I shoved my horrible thoughts aside for Pauline. I texted her to say I’d walk up to the Blue Heron Inn later in the morning to check on John for her.

  My grandfather wasn’t at the shop early as usual, which didn’t surprise me today. If Mercy had been correct about Grandma Sophie’s condition after the winery tour yesterday, Grandpa was administering lots of coffee and juice to my grandmother.

  When my grandfather finally popped in, he was wrinkly in the face from lack of sleep. My hands began to shake as I continued cutting fudge into one-inch squares.

  His silver hair wasn’t combed; swatches of it stood up in every direction, making him look like an aging rock star. He wore a blue-and-black-checked flannel shirt that he’d buttoned crooked. The shirt collar was pushed up on one side of his neck toward an ear. He wore tall rubber boots over his denim jeans, as if he were ready to march through the marsh at the end of our street looking for minnows to add to his tank.

  With gentleness, I called over, “Gilpa, are you going fishing today?”

  He growled, making his way to his coffeemaker behind his register. Amid the popping of the can lid and scooping of coffee, he said, “Not in the mood. I feel like skydiving without a parachute.”

  Hmm. “Mercy Fogg told me about yesterday. How is Grandma?”

  “Hmmph. Ornery as hell. I thought she’d be pleased as punch going along yesterday. I thought it’d get her talking about her history here in Door County and she could feel pride. Inviting that prince and princess here was the worst thing I’ve ever done, according to her.”

  Bad karma sparks showered off my grandpa.

  I said, “She hasn’t liked your surprise so much, I know.” I hauled a pan of the Rapunzel Fudge over to my counter to wrap individual pieces.

  Grandpa took the coffee carafe and marched by me to the kitchen in back for water. When he returned, he said, “I’m thinking it might be a good thing to ask the prince to cancel the trip.”

  I almost squished the fudge I was wrapping in pretty red wax paper. “Don’t do that, Gilpa.”

  I told him about Mercy’s theory concerning some hereditary condition that might be worrying Grandma.

  Grandpa punched on the coffeemaker button so hard he pushed the machine back against the wall with a bang. “Hogwash. Your grandmother is not diseased. Neither are you.”

  With that, he tromped out in his boots through the front door. The cowbell almost fell off from the force of him slamming the door. I knew he wasn’t mad at me; he was mad at himself for not being able to please my grandmother. He loved her deeply. Whenever he displeased her, it was as if an eclipse happened and his heart went dark.

  For the next two hours I made fudge, cleaned (not to my mother’s standards), took inventory after the weekend sales, and restocked gift items, including the aprons. We’d sold a dozen of them yesterday after my fudge demonstration. I called the church ladies to order more. They made them by hand. Lois Forbes, who lived over in Jacksonport on the lake side of the county versus our bay side, said she’d come across an entire bolt of pink satin that was begging to be trim on Cinderella Pink Fairy Tale Fudge aprons.

  Around seven thirty, Lucky Harbor showed up outside the front door, panting and scratching on the glass. I let him in. He was soaking wet. He immediately shook, spiraling water all over my jeans and pink, long-sleeved T-shirt and white bib apron, the floor, and nearby shelves.

  “Thanks, Lucky Harbor. Somehow getting drenched by you feels appropriate this morning.”

  The brown dog sat, panting up at me. On his collar under his neck I spotted the buoyant key holder.

  I heard Dillon’s strong, manly voice as I read, When the sun rises, I think of you. Love you.

  I took the note to my counter, then scribbled on the back When my heart beats, I th
ink of you. Love you.

  After placing the rolled notepaper back in the capsule, I tossed Lucky Harbor two Goldfish crackers from my pocket. I gave him a good hug, despite him being wet. “What a good messenger service you are, Lucky Harbor. I love you, too, you know.”

  He barked. Then I sent him on his way.

  As I closed the door, I peered about but didn’t see Grandpa. The Super Catch I was still at its slip at the other end of the harbor.

  By eight, when Grandpa hadn’t returned yet, I began to worry and called his cell phone. There was no answer. I hoped he’d gone back to his cabin to be with Grandma Sophie. I called her. No answer.

  I decided enough was enough, took off my apron, and set out a change jar on my counter with a sign for customers to use the honor system.

  I marched across Duck Marsh Street to my grandparents’ front door. Finding the door unlocked, I stepped inside.

  The smell of bacon and eggs drew me to the kitchen, where I halted in surprise.

  My friend and former fiancé, Sam Peterson, was sitting at the table sopping up a sunny-side-up egg with a piece of toast. Across from him sat Grandma in a pink fuzzy robe, sipping coffee from a large mug. They peered up at me as if I were a burglar.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  Sam put down his toast. “Your grandmother called me an hour ago to come over for a chat.”

  “Grandma, is something wrong?” I rushed to give Grandma Sophie a hug. “How can I help? Why is Sam here? Why didn’t you call me?”

  Grandma winced. “My head, Ava honey, slow down. This is about you.”

  I plunked down in the chair between them. “Me? And I wasn’t invited to the conversation?”

  “I asked Sam to come over and give me some advice about lawyers. Your father called earlier and the authorities have arrested Kjersta Dahlgren for the murder of Tristan Hardy.”

  “Oh no.”

  “You’re one of her friends, and you found Cherry. I’m worried about you.”

  I patted her hand nearest me. “Don’t worry about me. What about Kjersta? This is all wrong. It’s Michael Prevost they want. Or Jonas Coppens. Or . . .”