Five-Alarm Fudge

by Christine DeSmet

  Then he began pulling pans from the hooks in the ceiling over the island he’d created for me. “Prince Arnaud wants to experience life here. Haven’t you listened to me? The prince came early so that he could work as a farmhand for a few days on your family farm. He wants to explore life as it was experienced by the Belgian immigrants. Your grandfather plans to take him fishing, and he called Parker Balusek about some lumberjack he knows who can show him how wooden shingles are made by hand, just as your ancestors did after the Great Fire.”

  “Wait a minute. Do my father and mother know about this?” I reached under a counter cupboard for the flour tub. The menu in my head called for Belgian waffles.

  “Your grandpa told me your father knows, but not your mother. Yet. She thinks you merely wanted the cups and saucers because the inn is nearly done. So she brought them with when Mercy picked her up in the limo.”

  “This isn’t going to end well. I can feel it. Grandpa does this all the time. We were swimming along so smoothly, too.”

  “Very smoothly. Fires, a body you found in a basement, wrecking Pauline’s car, Jordy wanting to arrest you—”

  “Dillon, this isn’t how I want a future husband to help me.”

  Dillon tugged my ponytail lovingly. “I’ll keep doing that until you see the bright side to all this.”

  “What bright side? The prince thinks a mere marshmallow concoction is something from God, and I’ve got to figure out what to show him as the place where we found the recipe. And how in the heck am I going to find a divinity fudge recipe written on paper that can be authenticated as coming from the 1850s or 1860s? You know the Vassar College girls didn’t even make it popular until the 1880s.”

  “Maybe check with Milton at the Wise Owl. Maybe he’s got collections of old letters from that time. Maybe some of them contain recipes for divinity fudge. We can try to convince Arnie that Adele and her family would have shared in those recipes.”

  “Brilliant. None of the cookbooks from Lloyd go back to the 1800s. They all start after 1900.”

  “You called me brilliant.” Dillon dipped me into a kiss that held promises for later. His arms were strong and reassuring, holding me snugly against his muscular chest.

  After we popped up, I asked, “Is Jane Goodland a stripper?”

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t ‘huh’ me. I’ve heard the rumors that she’s good-looking. And I looked up the name Jane Goodland online. There’s a convict and an exotic dancer. Milton said the lady was a lawyer. Somebody who’s been in prison can’t be a lawyer, so our new tenant in Milt’s building has to be the stripper.”

  Dillon was quiet for too long, fussing around with pouring cream into a small pitcher.

  I said, “So, is Jane Goodland the lawyer also Jane the stripper?”

  “That may have been something she did years ago. I saw the pictures, too. All the guys have. Erik helped recruit her.” He referred to Erik Gustafson, who bartended at the Troubled Trout bar and was our village president, too. “You should be glad he’s making sure the Main Street buildings stay full of tenants. And you shouldn’t hold her looks against her. And she has a dog.”

  “Sheesh. Because she has a dog makes Jane the stripper all right?” I shook my head, trying to clear it. “Too early for this discussion. I’ll ask her myself when I meet her.” Beating the waffle batter, I said, “What does the prince want for breakfast? Besides hot chocolate? And Belgian waffles?”

  “He definitely wants to try American bacon. He said in his castle they don’t eat much meat and he’d heard that our bacon was pretty good. And of course he’d like to enjoy more of your fudge.”

  “Now, there’s a breakfast menu. Fudge and bacon. Piers tried to make that bacon fudge last July. I suppose I should ask him to make the bacon.”

  The kitchen became a communal event with Piers and “Arnie” joining Dillon and me. An odd joy set in, a joy I hadn’t ever experienced, not having any siblings or relatives here my own age.

  We talked nonstop. Arnie loved his nickname. He lived in a small castle in the countryside of Belgium near a stream where he fly-fished. He told us about riding show horses and owning foxhounds. Arnie was eager to flush birds with Lucky Harbor.

  He’d played soccer for a short time on Belgium’s national team, which made us all awestruck.

  He worked now as a fund-raiser for several charity organizations, including the museum that wanted to bring home Sister Adele’s handwritten recipe. The deal was they’d get it for two years, and then it would journey back to us. Prince Arnaud and his mother, Amandine, would leave the precious cup with AVD on it for us to display; plus, they’d contribute other royal items to display at fund-raisers. Arnie said he’d travel back here again next summer for Belgian National Day in July. His good looks and friendly manner would easily get people to pull out their wallets.

  I asked, “Do you really think the cup our friend John found is authentic?”

  “It appears so, but then I’m just a prince.” We laughed. “My mother is an expert on the chinaware handed down in our family.”

  Seated minutes later in the dining room, we enjoyed eggs sunny-side up per the prince’s wishes and waffles with whipped cream and Door County cherries on top, and of course plenty of thick-cut bacon. I made a rich cocoa with Belgian chocolate melted in it, which we enjoyed in the beautiful antique cups at the insistence of the prince. He wanted to experience everything full tilt. I began to feel a kindred spirit with him.

  We were finishing up our cocoa at around nine o’clock when John Schultz and Marc Hayward knocked on the door of the inn. They walked in with a camera and lights. My heart fell into my stomach. Had Grandpa told them about our visitor?

  But I relaxed soon enough when John made it known they were here to ask permission to film in the shop again today. At first he didn’t even notice the prince seated with us.

  Marc, a bit bleary-eyed, said, “I’m amazed at how many people are at the harbor already. People around here really do get up early.”

  “With the birds, Marc,” I said.

  Los Angeles was a ten o’clock town for the TV series industry, and sometimes people didn’t stir until the afternoon because they worked writing their shows and rehearsing with the actors until midnight.

  John, who was standing in the foyer, said, “Hey, that’s the cup I brought up from the bottom of the lake, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “And these are the cups from Lloyd’s collection.”

  John took a little video. Then he noticed Prince Arnaud. He reached out a hand as the prince stood up.

  I rushed over. “This is, uh, Arnie . . . Malle.”

  My manager said, “Like Louis Malle? The director? You related?”

  Prince Arnaud laughed his beautiful laugh, then said in his slight accent, “I belong to another family.”

  Dillon said, “He’s here on business. Just passing through, getting directions to the Oosterling farm. He’ll be there a few days, uh . . .”

  I said, “Doing a farm diary for a French magazine. They like butter and cream over there, too.”

  It all sounded inane at first, but Marc and John bought it when I added, “The French like to follow the comings and goings of royalty. Arnie will be here through the kermis.”

  John said, “Then we’ll cross paths a lot as we both get our stories for the media.”

  Marc said as he was turning to leave, “Say, why don’t we all meet on Saturday at the scene of the crime, since that’s so close to the farm?”

  Prince Arnaud said, “There’s been a crime?”

  “You betcha,” John said, his voice rising. “A murder. Ava found the body. It was a guy that was studying the cherries and orchards out by her parents’ farm. I got myself clocked on the head by somebody in that church, too. You should take some notes for your magazine. This is a big story.”

  “Oui, of course, merci,” Arnaud said.

  My insides were going topsy-turvy. I was embarrassed by the crimes that had occ
urred recently. Door County never had much crime at all . . . until I returned.

  I said to Marc, “Better yet, we’ve been meaning to help clean up the garden at the Dahlgren place. Let’s meet there on Saturday afternoon.”

  “Deal,” Marc said. “You wouldn’t mind if I took a few pictures? There’s a cinematic quality here that I’d like to show a few people back home.”

  I groaned inwardly, though a part of me felt proud that he’d noticed how beautiful it was here in this part of the country.

  John said, “We’ll shoot video earlier at your roadside market, Ava. Saturdays are busy for you, so it’ll make great color. You won’t mind if I interview a few customers?”

  “Sounds peachy,” I said, concerned.

  The duo left. I breathed in deeply to settle the dread already seeded and sprouting in my head.

  While Dillon and “Arnie Malle” went to a farm store for suitable farm duds, Piers hurried to the old mansion for a look and to wait to talk with Dillon’s mother, Cathy, about his muffin shop deal.

  I went back down the hill to my shop to grill my grandfather.

  Chapter 24

  Grandpa Gil was in high spirits. He was always that way when he hatched some plan like the one involving Prince Arnaud. I didn’t believe for a minute that it was the prince’s idea to arrive early in Door County and work on the farm.

  Grandpa winked at me. “Did he like the divinity fudge?”

  “It’s not real divinity, Grandpa.” I gave him the gist of how it was made last night. “Why did you tell the prince that was the recipe? You know this lie is going to come back and bite you. Your lies always turn into disasters for us.”

  He gave me such a hurt look that I wanted to shrivel up and disappear under a copper kettle.

  Grandpa said, “This lie is going to solve everything.”

  “Solve a murder case? A ghost in our family? Mere fudge can’t do all that, Gilpa.”

  “Oh, honey, don’t you ever lose faith in what you do or your fudge. I’m proud of you.”

  While my heart melted like Belgian chocolate in my kettles, I had to do something to help Grandpa. He had too much time on his hands and that was why he hatched crazy ideas. I went over to help him load a shelf with bobbers in DayGlo orange and yellow.

  Grandpa said, “The prince will get to like it here, and even if he finds out we snookered him with that recipe, he won’t care. He’s a pretty darn handsome guy, don’t you think?”

  “Don’t you go matchmaking, too. Grandma still wants me to marry Sam.”

  “I’m partial to tall Parker Balusek. I’d have basketball players for great-grandkids. But the prince has a castle and fly-fishes. I’d like to go over there and try that a time or two.”

  “I have Dillon and that’s enough for me for now. And besides, Arnie is my relative.”

  Grandpa chortled. “He’s so far back on the family tree he’s but a tiny twig. He’s fair game. Did he kiss your hand?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “Because he’s a prince and you deserve to be treated like a princess.” Grandpa put down the packages of bobbers he was holding to settle his hands on my shoulders. “That’s all I want for you in life, Ava Mathilde. I want you to be loved and respected by a man for being you.”

  “You do that for me, for sure, Gilpa.” I put down the box of bobbers I was holding for him and gave him a hug.

  “You’re a good kid.”

  “Only the best for you, Gilpa.”

  He laughed.

  The shop soon became crowded as the early weekenders started pouring in for their fishing equipment, fudge, and souvenirs. Cody showed.

  “Hey, Miss Oosterling! I learned how to give shots last night. Part of my EMT and firefighter training class. Want to watch me give a piece of your fudge a shot?”

  Customers giggled.

  “So you think my fudge needs saving?” I was giving out free samples at my glass case area.

  “Nope. Could I take a batch to my next meeting?”

  “Not if you’re going to mutilate it with needles.”

  Cody guffawed. “Heck no. It’s to eat. The guys bring treats. I don’t know how to make anything but fudge. Bethany knows how to make lots of stuff, but she’s just my girlfriend. Maybe after we’re married she’ll make stuff for me.”

  That made me pause. My grandfather peeked over at me with hiked eyebrows from across the shop.

  I said to Cody, “Have you proposed to Bethany?”

  Customers plastered on sly smiles and went quiet.

  “No. I have to take these things slow, Miss Oosterling. Dillon told me that.”

  “He did?” I almost guffawed at Grandpa’s face scrunching up.

  “Dillon said special women are worth waiting for.”

  I was starting to swell with pride at what I was hearing about Dillon.

  Then Cody said, “I figure I could save the proposal for the kermis when the prince is here. It’ll be like a fairy-tale ball. Bethany looks like Cinderella, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, she does.” Bethany Bjorklund was a blond former cheerleader. “But maybe you should propose in a more private moment. At least consider it.”

  Cody was blossoming with Sam’s and Dillon’s advice, but he also had a mind of his own. Bethany was wise at eighteen, but I was beginning to feel anxious about the prince’s visit. I wondered if other men planned to use the Cinderella atmosphere for a proposal.

  Several customers remarked they’d be returning to Door County for the festivities a week from this coming Saturday. They bought more items than the usual. The shop became a musical concert with register dings and the cowbell clanking on the door.

  Around eleven that Thursday morning, I loaded up fudge, Lucky Harbor, and Prince Arnaud in my truck. He was dressed in blue jeans, work boots, and a gray sweatshirt with a Green Bay Packers logo.

  “You’re official now,” I said to Arnie.

  My heartbeat still sputtered in the presence of royalty. It felt unreal to think he lived in a castle. I liked that he had eaten my waffles and drunk authentic Belgian thick cocoa from tiny Limoges cups.

  We headed south through the county. Our agenda included stopping by my roadside market, then the farm, and then I’d show him the shrine and resting place of Adele Brise in Champion. For now, I’d do what I could to avoid stopping at the scene of Cherry’s final day. We’d drive by, of course, but I wouldn’t stop.

  A squad car was on my tail the whole way as soon as we passed through Sturgeon Bay.

  “Our sheriff doesn’t know about you; they’re following me. To protect me.”

  Prince Arnaud said, “Do not worry. I will not tell my mother about the murder or your police needing to follow you. Amandine would cancel her trip. For me, I find this exhilarating. My life is boring compared with yours. I enjoy being called Arnie.”

  Again I sensed a kindred spirit. I ventured, “What would you think about stopping at a local winery first, Arnie?”

  “S’il vous plait, show me anything you wish. I’m eager to understand the land where my relatives found their joy in life, joie de vivre.”

  * * *

  The Prevost parking lot was full, perfect for my plan. At this time of day, near lunchtime, I knew it’d be crowded, a good cover for sneaking around. I let Lucky Harbor out of the truck. He shot to the back of the stone winery.

  Arnie went inside like any other customer while I excused myself to allegedly watch the dog.

  I hustled to the back of the building. Lucky Harbor was sniffing the ground around a massive old freezer chest, the kind used to store extra bags of ice in summer and fish caught in the lake. It stood about hip high and was about five feet wide and three feet across front to back.

  Lucky Harbor kept snapping his head to me and then back to the ground as he circled. He sniffed the freezer chest several times. The way the dog kept appealing to me made goose bumps down my arms ripple in place.

  A voice said, “Is there something wrong?”r />
  I jumped. It was Arnaud. “No, Arnie. Just watching the dog.”

  “He’s intrigued by the appliance.”

  “Yeah. I’d like a look inside. But it’s locked. A crowbar would help.”

  “Perhaps that is not wise.”

  I chuckled. “You don’t know me. This is the kind of thing I do.”

  “But the car following us has arrived.”

  He meant the squad car with Maria Vasquez. We walked up the sidewalk along the building. I implored Arnaud to duck into the shop to buy a bottle of wine.

  On the sidewalk, Maria growled out, “What now?”

  “Deputy Vasquez, hi. Here to taste a little wine? Aren’t you on duty?”

  Maria’s big brown eyes gave me a weary stare.

  I pointed behind me. “The dog knows that there’s something in the freezer chest behind the winery.”

  “Like ice?”

  “Maybe. Whatever it is, Lucky Harbor thinks I should open the chest.”

  Maria walked the few yards back to the corner of the building with me in tow to peek. Lucky Harbor was still snuffling about.

  Maria said, “So?”

  “So do something. What if there’s a body in there?”

  I meant it as a joke, but Maria sighed dramatically. “With you, I realize there might really be a body in there, but—”

  “Let’s open it.”

  “Please, Ava, I need a warrant for such a thing and you also can’t go around thinking the worst about your neighbors. Besides, whose body would it be? There’s been nobody reported missing.”

  “All right, it’s not a body. But there’s something in there the dog doesn’t like.”

  “Or it’s something he does like. Michael Prevost might have steaks stored in there. Now get a move on before Prevost finds you and this dog and complains. Where are you headed next?”

  “Ava’s Autumn Harvest and then my parents’ farm. Why?”

  “Do you think you can get there without getting into more trouble? I’d like to head back up to Sturgeon Bay to my office. Alone. Without you in handcuffs.”

  “I don’t look good in cuffs anyway. They don’t match my outfit.”