Murder with a Cherry on Top

by Cynthia Baxter

  But Grams quickly got stronger and soon became able to do more things. As my duties lessened and my new schedule became more routine, I began wondering what would come next.

  And then, one evening as I sat in front of the TV, watching silly pet videos and eating a huge dish of green tea ice cream, I had a brainstorm.

  Opening my own ice cream emporium in Wolfert’s Roost suddenly seemed like the best and most obvious idea in the world. I loved ice cream, my town didn’t already have an ice cream shop, and I desperately needed something to do—not to mention a new source of income.

  Eleven weeks later, I opened Lickety Splits.

  And it looked as if opening my own business couldn’t possibly go any more smoothly. At least, until that afternoon.

  Which brought me right back to my miserable mood.

  By that point, I’d reached the turnoff that the GPS on my phone told me would take me to my destination: the Juniper Hill Organic Dairy.

  I drove along a side road that became bumpier and bumpier, finally disintegrating into a dirt road pitted with potholes. I was beginning to wonder if my GPS had failed me when I caught sight of a hand-painted sign reading, YOU’RE ALMOST THERE! ONLY 1,000 FEET TO JUNIPER HILL.

  At least the owner had a sense of humor, I thought, forging ahead.

  I’d never dealt with this dairy before. In fact, I’d worked out a deal with my local supermarket to buy the milk and cream I needed to make the ice cream I sold at Lickety Splits.

  But I was someone who listened to my customers. And since opening four days before, at least a dozen times someone had asked me, “Is your ice cream made with organic ingredients?”

  I decided to investigate whether or not that was even a possibility. So I Googled “Organic Dairy Hudson Valley.” Sure enough, Juniper Hill popped right up. And when it turned out to be located only a few miles away, I was convinced I’d found the perfect supplier.

  I’d been anxious to check it out, and after Willow had shooed me out of the shop, it seemed like the perfect way to distract myself.

  I finally reached the end of the road, where I found an unimpressive wooden building with another hand-painted sign. YOU’RE HERE! it read. WELCOME TO JUNIPER HILL!

  Frankly, the place looked more like a shack than a place of business. But the sign convinced me that I was in the right place. And right behind there was a huge field in which happy-looking cows grazed in the bright June sunshine. Beyond that was a huge barn, several outbuildings, and a couple of silver silos glinting in the summer sun.

  Given how contented the cows looked, I was already certain they could make my customers feel equally contented.

  I went inside. The interior of the small building was just as rustic, with a wooden floor strewn with pieces of hay, a counter, and a single employee. He looked as if he was a teenager, especially since he was wearing earphones and bopping his head up and down. I only hoped there was music coming out of those earphones that would explain all the head bopping.

  The young man—a boy, really—had straight black hair that was so long in front I could barely see his eyes. Between him not being able to hear me and possibly not being able to see me, I was already nervous about how this interaction was going to go.

  “Hi!” I said brightly, hoping he’d be able to hear me.

  Whether he had extraordinary hearing or could lip-read, I don’t know. But he focused his attention on me and said, “Hey. What’s up?”

  So far, this was going much better than I’d expected.

  “What’s up is that I’d like to place an order,” I replied. “I’d like to buy twenty gallons of milk and forty gallons of cream.”

  “For when?”

  “For now,” I said. “I’d like to get that to go.”

  “Whoa,” the boy said. “That’s a lot of stuff.”

  I sighed impatiently. “This is a dairy, isn’t it?”

  “Well, yeah. Sure.” Frowning, he added, “But that’s kind of a big order for a walk-in. I mean, we have regular customers who have a standing order, but that’s something we plan for, so—”

  I was getting impatient. You can take the girl out of the big city, but—well, you know the rest.

  “Look,” I interrupted, doing my best to remain calm even though I’d been in a terrible mood even before I walked in. “I’m just trying to place a simple order. Can I talk to whoever it is who runs this place?”

  “Sure,” the boy replied with a shrug. “He’s right back there.”

  I turned in the direction he was pointing. Through an open back door, I could see a tall man with broad shoulders and a trim frame standing with his back to me. Just then, he turned his head slightly, just enough that I got a view of his jawline and the bridge of his nose.

  “Oh no,” I whispered. “No. It can’t be.”

  But it was. The sinking feeling in the middle of my chest told me that my hunch was correct. The boy’s boss wasn’t just another cowhand. There was no doubt about it: that was Jake Pratt.

  My Jake Pratt.

  My heart was pounding so hard that the floor was practically vibrating. The entire room seemed to be swirling around. My mouth was dry; my whole body was covered in sweat....

  Part of me hoped I had just begun experiencing early onset menopause.

  The rest of me knew better.

  “You know, on second thought . . .” I started to say.

  But it was too late.

  “Hey, Jake?” the boy called over his shoulder. “This lady wants to talk to you.”

  “No, really,” I said, backing away. “It’s—it’s not that important.”

  Way too late. Jake was already heading into the building. And now—even now, fifteen years since the last time I’d seen him—my heart was doing flip-flops. And while I knew perfectly well that they had nothing to do with menopause, there was absolutely no doubt in my mind that they were definitely related to my hormones.

  Jake was smiling as he came inside, but his eyes, which were as blue as ever, had a faraway look. I could see that his mind was still elsewhere, and that what was happening here hadn’t yet registered with him the way it had with me.

  “How can I help—” He froze. Our eyes had just locked and I saw that he was experiencing exactly the same shock that I was experiencing.

  Suddenly he was speechless.

  For what seemed like hours, the two of us just stared at each other, unable to speak, struggling to process what we were experiencing.

  Breathe, I instructed myself, remembering Willow’s advice.

  “Hey, are you guys okay?” the boy asked. I was vaguely aware that he was looking from one of us to the other, trying to figure out what could possibly be going on.

  “We’re fine,” Jake suddenly said, distractedly running one hand through his light brown hair. His voice sounded calm, but I knew him well enough—even now—to hear the strain he was trying so hard to mask. “Absolutely fine.”

  “Do you two know each other?” the boy asked. He didn’t seem to be hearing my silent plea to just keep quiet.

  “We used to know each other,” Jake replied. His eyes were still locked in mine and his voice had a strange calmness. “A long, long time ago.”

  “Very long,” I added. Unlike Jake, my voice was breathless and overflowing with emotion. “Like fifteen years ago.”

  “Fifteen years!” the boy exclaimed. “Wow, that’s like a whole lifetime, practically!”

  Yet it feels like only yesterday, I thought.

  By now, the deep breaths I had been taking were starting to pay off. My heartbeat was slowing down enough that I no longer felt as if I was about to pass out. The room didn’t seem to be spinning around quite as fast, either.

  Jake suddenly broke up our staring contest by glancing over at the boy. “Ethan,” he said, “why don’t you go out back and check on Elsa? She was acting a little funny this morning and I’m wondering if I should call in the vet.”

  Ethan shrugged. “Sure. Whatever.”

  H
e headed out the back door, but not before casting us a puzzled look, then shaking his head.

  “So,” Jake said once we were alone. “Katy McKay has returned.”

  “I’ve returned!” I cried. “Me? I’m the one who’s returned?” The shock of only a minute or two before had vanished. In its place was a rage unlike any I’d felt since—well, since prom night, fifteen years before.

  I could practically see Jake’s defenses snap into place. His blue eyes instantly grew distant, and every single muscle in his face seemed to harden. Even his position changed—barely discernible, but to me, as easy to read as a comic book.

  That ability of mine, to know what he was feeling as well as I knew what was going on with me, was apparently still there, as fresh as it had always been.

  “It’s true, I’m back,” Jake said, sounding annoyingly matter-of-fact. “I came back to the area a couple of years ago.”

  “Couldn’t resist the lure of the Hudson Valley, after all?” I asked dryly.

  He hesitated. “It’s more like there was a death in the family.”

  I immediately felt like a jerk. “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  “Thanks. It was my uncle.” Glancing around the wooden shack, he added, “I came back to run the family business.”

  The wheels in my head were turning. Family dairy . . . I suddenly remembered that Jake’s family had, indeed, run a farm back when I was in high school. At least I’d thought it was a farm. Whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t an organic dairy.

  But none of that mattered. I was still trying to process running into Jake like this, with no warning, no chance to prepare....

  Just then, another customer walked in, a man in jeans and a plaid flannel shirt holding a list in his hand.

  The timing couldn’t have been better.

  The mood really shifted this time. Jake and I were suddenly as distant as—well, as the owner of an ice cream shop and one of her suppliers.

  “What can I help you with today?” Jake asked me, his tone now formal.

  “I’d like twenty gallons of milk and forty gallons of cream. To take with me right now, as opposed to having it delivered.”

  Jake’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s quite an order for a walk-in.”

  “It’s an emergency,” I replied sarcastically. “My doctor told me I have a calcium deficiency.”

  “You look pretty healthy to me.” Jake eyed me appraisingly. I could feel my cheeks turning as red as . . . well, as that proverbial cherry on top. “In fact, I’d say you look pretty—”

  “Can you fill my order or not?” I snapped.

  He held my gaze for a few seconds. “I can do that,” he said, back to being all business again. “But I’ll need about twenty minutes to get it packed up. I’ll get Ethan on it right away. In the future, if you plan on placing a big order like that, it’d be a good idea to call first and—”

  “It’s for ice cream,” I suddenly said. “I’ve just opened an ice cream shop in town.”

  Jake looked shocked. “This town? Our town?”

  “That’s right. It’s on Hudson Street, right near the big intersection.”

  “So . . . you’re back?”

  I jutted my chin a little higher in the air, as if to say, “What’s it to ya?” But aloud I said, “That’s right. I’ve come back home to help Grams out. She’s been having some health issues lately.”

  “That’s nice of you.” There was no warmth in his tone, though. I noticed that right away.

  I also noticed all the things he didn’t say. Things like, “Wow, you’re back? That’s great!”

  Or “Hey, we should get together for coffee some time. You know, to talk about old times.”

  Or—a truly wild fantasy—“I missed you.”

  Whoa, said a voice in my head. The sensible voice, the one that tried its best to keep me out of trouble. You do not want Jake Pratt saying he missed you.

  You don’t want anything at all to do with Jake Pratt. For goodness sake, hasn’t having had your heart broken by him once already taught you anything?

  Besides, that voice added, at this stage of your life, your main goal is becoming an ice cream magnate.

  “So-o-o,” I said curtly, “can I get that order filled?”

  “Sure. No problem.” He kept his eyes locked in mine for another second or two, then turned away and yelled, “Ethan? Come back in here. I need you to fill an order.”

  And then he pointedly turned his attention to the customer who had just come in. “And what can I do for you?”

  Chapter 3

  The average American consumes more than 23 pounds of ice cream each year.

  —International Dairy Foods Association

  My heart was still pounding and my head was still spinning as I drove away from the Juniper Hill dairy as fast as I could. The wheels of my pickup truck kicked up the pebbles along the dirt road, making it sound as if the skies had opened up and started pelting me with sleet. The gallons of milk and cream stashed in back sloshed around loudly, adding to the feeling that I’d gotten caught in a storm.

  And that’s exactly what had just happened.

  And Hurricane Katrina and Super Storm Sandy were nothing compared to Super Duper Hurricane Jake.

  Darn! I thought as I swerved along the narrow road. Why did Jake Pratt have to end up back here in Wolfert’s Roost?

  As is so often the case with me, I suddenly had an acute craving for ice cream. An ice cream sandwich, to be specific. A full-octane one: chocolate cookies with nuts, any kind of nuts, and a thick slab of Pistachio Almond ice cream.

  After all, there are some things that only ice cream can fix.

  But part of me realized that even an ice cream sandwich the size of a pizza wouldn’t be enough to calm me down.

  “Honestly, could this day have been any worse?” I moaned, forcing myself to loosen my grip on the steering wheel since I’d just realized my hands were starting to hurt. “First a close encounter with Ashley Winthrop, the Wicked Witch of the Northeast. Then, as if that wasn’t enough to ruin my day, running into Jake Pratt, of all people—and without even the slightest bit of warning . . .”

  I was beginning to wonder if coming back to Wolfert’s Roost had been such a great idea after all.

  Like a lot of kids who grow up in small towns, I couldn’t wait to get away from mine. Sure, when I was a little kid, I thought that it was the best place in the entire universe.

  And in a lot of ways, the place where I spent most of my childhood was pretty idyllic, almost like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. It offered a charming main street lined with shops, enough parks and playgrounds and bike trails to keep me busy for entire summers, and of course, the magnificent views of the Hudson River. If Norman had ever caught sight of those views, I’m sure he would have incorporated them into his work.

  But by the time I was a teenager, I was convinced it was the dullest.

  True, the hustle and bustle of New York City was only a two-hour train ride away. I adored the Saturday outings I took with Grams and my sisters, then later on my friends, to see the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall, the giant Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center, and the countless works of art at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

  But trips into the big city were generally reserved for special occasions like Christmas and birthdays. The rest of the time, I was dealing with the inevitable angst of adolescence. Agonizing over Who I Was and Where I Wanted My Life to Go, struggling to get good grades, and of course, maneuvering my way around my ongoing rivalry with Ashley Winthrop . . . It was no wonder that the arrival of Jake Pratt on the scene when I was a junior was so monumental.

  And we all know how that turned out.

  But at that time the town was pretty sleepy. There was no movie theater, no fun places to shop aside from the mall, which was far enough away that it required a willing parent to drive my friends and me there. There was a cast of local characters that, to me, seemed about as interesting as—well, as a piece of
apple pie without the à la mode part.

  After my eighteenth summer, spending half my time working at the local shopping mall, folding sweaters at a clothing store, and the other half holed up in my room—missing Jake, hating Jake, plotting ways to get back at Jake—I couldn’t wait to go off to college. Then, after four relatively happy years at the state university in nearby New Paltz, it was time to embark upon life as a grown-up. I immediately headed off to the place that I’d always yearned for more of.

  After traveling to quite a few big cities, I found that the Big Apple was my favorite city in the world. Not one of them, from London to Sydney to Hong Kong, came close to matching the sheer energy of Manhattan. The streets and sidewalks positively vibrated with it. I loved the noise of the traffic, including the honking horns, or at least most of the time. I loved the sea of faces everywhere you look. I loved the endless avenues lined with coffee shops and boutiques and department stores and restaurants with cuisine from all over the world and street vendors selling everything from kids’ books to cupcakes. . . .

  I could go on and on. I loved the city, and I always will.

  And I’ll always think of those ten years as one of the happiest periods of my life. But then Grams had a health crisis, and it was clear that she needed me more than I needed my life in the big city.

  Yet here I was, trying on other possible scenarios for the first time in the three months I’d been back. Such as, maybe I should have had Grams move in with me.

  I immediately dismissed that one. While my one-bedroom apartment was spacious by Manhattan standards, adding another person would have been like moving a herd of cattle into my bedroom. Not as smelly, of course, and not as noisy, but just as crowded.

  Maybe just moving Grams closer to where I lived before, in a place of her own?

  That wouldn’t have worked, either. I’d still have a heck of a time dealing with the day-to-day logistics if I had to take a train or even a subway to get to wherever she was.