Murder with a Cherry on Top

by Cynthia Baxter

  “Ethan?” I repeated, thinking, I don’t know anybody named Ethan.

  “I’m sure you’ve met him. He works at the Juniper Hill dairy.”

  Ethan, Ethan . . .

  My head was suddenly filled with red flags and lightbulbs and fireworks. Emma was talking about Ethan, the noncommunicative young man I’d met at the dairy the same day I’d learned that Jake now owned it. The one with the shiny black hair that hid his eyes and the oversized earphones that hid his ears.

  Was it possible that he was why it had taken Emma so long to get back from the dairy? Emma was into him?

  “I don’t know anything about him,” I told her. “I just met him once.” And then, I couldn’t resist asking the $64,000 question: “Why do you ask?”

  Emma shrugged. “Just wondered.”

  So she was interested in him.

  I was shocked by her ability to see something in him that had certainly gone way over my head. Still, I was glad she was making new friends in Wolfert’s Roost. I wanted her to be happy here. In fact, I wanted her to be happy wherever she was. So if floppy-haired, unsmiling Ethan was her idea of a good time, who was I to judge?

  Besides, even their names sounded cute together. Emma and Ethan. Ethan and Emma.

  I couldn’t help smiling.

  “Okay, so I’m going to take off,” I told her.

  “Take your time,” she assured me with a wave of her hand. “I’m in good shape here.”

  And she flashed me the biggest smile I’d seen on her in a very long time.

  * * *

  The third name on Ashley’s list of suppliers, Brandy DiNapoli, had been one of the harder ones to track down. According to the online search Emma had so skillfully conducted, she appeared to be someone who moved around a lot.

  So I wasn’t even sure the address we’d found, the one that seemed to be the most recent, would turn out to be correct.

  I actually hoped it wouldn’t be as I got close. My GPS informed me that I was only a few hundred feet away. But what was looming up before me was a trailer park.

  Not one of the nice ones, either. No clubhouse, no flower beds, no swimming pool.

  Instead, the Shady Pines Mobile Home Park looked like a place to park your trailer while you sobbed over how badly your life had turned out.

  Warily I climbed out of my truck, carrying a heavy cooler packed with dry ice and ice cream samples. Then I looked around, wondering how I’d ever find my way to Brandy’s abode.

  I was beginning to wonder if I’d just embarked upon what’s commonly known as a fool’s errand when I spotted a middle-aged woman trudging toward one of the trailers, lugging two plastic shopping bags filled with groceries. The bags looked heavy. She looked like she really wished she had a car.

  “Excuse me,” I called to her. “I’m looking for a resident here named Brandy DiNapoli . . . ?”

  “Brandy?” the woman responded. Gesturing with her chin, she added, “She lives right over there, the fifth one in this row. That green one.”

  Sure enough, a trailer the color of crabgrass was parked a couple of hundred yards away.

  “Thanks,” I called over my shoulder. Then I headed in that direction.

  Walking through the trailer park required serious concentration. The sidewalk, where there was one, was broken up, with weeds sticking out of the concrete. There were empty Coke bottles and candy wrappers scattered here and there.

  If these residents paid a Home Owners’ Association fee, they weren’t getting their money’s worth.

  Up close, I saw that the green trailer that was supposedly Brandy’s was one of the shabbier ones. I already felt bad for her and I hadn’t even met her.

  As I drew close, a dog inside the trailer began barking. It was a deep, loud bark, a sign that the animal inside wasn’t exactly a Chihuahua.

  I knocked loudly, even though it was hardly necessary, given the fact that the canine resident of this trailer had already made it pretty clear to everyone in the entire park that a visitor had come to call.

  A few seconds later, a woman in her early thirties opened the door, dressed in tight jeans and a loose white T-shirt. She was very tall and very thin. Her hair, dyed a shade of red that was just a bit too bright, was long and thick but could have used some brushing. And while she was pretty, she looked haggard, as if she hadn’t slept very well the night before.

  I was relieved to see that she was holding her roommate by the collar. Just as his voice indicated, he was on the large side, a big, black, sleek animal who was more muscle than charm. Part rottweiler, I guessed. And part werewolf.

  By this point, he wasn’t only barking; he was snarling.

  “Quiet, Demon!” she told him, not sounding very forceful. His response was to stop barking but to continue snarling. It wasn’t making me feel much better.

  “Don’t worry about him,” she said. “He’s really a pussy cat.”

  Right, I thought. So is a panther.

  “What can I do for you?” she asked hurriedly. “I don’t have a lot of time, so—”

  I began with the same line I’d used on Lindsey.

  “My name is Kate McKay,” I said cheerfully, keeping one eye on Demon, “and I’m the owner of a new ice cream shop in town called Lickety Splits. Maybe you’ve seen it . . . ?”

  The woman in the doorway, who I’d already decided had to be Brandy, eyed me suspiciously.

  “Yeah, I’ve seen it,” she said. “It’s right across the street from Sweet Things, right? The bakery?”

  “That’s right. And I’m—”

  Demon was back to barking. Loudly.

  Sighing, she said, “Let me put this guy in the back room. Just give me a second.”

  “Sure,” I said, glad Demon wouldn’t be part of this discussion.

  “Okay,” Brandy said a few seconds later when she returned. Demon was still barking, but at least he was doing it from behind a closed door. “So what were you saying about Sweet Things?”

  Actually, she was the one who’d brought up Sweet Things, but I wasn’t about to point that out.

  “My ice cream shop is right across the street from Sweet Things,” I said, using that as a reason to keep her interest. “And I’m going around town handing out free samples as a way of introducing my shop. Could I interest you in—”

  “Thanks, but I’m not much for sweets.” Glancing down, she added, “Gotta keep my girlish figure, if you know what I mean.”

  Really? I thought. A woman who makes pastries for a living but doesn’t like sweets? That was just wrong.

  My mind was racing. She looked as if she was about to close the door, and I needed an excuse to keep talking to her. I thought of asking for some water, but I realized she could have easily brought it to the door. Fortunately, I had a better idea.

  “Listen, could I please ask you for a favor?” Twisting my face into a desperate expression, I added, “Could I use your bathroom? I hate to ask, but I’ve been out driving around since breakfast, and—”

  She only hesitated for a moment. “I guess,” she said, moving aside.

  I wasn’t surprised. Needing a bathroom was something pretty much every woman could relate to.

  “Thanks,” I said breathlessly. And I went inside.

  Because the exterior of the trailer was in such bad shape, I just assumed the inside would be similarly ragged. Instead, it was spotless, and everything in it looked new. Not the best quality, perhaps—more Ikea than Stickley—but the small living room area and kitchen that I could see reflected a lot of thought and care. It was really clean, for one thing. Not a crumb on the counter, not a greasy smear on the stove . . . even the dish towel hanging on a bar was neatly folded.

  It was also nicely decorated: off-white walls and a plain black couch, but pops of color everywhere. Sunny yellow throw pillows, turquoise canisters on the kitchen counter, tasteful curtains with geometric shapes that gave the space a nice orderly look. It was clear that a lot of care had gone into making this place a real home
.

  As I walked by a table with some mail on it, I checked the name. Sure enough, this was Brandy all right. I had the right person. The woman a few steps behind me, warning me to hold down the lever until the toilet was finished flushing, was, indeed, Brandy of Licorice Twist-baking fame.

  After I used the bathroom, being sure to follow Brandy’s advice about the most effective flushing routine, I was glad to see that Brandy was sitting on her black couch. Demon, fortunately, had quieted down. Maybe he was getting a sore throat from all that barking.

  “This is a great place you’ve got here,” I said. Gesturing at the seat next to her, I boldly asked, “Do you mind if I sit down?”

  She hesitated, then said, “Sure, but just for a minute. Like I said, I got someplace I’ve got to be. And I’ve got to get dressed.”

  “You look fine to me,” I said, trying to become her instant best friend.

  She laughed. “It’s for a job interview.”

  It made sense. Ashley, her employer, was now gone. Brandy needed a new source of income. My challenge was finding a way to get her talking about all that....

  “What do you do?” I asked, putting on my innocent look.

  Brandy hesitated again. “I’m applying for a job as a file clerk at the hospital. Just as a temporary thing, an easy way to make some money when there’s nothing more interesting around,” she added quickly. “Unfortunately the job I had until recently just fell through.”

  “That’s a shame,” I said. “Was that an administrative-type job, too?”

  “Not exactly,” Brandy replied. “I actually worked for the bakery that’s right across the street from your ice cream place.”

  Now I put on my surprised look. “Really? You worked at Sweet Things? I don’t remember seeing you there.”

  “I didn’t work at the shop,” Brandy explained. “I was one of Ashley Winthrop’s suppliers.”

  “I’m not sure I understand what that means,” I said, even though I understood perfectly.

  “I made things for her to sell.”

  “Really?” I said. I put on my surprised look again. “You mean you baked things she sold in her bakery?”

  “Yup.”

  “But you said before that you don’t have a sweet tooth.”

  Brandy shrugged. “There are a lot of things people do for money that’s not their favorite thing,” she said. “It’s how all of us get by.”

  “That’s true,” I replied thoughtfully. I was reflecting on how, so far, I pretty much enjoyed every aspect of running Lickety Splits. But I could understand that, at some point, doing the same thing every day could get tedious. And the cleanup part, while still a novelty, had the potential to feel more like drudgery than just another aspect of playing store.

  “It’s interesting,” I said, desperate to keep the conversation going. “I’ve known Ashley practically my whole life. But I never knew anything about her bakery being a co-op.”

  “She was trying to help local women like me make money,” Brandy said. “Not that it wasn’t a win-win situation. She made plenty of money, too.”

  Enough for a Corvette, I thought.

  “It sounds as if Ashley was doing some really good things for the community,” I said. “It’s hard to believe anyone could have wanted her dead.”

  Brandy just looked at me vacantly. “I guess that, somewhere along the line, she pissed off the wrong person.”

  “So it seems.” Putting on my innocent look again, I asked, “Since you knew her, do you have any idea who that might have been?”

  “I’m not a cop,” Brandy said, sounding irritated. “It’s not exactly my job to find that out. But . . .”

  I held my breath.

  “If you ask me, I’d start with that ex-husband of hers. Billy, his name is.” She let out a contemptuous snort. “As if the fact that a grown man still calls himself Billy doesn’t already tell you everything you need to know. If you look up ‘loser’ in the dictionary, you’ll find a picture of him. But wouldn’t you know it, he also thinks he’s God’s gift to the entire planet.”

  “You think he may have killed Ashley?” I asked. Her assertion had set my heart pounding, but I did my best to sound casual.

  Brandy shrugged, her strangely narrow shoulders jumping up and back down again with alarming speed. “I know he was pretty angry at her.”

  “So you know him?”

  “I don’t exactly know him,” she replied, “but I was in the shop once when he came in. I was dropping something off—or maybe picking up a check? Anyway, I was there in the off hours, like right before closing time, and I was in back of the store with Ashley. All of a sudden, this guy Billy comes barging in, all fired up over something, stomping around and yelling and screaming like some kind of nut. . . .

  “I stayed in back while Ashley went out front to deal with him. I’m not one to back down, but Ashley wanted me to keep out of it. Anyway, this nutcase Billy was in a rage because he thought she should be giving him more money. It seems that for some crazy reason, poor Ashley was paying her good-for-nothing ex alimony payments. Can you believe that? It seems that even though he’s always bragging about all these million-dollar ideas he keeps having, he has yet to actually do anything.”

  Brandy shook her head in disbelief. “Anyway,” she continued, “he kept insisting that since she was making so much money now—so much more than when they’d both agreed on whatever financial arrangement their divorce lawyers had worked out—that he deserved more.

  “I remember he kept saying the same thing over and over again: ‘I’ve had enough of this. I’ve had enough of this.’ He knew about her new Corvette, of course, since everybody in Wolfert’s Roost knew about that car. And maybe he’d heard about some of the other extravagant ways she was spending money. At any rate, he’d clearly had enough of feeling he wasn’t getting his fare share.”

  Another snort. “Why that A-hole—excuse my French—thought he deserved a penny from her, when he was sitting on his butt all day and Ashley was working hers off . . . But that’s the way a lot of men are, right? They think they’re God’s gift to women and nothing is too good for them.”

  “How did that little scene end?” I asked.

  “I couldn’t hear everything Ashley was saying, but I’m pretty sure she ended up writing him a check, just to make him go away,” Brandy replied. “Still, I got the feeling that whatever she did, it wasn’t going to be enough to shut the idiot up. He was really angry, and he sure didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who was just going to go away.”

  I made a mental note to take extra care if and when I managed to speak to Ashley’s ex. If Brandy’s anecdote was accurate, he sounded like someone I’d have to be careful with.

  She stood up abruptly. “Look, I’ve really got to get dressed for this interview.”

  “Oops, sorry,” I said, standing up, too. “I stayed much too long. Hey, good luck!”

  Of course, I wasn’t sorry at all. As I walked out of the trailer park, noticing that it already felt a little less seedy and more like just a place where a bunch of people lived, I was pleased that Brandy had been so forthcoming.

  And I was convinced that she’d been honest. I absolutely believed her story about the frightening interaction between Ashley and her ex-husband that day at her shop.

  Billy Duffy sounded like someone I’d have to watch out for. Brandy’s use of words like “nutcase” and “rage” actually instilled something along the lines of terror in me.

  In fact, as I got back in my car, I found myself wondering if, when I was ready to go looking for him, Brandy would let me borrow Demon for a few hours.

  Chapter 12

  One of the five main ingredients in all ice cream is air.

  —IceCreamNation.org

  That evening, as I trudged up the front steps of 59 Sugar Maple Way, my legs felt as heavy as my giant walk-in freezer. I was that tired.

  Still, I had the presence of mind to notice that tonight my Hudson Valley home looked exce
ptionally . . . well, homey. Compared to Brandy’s place, the wonderfully dilapidated old Victorian was so welcoming that I could hardly wait to get inside.

  Even Digger seemed more lovable than ever. I knew I had Demon to thank for that. But the same went for Chloe. As the two four-legged sweeties ran over to greet me, I made sure to give them both some extra ear scratching.

  I was unusually quiet during dinner. I had a lot to think about.

  And the murder investigation I’d gotten myself involved in was only part of it. Even more absorbing was the conversation I’d had with Jake the day before. A conversation that some people might characterize as an argument.

  Fortunately, Emma and Grams kept the conversation going, with Emma doing her best to explain the ins and outs of computer graphics. Since I knew as little as Grams did about that particular topic, I was happy to do little more than half listen, interjecting a question every now and then to keep from seeming completely rude.

  “I’ll clean up tonight,” Emma offered once we were done. “You seem tired, Kate.”

  She began gathering up the dishes from that night’s ice cream dessert: an ice cream coupe that she’d made. My pro-tégée had already gotten busy with looking into ways of expanding Lickety Splits’ offerings, going online to do some serious research. That was how she’d learned about coupes, a simpler version of an American ice cream sundae that was dreamed up by the French. A coupe typically consisted of ice cream topped with sauce and some fruit.

  In this case, Emma had concocted a truly delicious version, made with a rich, dense chocolate ice cream smothered with brandy-soaked bing cherries, the warm liquor partially melting the ice cream and treating the tongue to rich, creamy magic. Somehow, this dessert seemed so sophisticated that you just knew the French had to be behind it.

  I had a feeling we’d be offering coupes at Lickety Splits sometime soon.

  With Emma handling the cleanup, Grams and I drifted into the living room. I curled up on the red velvet couch with Digger, who was happily gnawing on a craggy rawhide bone that seemed to give him limitless pleasure.

  Grams settled into her favorite chair, the dark green upholstered one that she said gave her back the support it needed. She immediately began working on her knitting project, the purple popcorn scarf that was already more than three feet long. Chloe lay contentedly in her lap, purring loudly as Grams clicked her needles rhythmically right above her head. That cat was purring so loudly I was sure Emma could hear her, even though she was singing as she clanked pots and pans in the sink.