Murder with a Cherry on Top

by Cynthia Baxter

  Grams and I remained peaceful for a minute or two, simply enjoying each other’s presence. And then my eyes drifted up to a black-and-white framed photograph on the mantelpiece. Grams and Gramps, standing in front of this very house, holding hands. They were young, and according to family lore, that picture had been taken the day they moved in.

  The photographer had caught them glancing at each other, each with a satisfied grin that seemed to say, “We did it! We bought our very own house! And now we can turn it into a home. We’re about to start the next exciting chapter in this great adventure that’s our life together.”

  The photo had been in that exact same spot for as along as I could remember. Yet it suddenly seemed to be calling to me.

  “I wonder how many people actually manage to find the love of their life and spend the rest of their life with that person,” I mused.

  Grams frowned. “This concept of the ‘love of your life’—well, I’m not sure it’s completely true. After all, there are a lot of great people out there. And most of the time, when one relationship doesn’t work, even though both parties were convinced that they’d found the person who was perfect for them, sooner or later a replacement comes along who becomes the new bearer of the title, ‘love of my life.’”

  Thoughtfully, she added, “But there is something to be said for finding a very special person and feeling that that’s the one you want to spend the rest of your life with.”

  I sighed. “The way you did with Gramps. You’re so lucky that you married someone you were so crazy about, the one person in the universe you were certain was made for you. . . .”

  Grams’s eyebrows shot up and she stopped knitting. “Good heavens, is that really what you believe?”

  Now it was my turn to be astonished. “You mean that’s not what happened?”

  She just stared at me for a few seconds. And then she burst out laughing.

  “My goodness. How history gets rewritten!”

  “You mean—you mean—” I sputtered.

  “Your grandfather—Thornton—was a lovely man,” Grams said. “He adored me, he was totally devoted to his children, he worked hard all his life, he was cheerful and loyal and as reliable as they come . . . but he wasn’t close to being the love of my life or my soul mate or any of those things!”

  My jaw had dropped so low it was practically in my lap. “Then why did you marry him?”

  “I married Thorny on the rebound,” she replied. “I’d just lost the man I was convinced was the love of my life.”

  I finally remembered to snap my mouth shut. “Grams, I had no idea! I never—”

  She didn’t appear to have heard me. “I was absolutely crazy about him,” she said. “And he was crazy about me.”

  Her eyes had a faraway look, as if she were drifting back in time. They also had a shine that I’d rarely seen.

  “His name was Phillip,” she went on in a dreamy voice. “And almost from the moment we met, there were fireworks. So much passion! So much excitement!” Her cheeks had turned bright pink. “We couldn’t stand to be apart from each other. It felt as if the entire universe had shifted, and that Phillip was suddenly my focus and I was his. I’d never experienced anything like it before.”

  “So what happened?” I asked eagerly.

  All the brightness faded. With a shrug, she said, “Life got in the way. Even though he and I both believed we were destined to spend the rest of our lives together, it just didn’t work out that way.”

  My mind raced as I thought about all the possibilities. Disapproving parents, a sudden illness, an obligation in a distant place . . .

  But Grams had drawn her mouth into a tight line. Either this was still too painful to talk about or she simply didn’t want to share the whole story with me.

  Nevertheless, I was still left to deal with the astonishing news that Gramps hadn’t been her first choice. Maybe he was cheerful and loyal and reliable, but he wasn’t the love of her life. Not even anything that came close.

  “You don’t have any regrets, do you?” I asked in a soft voice.

  Grams shook her head hard. “No. Not a single one. Thornton and I had a wonderful marriage. And I did love him. Just not in the way you see in movies or read about in books.”

  I decided not to ask her any more questions. Because despite her insistence that she was perfectly satisfied with the way things had worked out, I was certain I detected sadness in her voice.

  Besides, I couldn’t ignore the way she’d lit up when she talked about Phillip. The way her cheeks grew flushed and her eyes grew bright and her voice became wistful.

  Even now. Even after all these years.

  * * *

  I was still thinking about what Grams had said as I lay in bed that night, trying to fall asleep.

  So she hadn’t married the love of her life, the way I’d always believed. Maybe she really had been happy with her marriage. She was certainly insistent that she had been. But I couldn’t help wondering if she’d been trying to send me a message.

  About Jake, of course.

  Was Jake the love of my life, if there even was such a thing? He was certainly someone who had once made my heart pound and my head spin, someone who had caused me to experience all those famous symptoms of real love that we always hear about in books and songs.

  And maybe he still did.

  It was pretty obvious that Grams thought I should give Jake another chance.

  If I dug down deep, talking to myself as if I were my best friend, I had to admit that I was truly furious with him. He had hurt me. And it was a hurt that had lasted for years, one that had left scars that were still deep enough and sensitive enough to cause me pain all over again.

  But what Grams had confided forced me to see everything in a different light. To wonder if, maybe, sometimes the price of happiness was forgiveness.

  I could picture myself in forty years, having the same conversation I’d had with Grams with a grandchild.

  And imagining that scene made me very, very sad.

  * * *

  When I woke up early the next morning, my ruminations about my love life seemed as remote as a dream that had seemed important while it was going on, but faded quickly as the new day began. And that was largely because I was already in the habit of focusing on ice cream from the moment I opened my eyes.

  On this particular morning, I had something else important to focus on, as well.

  An hour later, as my ice cream maker churned up a fresh batch of Honey Lavender that I was certain was going to be one of Lickety Splits’ most popular flavors, I hauled three huge containers of ice cream out of the freezer and began making an ice cream cake.

  First, I pressed a two-inch-thick layer of chocolate ice cream into the pan. I sprinkled it with a layer of chocolate cookie crumbs. Then came a layer of raspberry ice cream, followed by more crumbs. Next, a layer of Almond Chocolate Chip. This time, I slathered a generous layer of whipped cream across the top like frosting, smoothing it with a metal spatula. As a final step, I used a silicone icing bag to create a decorative white edge around the circumference with what was left of the whipped cream.

  When it was done, I stood back to admire it, feeling a surge of satisfaction over my creation. To me, it was a work of art.

  Maybe Ashley had her Mile-High Cupcake, I thought, allowing an ugly streak of competitiveness to come out. But I have my Mile-High Ice Cream Cake.

  I realized I could also make it a brand-new offering at Lickety Splits. My shop could now become the Home of the Mile-High Ice Cream Cake.

  Instead of feeling that I was competing with Ashley, it could be my way of honoring her memory. Maybe we weren’t the best of friends, but that didn’t mean I didn’t appreciate her skill at marketing.

  As I packed it up inside a pink cake box, I only hoped I didn’t regret wasting all this lovely ice cream on Ashley’s ex-husband. While I didn’t want to make any assumptions about anyone, Brandy’s story about him storming into the shop in a rage
and demanding money from his ex-wife still had me more than a little nervous about meeting him.

  As soon as Emma arrived at the shop, I left Lickety Splits in her capable hands and drove over to Billy’s house.

  My nervousness only got worse. The plan I’d come up with was going to require quite a bit of acting skill.

  I only hoped I was up to it.

  I also hoped the ice cream cake was up to it. The June sun was doing its best to remind us all that summer was almost officially upon us, and ice cream is famous for its dislike of sunshine.

  Billy Duffy’s house looked ordinary enough. It was a typical suburban house, a sprawling ranch with a two-car garage. The lawn looked like it could use mowing, and the shrubs in the flower beds were pretty scraggly, but other than that, it looked like any other house.

  As I strode up the front walk, I wondered if this was the house Billy and Ashley had lived in when they were married. Frankly, it was so nondescript that it was hard to imagine her being satisfied with it.

  The house was so ordinary, in fact, that a lot of my fears vanished. Up until this point, I’d been imagining that Billy Duffy lived in something more along the lines of the Amityville Horror house.

  But once Billy answered the door, some of those fears came back with a vengeance. He looked disheveled, as if he’d been asleep. Or at least flopped out on the couch. His straight light brown hair was unkempt, with a big piece sticking out at an odd angle. And he was wearing jeans and a wrinkled T-shirt.

  No matter what I’d interrupted him doing, it certainly wasn’t getting dressed for work.

  “Yuh?” he greeted me, his green eyes reflecting confusion. Or maybe it was just irritation.

  I took a deep breath and jumped right in.

  “Mr. Duffy,” I began, “my name is Kate McKay. I was friends with Ashley. At least, I used to be, when we were in school.”

  Once I’d delivered that introduction, the confusion in his eyes faded.

  “I was so sorry to hear about Ashley,” I went on. “She and I knew each other since kindergarten. Did she ever mention me to you?”

  He thought for all of two seconds, then shook his head.

  “Ah,” I said, not letting on how relieved I was. After all, the last thing I needed was for him to know that Ashley and I had never been actual friends, that in fact we’d been the opposite.

  “Anyway,” I continued with the same brazenness, “given our long history, you can imagine how thrilled I was to recently find out that her bakery was right across the street from my brand-new ice cream shop in town, on Hudson Avenue. I suddenly felt like I was back in high school again. I thought I’d been given a chance to rekindle my friendship with an old friend from my childhood....

  “Anyway, I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am. And I wanted to give you this.”

  I gestured toward the big, pink, impossible-to-miss cake box in my hands. But I didn’t quite hand him the box, since I didn’t want to let go of it. Not until I was sure I didn’t need it as a way of getting into his house.

  Billy shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. “That’s real nice of you, but . . . it sounds like you didn’t know that Ashley and I have been divorced for five years now.”

  “Oh!” I pretended to be surprised. “My goodness, how embarrassing. I had no idea!”

  It scared me, what a good liar I was turning out to be. At least I hoped I was. As far as I could tell, Billy was buying this.

  “In any case, Ashley was obviously a very important person in your life at one time, and I’m sure that you’re feeling her loss as much as any of us,” I went on.

  He didn’t respond.

  “So let me explain what I’ve brought here,” I said, chattering away like someone on a caffeine high from too much Cappuccino Crunch. “This is an ice cream cake that I’ve named the Mile-High Ice Cream Cake. Cute, don’t you think? I actually got the idea from Ashley, who was selling what she called the Mile-High Cupcake. Anyway, it’s three layers of ice cream, separated by chocolate cookie crumbs.... Oh, boy, I hope you like chocolate, because chocolate is the star.”

  “I like chocolate,” Billy said, looking a little puzzled by this manic ice-cream-cake-bearing woman standing at his front door.

  “That’s great. Because this cake is practically a tribute to chocolate.... But you know, I should probably wrap it up in some plastic wrap,” I went on. “I didn’t think of it until now, but that’ll help keep it fresh, even in the freezer. It’s going to take you some time to eat this gorgeous creation, given how big it is. Do you have any plastic wrap in the kitchen? If not, I think I’ve got some in the car. . . .”

  I guess I made it pretty clear that I wasn’t about to leave without making sure my ice cream masterpiece was getting the treatment it deserved.

  He hesitated for another moment, then moved aside to let me in. As I breezed into his house, I remembered Brandy’s words—and hoped I wasn’t making a mistake.

  That feeling was aggravated by the fact that Billy seemed to be looking at me with new interest. It was as if he’d just realized that a decent-looking young woman was on the premises. I knew I had to act friendly, but not too friendly.

  “Hey, now that you’re here, can I get you something?” he said. “A beer, maybe?”

  Eleven a.m. was a little early for me to start drinking. Actually, I was pretty sure it was too early for most of the population.

  “Thanks, but I’m good.” I glanced around the living room. I didn’t see a laptop, so he didn’t seem to be someone who worked from home. In fact, even though this was what I thought of as the best time of the day, the television was indeed on, although the volume was turned way down. The cases from a few DVDs and some video games were scattered around the coffee table, a sign that Billy was a master at keeping himself occupied.

  “It’s nice that you were able to take some time off from work at this difficult time,” I said, figuring I’d give him the benefit of the doubt.

  “I’m not working right now,” Billy said. “At least, not at a traditional job. I’m not one of those jerks who’s dumb enough to get stuck at some desk job, having to show up at nine every morning to put up with some boss’s never-ending bull. At the moment, I’m exploring a bunch of other really amazing options.”

  “Really?” I asked, genuinely curious. “Like what?”

  He waved his hand in the air dismissively. “Too many to tell you about. But I’ve got this one idea—an invention, really—that’s guaranteed to make me rich. It’s one of those billion-dollar ideas that’s absolutely foolproof. I just have to find the right people to back me.”

  Whoa. So Brandy hadn’t been exaggerating. He really did believe he was destined for greatness. Yet as I looked around, taking in the messed-up hair and the beer and the video games, I had to conclude that he wasn’t exactly on the verge of fulfilling that particular destiny.

  “Anyway, forget about the cake,” he said, plopping down on the couch. “Come sit down next to me. Let’s get to know each other a little.”

  My cue to go anywhere but next to him.

  “I’ll just look around the kitchen until I find that plastic wrap,” I said firmly, heading toward the kitchen. “Or aluminum foil would work.”

  I was dismayed when he pulled himself up off the couch with a loud sigh and followed me into the next room. He positioned himself in the doorway, leaning against the jamb as if he needed support just to stand up. I made a point of keeping busy with the plastic wrap and the cake, a task that should have taken about ten seconds but which I planned to make last as long as I could.

  “From what I heard,” I said, “the cops are having a hard time coming up with any solid leads. About who killed Ashley, I mean.”

  He made a face, the one that said the people we were talking about, the cops, were completely incompetent. “In that case,” he said, “those dummies should follow the simplest rule around: follow the money.”

  I was confused. “What do you mean?”

  He
shrugged. “They should be looking at where her money was going.”

  I thought I knew what he meant. After all, I knew all about the flashy Corvette. And the expensive designer accessories.

  But it turned out there was something I didn’t know about.

  “Did you know good old Ashley bankrolled her boyfriend’s restaurant?” Billy said, his voice dripping with disdain. “Greensleeves, or whatever it’s called?”

  I froze. “Ashley financed Greenleaf? Tad Patrick’s place in Wolfert’s Roost?”

  “That’s right,” he said, wearing an ugly smirk. “Me and Ash had a huge argument about it once, back when I first found out. Seemed to me she could have been doing a little better on her monthly alimony payments to her loyal, formerly loving ex-husband if she had enough cash around to go gambling on some fancy restaurant.”

  I wondered if that was the argument Brandy had told me about. Of course, it was just as likely that the one she had overheard was just one in an ongoing series.

  “Then again,” Billy continued, “Ash didn’t always have the common sense you’d expect from somebody who was doing as well as she was.”

  “It seems to me that investing in Greenleaf was a great move,” I pointed out. “The restaurant is apparently doing really well, getting great reviews and bringing in people from the city and the whole Hudson Valley. . . .”

  “Maybe, but that wasn’t guaranteed,” Billy insisted. “She didn’t know that was how it would turn out. Some huge percentage of new restaurants fail. I think I read it’s something like sixty percent. But Ash wasn’t in it to make money. She was in it because she had the hots for that guy with the ridiculous name. Ted or Todd or whatever it is.”

  “Tad,” I muttered, even though that didn’t seem the least bit relevant.