True, I didn’t know any of the guests. But I did know ice cream.
And I decided to go all out on this occasion. As usual, fantasizing about ice cream, all the wonderful flavors and all the magnificent things that could be done with it, had been a pleasure. But this was a specialized occasion. The people gathering at Lickety Splits on Monday night would be there to network, not to nosh.
I had to do something extra special to get their attention.
Which was how I came up with the idea of ice cream hors d’oeuvres. Well, not actually hors d’oeuvres, since I wouldn’t be serving them before dinner. I’d be serving them after.
So they’d be desserts, but tiny, easy to handle, delectable to nibble desserts. Desserts that were passed around on a tray by my best server, Emma, who as usual would be wearing a crisp black-and-white checked apron with the pink Lickety Splits logo across the front. It was kind of like she’d pretend she was passing around scallops wrapped in bacon or teensy-weensy crab cakes while she’d actually be handing out little bursts of sweet, creamy flavor.
I even came up with the perfect name. Ice Cream Incidentals.
But there would be nothing incidental about them. I developed three different types.
One type was bite-size ice cream sandwiches, made with round, rich chocolate cookies that were about the size of an Oreo. Homemade, of course, baked in small batches in Lickety Splits’ kitchen. True, my work space wasn’t equipped with an oven. But I took care of that minor problem by buying a brand-new toaster oven.
Whenever a new batch of cookies had cooled enough, I scooped out softened ice cream, placed it on a cookie, and squished it down with a second cookie. I stuck with Classic Tahitian Vanilla or Double-Rich Chocolate. No nuts or chocolate chips or coconut, since I wanted the cookies to lie flat without any risk of breaking.
A second variety of Ice Cream Incidentals was my own personal take on mini cupcakes. I loved cupcakes as much as anybody, but like so many other things, they could be vastly improved by incorporating ice cream. In this particular case, by actually substituting ice cream for, well, for the cupcakes themselves.
I created these little gems by inserting pretty cupcake papers in pastel colors like baby pink, pale blue, and mint green into mini cupcake pans. Then, using a melon baller, I filled each one with a small scoop of ice cream. I used every ice cream flavor I had on hand. I pressed them down to make them flat on top, which also made them fill out the entire space, including the little ridges on the edges of the cupcake papers. As a final step, I topped each one with sprinkles: colorful bar-shaped sprinkles, tiny ball-shaped sprinkles, chocolate sprinkles, or shiny silver dragées, those tiny pearls that make everything they’re on look like it’s dressed up for a party.
Who needs a Mile-High Cupcake? I thought as I admired my creations before popping them back into the giant freezer to harden. Teensy-weensy bite-sized cupcakes were so much more fun, especially if they were made out of ice cream.
The third idea was inspired by those oversized Asian appetizer spoons made of white ceramic, normally used for serving a small dollop of goat cheese with figs or some other variation on interesting chopped-up food combinations. But my spoons would be filled with a mini scoop of one of Lickety Splits’ most unusual ice creams. It was my chance to let as many people as possible try my fun flavors, like Melty Chocolate Malt or Lemon Raspberry Swirl. Or even goat cheese ice cream. I could even mix in small pieces of fig.
To make them even more special, each one would have a cherry on top. After all, who doesn’t love a cherry on top?
The hours before the Chamber of Commerce meeting were crazily busy. Thank goodness that Emma was able to do her usual expert job of running Lickety Splits pretty much single-handedly, and with her usual good cheer. She had a way of making it all look so easy.
Of course, she’d been in an especially good mood ever since that day she’d so casually mentioned Ethan.
But while things appeared to be running perfectly smoothly in the front of the house, the scene in the kitchen was one of chaos and panic.
Willow and I were crammed into the tiny space, finding out the hard way that making Ice Cream Incidentals was anything but easy. She was in charge of baking the chocolate cookies in the small toaster oven, only a dozen at a time. That meant a lot of hot cookies to juggle, finding places to lay them out so they could cool. Without falling onto the floor. Without breaking. And, I might add, without getting eaten by their two creators.
I was working on a makeshift assembly line. While I waited for each tray of cookies to cool, I scooped out little balls of ice cream from every container I had stored in my giant freezer. Then I placed it inside one of the white plastic spoons. And finally, I added a cherry on top.
For some bizarre reason, this was all insanely fun.
“These are coming out great,” Willow commented. “Each one of your Ice Cream Incidentals looks like a little piece of sculpture.”
“Edible sculpture,” I added. “The very best kind.”
“You could serve these at all kinds of parties,” Willow said. “Weddings, fancy catered events at people’s homes, even kids’ parties.”
“We could decorate these with edible flowers,” I mused, studying one of the artful spoonfuls of ice cream.
“At Easter we could put two bunny ears on each one,” she suggested. “Little Santa hats at Christmas . . .”
“Or little birthday hats,” I said, growing excited. “I think a new industry is being born here, Willow. Either that or we’re turning into Martha Stewart.”
I was so excited about my new Ice Cream Incidentals that I temporarily forgot why I’d created them in the first place. But then, at seven-fifteen, as Emma was putting up a sign on the door that read CLOSED FOR PRIVATE EVENT, I remembered.
And started getting nervous.
Aside from trying to impress my fellow businesspeople, or at least convince them that I knew what I was doing, I was hoping tonight would turn out to be my big chance to talk to Tad, the man who had been Ashley Winthrop’s boyfriend.
Who was also a suspect in her murder. A very likely one, as well.
But in addition to giving him the third degree without him noticing, I also had to act like a real member of the local Chamber of Commerce. Which meant getting to know as many people as I could.
I glanced at the list of members, doing my best to learn the names and occupations of the people I’d be meeting tonight. I recognized most of the names of the local businesses they ran: an insurance company, several real estate agencies, a computer repair service, two automotive repair services, and most of the shops and other businesses in town, including Stitchin’ Time, the cheese shop, the florist, and of course, Willow’s yoga studio. I saw that Big Moe, the proprietor of Toastie’s, was a member. I hoped he liked my cooking as much as I liked his. The list also included the managers of some chain restaurants on the outskirts, as well as the Daily Roost.
There were two names in particular that made my heart pound a little faster. One was Tad Patrick of Greenleaf. The other was Ashley Winthrop’s name, listed next to Sweet Things Pastry Palace. Just seeing it in print was a jolt.
A few minutes after seven, a chubby man in his fifties with a ruddy complexion and a huge smile bustled into the shop. He immediately stuck his hand out to shake mine.
“You must be Kate,” he said, positively bursting with joviality. “I’m Brian Whitman. Pleased to meet you!”
“I’m pleased to meet you, too,” I replied. I was impressed by how firm his handshake was. This was a man who meant business.
“Thanks so much for joining—and thanks doubly for offering to host tonight’s meeting!” Brian went on. “Especially since the only other volunteer we had for tonight was Nancy Role over at Clip and Dip Dog Groomers, and I’m allergic to fur!”
His eyes drifted over to the platters of Ice Cream Incidentals that Emma was bringing out. They immediately grew as big as the cookies in my mini-ice-cream sandwiches.
&
nbsp; “Whoa!” he exclaimed. “Now I’m really glad you’re tonight’s host!”
Even though I’d liked him from the moment he walked in, I suddenly liked him even more.
“I can see what a welcome addition your shop is to Wolfert’s Roost,” he said, helping himself to two of the tiny ice cream cupcakes, indicating a clear preference for chocolate. He was truly a man after my own heart. “And if I didn’t already say this, welcome to the group.”
“I’m glad to be part of it,” I told him sincerely. “Here, take a couple more.”
People began showing up then, chattering away as they filed in, looked around, and almost invariably nodded their approval. Within five minutes I had a full-fledged party on my hands.
I did my best to work the room, sashaying around with my trays of ice cream treats. As I’d anticipated, handing out free ice cream was a great way to make friends fast. Glancing around, I was pleased to see that Emma was also doing a wonderful job of chatting with the other members of the organization as she handed out the frozen goodies, no doubt creating enough goodwill to get us through the entire evening.
Eyeing the crowd, I also noticed that one member of the group was missing. And it happened to be the one person I’d specifically wanted to come.
“Let’s call the meeting to order,” Brian said a few minutes after seven-thirty. “We have a lot to cover tonight—starting with the parking situation.”
The entire group erupted into a loud groan.
I was completely deflated by Tad Patrick’s failure to appear. After all, that had been the whole point of all this.
I was trying my best to focus on the discussion about the lack of sufficient spaces, the annoying necessity of visitors having to scrounge for quarters to feed the meters, and the two-hour time limit that had the potential to cut short day-trippers’ shopping sprees. Just as I had managed to convince myself it was actually interesting, the door of Lickety Splits swung open.
It was as if a burst of light had been released into the room.
In strode Tad, his knee-length trench coat swirling around him like a cape, as tall and slender as Ichabod Crane and with the same sort of low ponytail that the fictional character also probably wore.
But without any of Ichabod’s geekiness, at least according to the way Washington Irving had described the nineteenth-century schoolmaster.
I’d begun to wonder if I remembered him as more handsome and charismatic than he really was. But now that he was right in front of me, I saw that the reality was as startling as the fantasy. His features were just as perfect, his dark brown eyes just as intense. The man positively radiated self-confidence, as if he knew that by having merely shown up, he’d bestowed a gift upon everyone around him.
If I could bottle that, I thought, I’d really have something to sell.
Tad scanned the crowd and, with a charmingly bashful smile, mouthed the word, “Sorry!” Then he crossed the room and plopped down in the chair right next to mine.
I was instantly engulfed in a cloud of aftershave or cologne or whatever he doused himself with before coming to the meeting. And even though Nancy the dog groomer was still talking about the sorry condition of the two parking lots back behind the bank, he turned to me and stuck out his hand.
“I’m Tad Patrick,” he said, flashing me a big smile. “I own a little restaurant in town called Greenleaf. Welcome to Wolfert’s Roost. This town has needed a place just like yours for ages.”
Was it just my imagination, or did he actually possess more teeth than most people have?
“Thanks,” I replied, shaking his hand.
Up close, I could see that his dark eyes were actually speckled with hazel. I wondered if that was something you have done surgically. Or maybe Walt Disney was now creating contact lenses that could make anyone’s eyes sparkle like Tinker Bell.
But I forced myself to turn back to the topic at hand. Which, instead of parking, was now weekend traffic.
During the next forty minutes, I was introduced to half a dozen problems that local businesspeople faced. I was glad I hadn’t heard about any of them before I opened Lickety Splits. If I had, I might not have had the nerve.
I was relieved when Brian stood up, stretched, and said, “It’s great that we’re covering so much tonight. But why don’t we all take a short break? Maybe Kate even has a few more of those magical ice cream thingies stashed in back somewhere.”
I was afraid that Tad would shoot out of his chair and get busy with some serious networking. So I immediately turned to him, determined not to let him get away.
“Tad—that’s an interesting name,” I commented.
“It’s short for Tadeusz,” he replied, flashing me a huge smile.
“Isn’t that Polish?” I asked.
“That’s right,” he replied, looking pleased. “My parents were born there. In fact, the name I was born with was Tadeusz Patryk Pulaski.” Grinning, he added, “You can see why I go by the name Tad Patrick.”
The man was certainly charming.
“And I heard through the grapevine that you’re a hometown girl,” he said.
“That’s true,” I replied, then treated him to a six-sentence summary of my entire life that ended with the grand opening of Lickety Splits.
“You know,” he said, stroking his chin thoughtfully, “I just had a great idea.” He moved closer, so close I could literally smell him. I was afraid I was going to choke on Eau de Testosterone.
“What’s that?” I asked, not certain I should.
“How about if you and I put our heads together and do a tie-in?” he suggested. “What I mean is, I could offer a Lickety Splits dessert at Greenleaf. You and I could cook up something special together.”
“That is a good idea,” I told him.
And I meant it. It was a good idea. Still, I somehow got the feeling that Tad Patrick, aka Tadeusz Patryk, was a little light in the sincerity department.
“Let’s think about it,” he said with a wink. “Something flambé, maybe. With peaches or bananas . . . I’m sure you know where I’m going with this. Or, hey, here’s a thought: how about rolling a cart up to the table and using liquid nitrogen to make ice cream right in front of the guests? Sure, it’s theatrical. But from my experience, customers love that kind of thing.”
It was a gimmick I’d heard of. And never approved of. After all, that’s pretty much what it was: a gimmick.
“We definitely have to come up with something,” I said. And then I grew somber. “By the way,” I said, “before someone else comes along and grabs your attention, I want to extend my condolences. I can’t imagine what you must be going through.”
“Thanks,” he said brusquely, his voice hoarse. His dark brown eyes suddenly got very, very shiny.
“I’d known Ashley since we were both in kindergarten,” I went on. “Still, I spent the last fifteen years away, first at school and then living in the city. And she and I didn’t stay in touch, so I didn’t really know what was going on with her over the past few years.”
Tad frowned. “Join the club,” he said. Then, realizing he was being unclear, he added, “What I mean is that, to be perfectly honest, I feel as if I didn’t know Ashley as well as I thought I did, either. I certainly don’t know what was going on with her over the past few weeks. The past few months, really. She’d changed.”
“Really?” I asked. “How?”
He glanced around, as if wanting to make sure no one was listening. Fortunately, people probably noticed that we were sitting with our heads together and so decided to leave us both alone.
Moving a little closer and speaking a little more softly, Tad said, “She’d gotten more materialistic, for one thing.” He laughed. “If you know Ashley at all, that’s saying a lot. She was always a bit of a princess, ever since I first met her. Only the best would do. Designer clothes, luxury vacations . . . Even restaurants, which is how we met.”
“I don’t actually know the story of how you two met,” I prompted. I know
that’s an anecdote few people can resist telling.
“It was right after Greenleaf got that nice review from the New York Times,” Tad said. “Ashley dropped in one afternoon, about an hour before we’d be opening for the evening. She said she wanted to meet me.” He shrugged. “I must say, I was flattered that a woman as beautiful and smart and talented as Ashley was going out of her way to meet a guy like me, who cooks for a living.”
Alarms immediately started going off inside my head. The story of how he and Ashley had met totally contradicted what her ex-husband had told me just a few days earlier.
Even more importantly, Billy had claimed that Ashley had been the restaurant’s backer. Of course that meant she’d met Tad long before she’d sidled up to the bar to meet the handsome newcomer in town.
Either he was lying or Billy was lying.
I held my breath, wondering if Tad’s version of history would include anything at all about Ashley having been his business partner. But he was already moving on.
“Anyway, there was an instant attraction between us,” Tad said. “We became inseparable practically from that day on.”
“That’s a lovely story,” I said, still not sure if a word of it was true. “And it sounds as if the two of you had real chemistry.”
“It was even more than that,” Tad insisted. “We both had a real respect for each other—our ambition, the businesses we both built, how hard we’d worked to get where we were.... We formed kind of a mutual admiration society. I admired her and her accomplishments. And she appreciated what I did, especially because of the acclaim Greenleaf garnered from the very start. She came to the restaurant all the time and was always so complimentary about the wines I chose and the presentation of the food. Loving the good things in life was something we had in common.”
Speaking more to himself than to me, he added, “She was really hot, too.”
I cleared my throat, hoping to redirect his focus.
“But as time went on,” he continued, “she got more and more into things. Ashley’s good taste and her appreciation of the finer things was one of the reasons I was attracted to her in the first place, but in the last few months it was as if those great qualities of hers started to go haywire. She began buying herself all kinds of luxuries, stuff I wasn’t sure she could afford.”
Murder with a Cherry on Top Page 18
