Murder with a Cherry on Top

by Cynthia Baxter

  * * *

  I felt strangely empty as I watched Pete Bonano and a second officer lead Lindsey away in handcuffs. The other cop, a woman, was reciting the Miranda rights. Pete was gingerly carrying the gun, which was already packed up in a clear plastic evidence bag.

  It’s over, I thought.

  It was only then that I became aware that I was shaking. And that what I’d thought was emptiness was actually a feeling of being drained.

  I lowered myself into one of the chairs, my knees suddenly incapable of supporting my weight. I realized I probably should have taken the cops up on their offer to get me home. I hadn’t been aware of how shaken up I was.

  Yet I also felt a germ of something resembling euphoria.

  I’d survived.

  I admitted to myself then that it wasn’t really over. In fact, something long and ugly was just beginning. No doubt I’d be seeing more of the charming Detective Stoltz. There would be questions to answer, statements to make, a trial to attend.

  But at the moment, there were other things on my mind.

  Still moving like a zombie, I retrieved my cell phone from my purse and called home. I was anxious to tell Grams and Emma I was fine before they heard anything about the incident at Lickety Splits.

  There were other people I wanted to call, as well, especially Willow. But before I had a chance, there was one more thing I wanted to investigate. I wanted to see if any damage had been caused when Lindsey’s gun had gone off.

  I admit that it was a bit difficult, returning to the spot where only minutes earlier I’d come close to being shot. But I forced myself to go back to the work area, taking a few of those deep, cleansing breaths Willow was always talking about.

  I studied the wall opposite the freezer for several seconds before I spotted the place where it had hit. And then, despite everything that had happened that night, despite the horrific few minutes I’d just lived through, I started to laugh.

  It wasn’t the laughter of someone who was relieved, either.

  My laughter was genuine.

  The bullet had struck Willow’s painting of the hot fudge sundae. To be more specific, it had hit the canvas right on the top edge of the giant scoop of ice cream—in the exact spot a cherry would have been placed.

  “Wow, will you look at that!” I cried aloud. “If that isn’t a new take on the concept of a cherry on top, I don’t know what is!”

  I was still marveling over the improbability of the bullet hitting that particular spot when I heard someone inside the shop call, “Kate? Are you here? Are you all right?”

  Jake’s voice.

  “I’m in back,” I called to him. My stupid heart was pounding again. And this time, it had nothing to do with any murder investigation.

  A couple of seconds later he appeared in the doorway. His bluer-than-blue eyes were clouded, and his entire face was drawn into an expression of complete distress. He immediately walked over and threw his arms around me.

  “I’m so thankful that you’re okay,” he mumbled into my shoulder.

  He clutched me hard for a good ten seconds before he finally let me go.

  “How did you hear?” I asked.

  “Detective Stoltz called me,” he replied. His face finally relaxed into a grin. “I am your lawyer, after all. He wanted me to know that the real killer had been caught.”

  “You didn’t have to come running over here,” I told him.

  He stared at me for a few seconds with an intensity that made me stop breathing. “Yeah, I did,” he finally said, his voice nearly a whisper.

  The two of us were silent for a few seconds. Staring at his shoulder, I finally said, “Listen, Jake, about the other day . . .”

  “Yeah . . . ?”

  “I wanted to apologize.”

  “For what?”

  “For wanting you to apologize.”

  He laughed. “In that case,” he said, “I accept your apology and I also apologize for not apologizing.” His smile faded. “I mean it, Kate. I’m sorry I hurt you. Ever. Back when we were in high school, last week when I finally told you about what happened that night, and every year, every day, in between that you ever even thought about it.”

  He looked so forlorn and so sincere it was all I could do to keep from hugging him and telling him that all was forgiven.

  But I wasn’t sure I was ready to go down that road yet.

  So instead, I said, “Maybe it’s time to put all that behind us.”

  “Fine with me,” he said earnestly. “Which leaves us with a big question.”

  I screwed up my face. “And what question would that be?”

  His eyes were boring into mine as he asked, “Where do we go from here, Katy McKay?”

  I hesitated, but only for a moment.

  “Where we go from here,” I told him, “is that you tell me your favorite flavor.”

  “What for?”

  “Because,” I replied, opening the freezer so he could see the labels on the giant tubs of ice cream, “I’m about to make you the best ice cream sundae you’ve ever had in your life.”

  Chapter 18

  In 1920, an Iowa store owner named Christian Kent Nelson figured out a way to coat an ice cream bar with chocolate. He called his invention the Eskimo Pie. By 1922, he was earning $2000 a day in royalties.

  —Archives Center, National Museum of American History (Smithsonian)

  Eating ice cream, it turns out, isn’t a cure for absolutely everything.

  Conversation was strained as Jake and I sat alone in Lickety Splits, the bright lights inside the shop a stark contrast to the blackness of the moonless night outside. I felt as if the two of us were in our own little cocoon, completely isolated from the rest of the world, as we sat face-to-face at one of the round marble tables, gorging on a couple of Hudson’s Hottest Ice Cream Sundaes made with Bananafana and Peanut Butter Cup (Jake’s choices) and Chocolate Marshmallow and Honey Lavender (mine, even though it turns out that that’s a terrible combination).

  Yet even though the atmosphere was intimate, the things we were talking about were anything but. We talked about Ashley, Lindsey, secrets, sports cars, cupcakes, how strange it was seeing Pete Bonano in a police uniform, and whether I should have Willow patch up the hole in her painting or just leave it the way it was. That last topic of conversation sprang up after I showed him the brand new bullet-hole cherry-on-top that now decorated my work space.

  But when the last drips of ice cream had been scraped out with a spoon and we finally parted, nothing had been settled.

  After Jake left, claiming that he had a particularly early morning ahead of him because of a cow with some ailment with a long, unpronounceable name, I stood at the window, watching him leave. As I did, I tried desperately to figure out what I was feeling. Lingering dismay over our past? Definitely. Optimism about a possible future together? Not so much.

  The bottom line, I guess, was that I still couldn’t bring myself to forgive.

  * * *

  “Kate, you’re famous!”

  I was barely awake, lying in that dazed state in which dreams still seemed more real than reality, when Emma came bounding into my room. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were bright, and her hair stuck out all over the place, as if she hadn’t yet combed it. In her hand was a copy of a newspaper—from what I gathered, that morning’s edition of the Daily Roost.

  “Look, you’re on the front page!”

  I groaned even before I got a chance to look at it. Sure enough, the editor or reporter or whatever other sadist at the Roost had tracked down my yearbook picture from Modderplaatz Memories. It was the stark photograph that had been taken one day in late March, a day I’d forgotten was Yearbook Picture day and therefore hadn’t bothered to wash my hair or put on makeup or do anything else to make myself look spiffy. On top of that, I’d chosen not to smile, making me look as if I were competing with Nick Nolte for the Worst Mug Shot Ever Award.

  “Ug-g-g-g-gh!” I moaned. “Why couldn’t they
have taken a picture of my ice cream shop instead?”

  “There’s a photo of Lickety Splits, too!” Emma assured me. “It’s here on page four, where the article continues. But wait until you hear what they wrote! They make you sound like the biggest hero in the Hudson Valley since Henry Hudson himself.”

  “I can only imagine,” I growled, pulling myself out of bed.

  I didn’t want to be “famous,” as Emma put it. I wanted my ice cream to be famous, I wanted my shop to be famous, but I didn’t want me to be the focus of attention. I was hardly Henry Hudson. Not even close. I wasn’t even close to being Kate Hudson, despite the coincidence of us both having the same first name.

  In fact, I wanted the whole thing to just go away. This entire incident had been so ugly, and then in the end so terrifying, that I wished we could all just move on.

  When I turned on my phone, I found texts from twenty-seven different people. I didn’t think I even knew twenty-seven people.

  I was dreading looking at my e-mail.

  In fact, I was about to turn off my phone when I caught a glimpse of one of the names on the screen. Jake. Jake had sent me a text.

  I couldn’t resist looking at it.

  “Be ready this Saturday night at seven,” he’d written.

  “Ready for what?” I muttered, already telling myself I wasn’t about to let Jake Pratt dictate when I should or shouldn’t be ready, even for something that was totally mysterious.

  “Well, aren’t you the talk of the town!” Grams exclaimed as soon as I shuffled into the kitchen, desperate for coffee. “I suppose Emma showed you the front page of the Roost?”

  “Not only did she do that, she also formed a committee to raise funds for a statue of me in Riverside Park.” I poured myself a large mug of coffee, more than ready for the caffeine in it to work its magic.

  I’d barely had a chance to sit down at the kitchen table next to Grams to do exactly that when the doorbell rang.

  “Maybe there are TV reporters outside!” Emma cried from the living room.

  “Ignore that!” I called to her.

  But it was too late. I could already hear the door opening.

  I braced myself for a crowd of men and women with cameras and notepads to swarm into the kitchen. Instead, a few seconds later, Emma appeared, carrying a large box.

  “It was FedEx,” she announced. Thrusting the box at me, she added, “It’s for you, Kate.”

  I glanced at it skeptically. “I haven’t ordered anything,” I said. “Did you, Grams?”

  “I think it has your name on it,” Grams observed, craning her neck.

  “So it does.” I grabbed a knife from the drawer and wrestled with it until the package was opened. After fighting my way through a mound of white tissue paper, I pulled out something made of pale blue fabric.

  It was a dress. A long, strapless gown, in fact. It wasn’t new, though; the styling and its slightly worn look made it pretty clear it had been hiding at a vintage shop before it found its way to my front door.

  My stomach felt as if somehow I’d swallowed a bowling ball.

  I bet this is the work of Grams, I thought, turning to confront the most obvious suspect.

  “Is this from you?” I demanded. “And is this supposed to be funny? Like a joke or something?”

  Grams held up her hands, palms out. “Don’t look at me!” she insisted. “I’m not the one who sent it.”

  “Then who—Emma? Is this something you came up with?”

  Emma looked even more confused than Grams. “Not me. I promise, Kate. I have no idea what this is about.” Studying the dress, she added, “That is kind of pretty, though. In an old-fashioned sort of way.”

  Before I had a chance to ask any more questions, another text came in, lighting up my phone. I couldn’t help but notice that, once again, it was from Jake.

  “Hope it’s the right size,” was all he’d written.

  Okay, so Jake had some kind of crazy plan, I realized. He was going to take me someplace that required wearing clothes from the past. Maybe it was Oldies Night at some local dive. Or maybe someone we knew from high school was having a party and he thought it would be funny to dress up in clothes from those days.

  I was willing to be a good sport.

  * * *

  So Saturday evening at a few minutes before six, after leaving Willow in charge of Lickety Splits, I came home and put the dress on.

  “Okay, you two,” I said, parading into the living room, where both Grams and Emma were sitting with Digger and Chloe. “It fits, I guess. Am I presentable?”

  “Oooh, Kate, you look gorgeous!” Emma cooed.

  “Yes, you do,” Grams agreed. “Although a little makeup might be appropriate, given the fact that you’re wearing such a dressy dress.”

  “I’ll help you,” Emma offered, leaping off the couch. “And I have a hair thingy you can use, too. It’s made of pearls. Well, fake pearls, but it’s still pretty. It’s a barrette you can wear on one side. . . .”

  “I think you might want to wear some dressier shoes, too,” Grams suggested. “If you don’t have anything, I may.”

  The way the two of them were carrying on, you’d think I was going to opening night at the Metropolitan Opera. But I let them have their fun, pretending I was a Barbie doll as they fixed my hair and held up different pieces of jewelry and put more makeup on me than I felt comfortable going out in public in.

  Finally, they were satisfied.

  “You look so pretty, Kate!” Emma cried.

  Grams just looked on, her eyes filling with tears.

  “Okay, so you two can now think of yourselves as my personal stylists,” I told them. “Of course, it would be nice if I knew what I was getting all dressed up for.”

  “Jake must have something really cool planned,” Emma said.

  “He obviously put a lot of thought into this evening,” Grams agreed, “whatever he’s got lined up for the two of you.”

  Somehow, I felt as if one or both of them already knew. But I had no choice but to play along.

  Finally, at one minute before seven, the doorbell rang.

  “He’s right on time!” Grams said, springing toward the front door with a lot more energy than I’d seen her exhibit since I’d moved back home.

  “Maybe I should get that,” I suggested.

  I went over to the door, although not as quickly as Grams. After all, I was wearing heels, not to mention navigating a floor-length dress.

  Even though I’d tried to prepare myself for anything, I gasped when I opened the door. Standing in front of me was Jake, dressed in a beautifully tailored tuxedo. Tucked into the lapel was a white flower that was so fragrant I could smell it from where I was standing. I’m no expert on flowers, but I suspected it was a gardenia. His hair had been neatly styled with some kind of gel that was as shiny as his shoes.

  In short, he looked amazing.

  A second later, I noticed that he was holding a box with the logo of our local florist. Through the clear cellophane top I saw that it was a wristlet made from a cluster of the same white flower.

  It was then that I noticed that his cheeks were flushed. In fact, the expression on his face made him look as if he were posing for an ad for an antianxiety drug.

  “What’s going on?” I demanded. “Where are we going, Jake?”

  He took a deep breath. “To the Wolfert’s Roost High School Graduation Dance,” he replied, looking a little sheepish. “It’s not exactly the prom, but it was too late in the year for that. I figured this was the next best thing.”

  “But how—what—?” I sputtered.

  “Remember Chip Callahan, that geeky kid who ran for class vice president junior year and got like three votes?”

  “Sure. He was president of the Chess Club, too. And the Debate Club, I think.”

  “Probably. Well, Chip’s the principal of Wolfert’s Roost High School these days. And when I called him up and explained the situation to him, he gave me—us—permi
ssion to attend this year’s graduation dance.

  “I know I’m late,” he went on, before I’d had a chance to say anything. “Fifteen years late, to be exact. But I hope you’ll be my date for the dance tonight, Kate. It would mean the world to me.”

  I heard a gasp. Two gasps, actually. I whirled around just in time to see two faces duck behind the doorway they’d obviously been watching us from.

  But when I turned back to Jake, I still hadn’t made up my mind.

  My thoughts were racing. “Jake, if I go to this dance with you—and I haven’t yet decided if I’m going to—you need to know that it doesn’t mean that—”

  “It doesn’t have to mean anything,” he insisted. “It can just be you and me tying up a loose end. Finishing something we didn’t get to finish fifteen years ago.”

  I understood what he was saying. But I also knew from the intense look in his eyes that while it didn’t have to mean anything, it could also turn out to mean a lot.

  A whole lot.

  “So what do you think, Kate?” he asked anxiously. “Am I too late?”

  I could feel Emma and Grams watching me from the doorway. But I didn’t dare look over at them. Besides, I already knew what Emma thought my answer should be.

  The same went for Grams. Especially Grams.

  And suddenly, I knew what my answer should be, too.

  Recipes

  Salty ’n Sweet Chocolate Syrup with Bacon

  When it comes to making anything chocolate, the quality of the chocolate you use makes a huge difference. If there was ever a time to splurge, this is it. Hershey’s works great, but try using Ghirardelli or Droste or another premium brand. You’re guaranteed to notice (and appreciate!) the richer, more chocolaty flavor.

  Sugar-Glazed Bacon

  1 pound of bacon (thick-cut works best)

  ⅓ cup brown sugar

  Preheat oven to 400 degrees with the rack placed in the upper third. Line a cookie sheet that has a rim with foil and put a rack on top of it. Lay out the bacon on the rack, with each slice separate, in a single layer. Sprinkle the brown sugar over the bacon, distributing it evenly. Bake for approximately 15 minutes, until the bacon is cooked and covered with a glaze. For best results, cool before breaking it into small pieces and adding them to the syrup in the recipe below. (Trick: Use a pair of kitchen shears to cut up the bacon.)