Before you cook: Prepare an 8x8-inch pan by lining it with wax paper so that the wax paper comes over the edges. Spray the paper lightly with nonstick vegetable cooking spray.
12-ounce package semisweet chocolate chips
1 cup milk chocolate chips
14-ounce can sweetened condensed milk
2 tablespoons butter
12 Oreo (or similar chocolate) cookies, grated
Gummy worms
Melt chocolate chips in microwave with sweetened condensed milk and butter on medium heat for 3 or 4 minutes. Stir and return to microwave as needed until melted and smooth.
To “bury” gummy worms in “dirt” in the middle of your fudge, first pour half the fudge mixture into the prepared pan. Next, sprinkle in a light layer of cookie dirt across the entire pan. Lay as many gummy worms as you wish in the dirt—about 10 worms will be enough. Sprinkle more dirt on top of them. Pour the remainder of your fudge on top. If you wish, sprinkle more dirt on top, or add more gummy worms.
Let cool without a cover for a few minutes; if covered, it might steam and melt your gummy worms on top. Ironically, the gummy worms in the middle of the cookie dirt inside the fudge stay intact without melting much. You can also choose to skip putting the gummy worms inside the fudge and just layer them and the dirt on top. You might need to push the gummy worms into the fudge slightly on top before cutting the fudge.
This yields a chewy fudge—expect a gummy worm in every bite.
Ackowledgments
Many thanks go to John Talbot of Talbot Fortune Agency and Danielle Perez, executive editor, New American Library/Penguin Group, for their creative ideas, expertise, and hard work.
Thank you to my colleagues for their support: Bridget Birdsall, Marshall Cook, Laura Kahl, Laurie Scheer, and Laurel Yourke. Thanks also to other colleagues at University of Wisconsin–Madison Continuing Studies who taste-tested fudge recipes and who provided me with fudge recipes and tips.
Thank you to my fellow Sisters in Crime members, including Deb Baker, Kathleen Ernst, and M. J. Williams, for their support, as well as Karen Wiesner, who read every word of the manuscript for me. Thanks to Mystery Writers of America member and critique partner, Jerol Anderson, too.
Much appreciation goes to my research team: Darlene and Jerry Kronschnabel of DePere, Wisconsin; Theresa and Al Alexander of the Belgian Club in Door County, Wisconsin; and Alyssa Haskins, head of research and development for DB Infusion Chocolates, Madison, Wisconsin.
Each of us needs a true cheering section. My cheering section included the fine new novelists from my summer Write-by-the-Lake Writer’s Retreat: Barbara Belford, Cheryl Hanson, Julie Holmes, Blair Hull, Lisa Kusko, and Roi Solberg.
Finally, thanks to my family! And a big thanks to the man in my life, who has to “suffer” through all the fudge recipes I try—Bob Boetzer.
Thanks, everybody!
Don’t miss the next novel in the
Fudge Shop Mystery series
HOT FUDGE FRAME-UP
by Christine DeSmet
Coming from Obsidian in Summer 2014.
Chapter 1
Everything and everyone has a purpose in life and a place, my grandmother Sophie says. “And everyone and everything can be good and then go bad. Lloyd Mueller is like beer fudge. Enjoy it now because it has a shelf life of only about three days.”
I shivered at what she’d just insinuated. But nobody contradicts my Belgian grandmother. Especially when she’s upset. Yet I plunged in like a ninny. “Grandma, Lloyd is a good landlord. Or was. At least he’s giving me a refund for having to move out of his rental cabin early. He’s bringing the check to the meeting at the fudge shop. And please don’t talk about him having a shelf life.” My skin rippled again, this time with big goose bumps. “You make it sound like somebody will do him in for making me move.”
“Bah and booyah! Maybe he should watch out! You’re moving out of this lovely cabin and then moving into the storage room of your fudge shop? Whoever heard of living in a fudge shop! This is going to be trouble for you and worse for Lloyd!” Exclamation points spat out of her mouth as my grandmother splashed suds about the fudge utensils in my cabin’s kitchen sink.
My cabin is one of several rentals along the three-block length of Duck Marsh Street in Fishers’ Harbor, a tourist town on peninsular Door County, Wisconsin, which juts into Lake Michigan. Our county is known as the Cape Cod of the Midwest. In the summer, when the condos and summer homes fill with vacationers from Chicago and beyond, our village’s population of two hundred swells to a couple of thousand in the immediate area.
“I don’t like it,” Grandma said, persisting. We Belgians are like that, the old “dog on a bone,” never giving up. “He’s up to no good.”
I had to admit I felt the same way. Everybody knew everybody’s business here. Lloyd was the richest man in town by far. All we knew was that he intended to buy the Blue Heron Inn, but he wasn’t telling anybody his intentions for it except to say it wouldn’t be an inn. People all over town were nervous about the secrecy. Even Lloyd’s ex-wife, Libby—who got along with him fine—had told my grandma she was worried about the mysterious surprise he had cooking for Fishers’ Harbor. Libby said he wouldn’t even tell her. What did that mean? That he’s up to no good, as Grandma says?
It was hard for me to worry too much about this big secret at the moment. I was in the living room area packing books in a hurry in sticky July humidity. It was Friday morning after the Fourth, and I’d told Lloyd I’d be out by Sunday. The early-morning fog was being steamed by the sun, steeping me like a tea bag. My long brown hair, in a twist atop my head, was coming undone on my damp neck, and my trademark pink blouse was beginning to stick to my back.
I’d been up since five, the water had been cut off in my fudge shop today, and the bird-call clock over the sink had just cardinal-chirped eight o’clock, which panicked me. I had to meet up with the fudge contest judges and confectioner chef contestants at my shop in a half hour. Fortunately, Oosterlings’ Live Bait, Bobbers & Belgian Fudge & Beer was only about thirty feet across my backyard. It sat on the docks of our Lake Michigan harbor.
Grandma said, amid pans rattling in the sink, “I don’t see why you can’t live in our sunporch for now.”
Grandma and Grandpa Oosterling lived across the way, in one of only two cabins on this street not owned by Lloyd Mueller, an old high school buddy of Grandpa’s. Moving in with my grandma Sophie and grandpa Gil would be convenient, but I was thirty-two, and I’d heard too many jokes about thirtysomethings moving back in with family to be comfortable with the invitation.
“Grandma, I’ll be fine. I need to worry about settling on a new fudge flavor for next week’s contest.” I tossed more cookbooks and scriptwriting books into the next empty box sitting next to me on the floor by the couch.
“You like Brussels sprouts.”
“Sprout fudge?” I swallowed down my gag reflex, then heard her squelch a giggle. My grandma was like that, always keeping me on my toes. “What fairy tale is that based on?” From the start of my business, I had decided that all my fudge flavors for women and girls had to be named for a fairy tale.
Grandma said, “The story of the Three Bears. Porridge fudge.”
Smiling at that flavor, I countered, “Maybe a Goldilocks flavor, something in gold? I’m not sure what flavor that could be, but it needs to be as nice as my cherry-vanilla Cinderella Pink Fudge.” The Cinderella fudge had become an instant hit with the tourists. “I want something gal pals will savor with a fine Door County wine or that their little girls will find cute and fun for their tea parties. I’m starting to panic.”
“Ah, the sweet success of your first fudge flavor is pressuring you.” Grandma Sophie wrestled a big stainless-steel mixer bowl into the sink. “Come over for dinner tonight and we’ll brainstorm. And move your stuff into our cabin. Whoever heard of living in a storage room amid milk, cream, and mice!”
“There are no mice in my fudge shop, Grandma.
There’s only Titus here in the cabin, in the bottom cupboard.”
“I can’t believe you named a mouse. Bah.”
“Well, he wouldn’t climb into my traps for cheese or even peanut butter, so I figured I’d give him a name and then just call him out of hiding.”
“Booyah to you.” The word “booyah” refers to a traditional Belgian celebration stew made with chicken and vegetables, but now the word is used all the time as a cheer word. Grandma continued as she swished suds around the bowl. “That mouse will have more living space than you. And moving now is the worst possible time to do it in your life. Lloyd should be ashamed of himself for telling the new owner you’d be gone by Sunday sometime. Who do you suppose he sold these cabins to?”
“Maybe Libby’s learned more. I’ll ask her. I have to stop over at the lighthouse later with her batch of fudge anyway.” I sneezed from the books as I packed another box on the floor. I hadn’t dusted anything since I’d arrived in town in late April. Opening and operating the fudge shop had kept me too busy. “Grandma, maybe we should just be happy that Lloyd isn’t letting the inn sit empty and become a home for Titus’s relations.”
“I suppose you’re right. Not many people want to move into a place where a murder happened.”
I shivered all over again for the umpteenth time just thinking about my involvement. Back in May my fudge had been stuck down the throat of an actress who’d been choked to death. The killer had tried to pin it all on the newbie back in town—me. I wondered now if some relative of the murdered woman had bought my cabin in order to be close to her spirit. Was my landlord afraid I’d be freaked out? Try to stop the sale?
But I had more important worries. The annual Fishers’ Harbor Arts Festival was being held a week from tomorrow—Saturday. Back in May, I’d been conned into sponsoring a fudge contest by my best friend’s new boyfriend. John Schultz was a tourism and tour promoter out of Milwaukee who looked for any angle to bring himself up to Door County to visit Pauline Mertens. John had convinced me that a fudge contest was my way of participating in the arts festival, thus helping me look like a good member of the business community—while making amends for drawing bad karma to Fishers’ Harbor with the murder involving my fudge. The taste-off next Saturday afternoon would be followed that evening by an adult prom dance on the docks outside the fudge shop. The prom was also hatched by John, with Pauline’s blessing. I couldn’t say no to Pauline. She felt sorry for me. I’d never been to a prom because as a teenager I’d been a too-tall, athletic nerd farm girl whom the boys passed in the hallway as if I were invisible.
Unfortunately, things were already going wrong. The guest celebrity chef contestants who had arrived this past Monday for a two-week stay had taken over the six copper kettles in my shop—as in not sharing them with me at all. And I couldn’t seem to come up with a new fudge flavor that would knock everybody’s socks off. What’s more, I had to come up with a prom dress—something that wouldn’t reveal how much fudge I’d eaten in the past couple of months. My excited and desperate gal pals Pauline and Laura Rousseau were coming over later this morning with yet another set of fabric swatches and dress patterns.
Rapid-fire knocking on my front door was followed by my young red-haired shop assistant, Cody Fjelstad, yelling through the screen, “Miss Oosterling! Come quick!”
My mother was with him. She hollered from behind Cody, “Ava honey, your shop’s being destroyed!”
“What?” The nonsensical news kept me rooted on the floor for just a second.
Cody opened the screen door, then waved frantically. “Get a move on, Miss Oosterling. Your chefs are chasing each other around the shop with fudge cutters. They keep saying they’re going to kill each other.”
• • •
My fudge shop and all my freshly made fudge were being held hostage by two chefs with circular knives.
When I rushed in through the back door of my shop, Kelsey King, a petite blonde from Portland, Oregon, and Piers Molinsky, a portly giant from Chicago, were wielding fudge cutters from their stances on both ends of my white marble-slab table. My freshly made Cinderella Pink Fudge lay hostage in its pans between them. Kelsey and Piers had fudge cutters poised over the pans.
Fudge cutters look like pizza cutters—round, sharp disks. Kelsey held up the one with one disk, while Piers had one with multiple disks, which could cause a lot of quick damage if tossed at Kelsey.
I stood in shock behind my old-fashioned cash register, thinking I might need it as protection.
My mom muttered behind my back, “I forgot to tell you about the smell, too.”
The grab bag of aromas in the place made me pause. What had the chefs been up to in only a few minutes’ time this morning? I’d left the place just an hour ago, and nobody had been here but my grandpa Gil and a few fishermen. It had smelled of the strong fresh coffee we always had on hand and my new batch of cherry-vanilla pink perfection fudge. Now the bait and fudge shop smelled of bacon, of all things, and a heady, earthy mix of spices such as nutmeg, cinnamon, ginger, maybe some anise and orange peel tossed in.
I called out from behind my small fortress, “What’s wrong with you two? Stop!”
Piers, his chubby face red, his furry brown eyebrows pinched together, kept his gaze lasered on his enemy across the marble table as he picked up a pan of my fudge.
My heart rate accelerated. “Put the fudge down, Piers.”
Piers ignored me, growling at Kelsey, “You do not belong in this contest. This is what fudge looks like.” He waved my pan of Cinderella Pink Fudge in the air.
Behind me, my mother whined in panic or disgust or both.
Kelsey snatched up the other pan of my fudge, waving her fudge cutter over it as she glared at Piers. “You see this fudge? This is your face!”
She slashed at my pretty pink fudge.
My mother screamed, nearly turning me deaf. I gasped, stunned for a moment, waiting for my hearing to come back.
Cody, whose dream was to be a law officer or park ranger, grabbed one of my four-foot spatulas from a nearby copper kettle. “I’ll stop ’em, Miss Oosterling.”
“No, Ranger, don’t. Stand back.” Cody liked being called “Ranger,” especially after he’d helped me solve the murder a couple of months ago and our county sheriff awarded him a good citizenship star.
I could’ve used the sheriff’s help at the moment. Ordinarily, my popular pink fudge sat in front of the big bay window to cure and entice tourists. Now, there was nobody outside, just the view of Lake Michigan lapping up against the boats rocking at their moorings. Any customers there to buy fudge or bait had scattered to save their lives. Even if I called Sheriff Tollefson or a deputy, the sheriff’s office was a half hour’s drive away in Sturgeon Bay.
I glanced to the bait shop side of the place. “Gilpa?” The word came out strangled in my tight throat. Since I’d been a little girl, I’d called Grandpa Gil the shortcut name of “Gilpa.”
Ranger said, “He took a fisherman out just as I got here.”
I appealed again to the chefs. “This is silly. It’s going to be a beautiful day. Why start it out with a fight?”
Neither looked at me. Instead, they started a volley of words while shaking the fudge cutters and my fudge all about in the air. The glass in the bay window within inches of them was vibrating from the intensity.
I hesitated going over to the two on my own. Kelsey’s blond cuteness and petite frame rendered her deceivingly harmless-looking. But she was a fitness guru who ran a health spa. She knew karate and ate the bark off trees. I was probably smelling bark cooking in the aromas floating about us. Piers, whose bulk reflected his love of the muffin tops he’d made famous in Chicago, growled like a bear at Kelsey.
Piers used his fudge cutter to gouge out and flick a good-sized portion of my precious pink confection onto the floor. He smashed it with the heel of one boot. “This is your face.”
We all cried out in pain—me, Cody, my mom, and two customers who popped up f
rom behind a shelving unit filled with handmade Cinderella Pink dolls, purses, and teacups. I recognized the ladies from my grandmother’s church group. They rushed out screaming something about “saints and sinners.” The cowbell on the door clanged. A teacup fell to the floor in their wake and broke.
Those ladies would spread the gossip fast, so I had to take action. I used the weapon that always worked. “There could be TV cameras on you, for all you know. I think that’s John coming down the docks right now.”
My mother whimpered, “Oh no.”
John Schultz had been videotaping us every spare moment of his time. To keep things manageable for his videotaping, John wanted just three contestants—me and these two trying to kill each other. He’d scoured his universe of contacts in the travel industry and had come up with Piers and Kelsey. I’m sad to say I approved them. Shows my talent for judging people. John had insisted that he tape the fudge contest activities this week and next with the hopes of ending up on a cable channel. He’d get a show of his own, he said, and I’d get fudge fame. But John wasn’t coming down the docks right now; I’d lied.
Fortunately, my lie worked like a hose on two fighting cats. Kelsey broke into tears, dropping her fudge cutter on the marble slab. She looked around for the camera on her. It was pitiful. I almost wished John were here. Piers whipped off his white apron, then used it to swab my ruined pink fudge off the floor. He, too, looked about for the camera, smiling, which galled me.
“Were you two faking? Practicing?” I asked. “You gave my mother a heart attack.”
“I’m so sorry,” Piers said, turning into a teddy bear. “Please forgive me, Ava. You were so kind to invite me, and yet I did this to you. Sorry.”
His words were stilted, obviously an act for the nonexistent camera. At least he was being polite again to me and my fudge.
First-Degree Fudge: A Fudge Shop Mystery Page 28
