First-Degree Fudge: A Fudge Shop Mystery

by DeSmet, Christine

  Kelsey, though, slapped a hand on the marble table. “Sorry? That’s all you’ve got to say for cheating? He was hogging the copper kettles again for his hog that he’s cooking.” Her shoulders hunched up to her earlobes in a shudder. “He’s putting hog bits into the fudge.”

  “Hog bits?” I asked.

  “Bacon,” Piers said, pulling his shoulders back in pride. “I’m experimenting with bacon fudge.”

  Kelsey sniped, “He took over four of the kettles; then he put bacon in one of my kettles of boiling ingredients so I’d have to throw it out. After I did, I looked away for just a moment and he’d tossed more bacon—meat—into my kettle. Yewww.”

  My mother touched my arm. “Honey, I have to finish making deliveries. Maybe you should come with me and let them cool down.”

  Kelsey said with big fake smile, “That cow truck you drive is just the cutest thing, Florine.”

  Mom—Florine, never Flo—drove a black-and-white cow motif minivan around the county delivering our farm’s organic cream, cheeses, milk, and butter to various restaurants and to my fudge shop each day. When I’d contacted Kelsey King weeks ago in Portland, where she had a fledgling TV show featuring organics, she’d been thrilled to hear about our farm’s organic nature. She agreed instantly to the adventure of being a contestant in a fudge contest and arts festival in Door County. I tried to use that modicum of respect to quell the fight now.

  “Kelsey, my mother can replace all of your ingredients with fresh ones right now. And maybe the bacon falling into your fudge mix was a mistake.”

  “No, it wasn’t.” Her fake smile stiffened.

  I turned to look up at Piers. “Why do you need four kettles? You were each assigned two to use. Two for each of you, with two left for me.”

  That’s when the smells in the place became a warning along with the odd sounds of audible gulps, lapping, and growls. I looked at the north wall area behind our short counter and glass shelving where the six kettles sat over their open-flame heating units. “Oh my gosh!”

  Two copper kettles had bubbled over, oozing sugar and mystery ingredients—and bite-sized bacon pieces—onto the floor. A troublemaking furry brown dog belonging to my ex-husband—the infamous bigamist—leaped about in the middle of canine nirvana, slurping up bacon bits as fast as his long, pink tongue could operate. We were lucky the dog hadn’t knocked over the open flames and caused a fire. Ironically, my ex had named the dog “Lucky” after his gambling prowess—my ex’s prowess, not the dog’s. Since my ex had come back to town for utility construction business in May, the dog seemed to get loose and show up in my shop just about every other day. I glanced toward the door now with my heartbeat racing a bit in nervous trepidation. The dog’s rogue appearances usually brought Dillon Rivers through the door soon after.

  Ranger dashed over to turn off the burners. He grabbed the gangly water spaniel who was now rolling in the bacon goop on the floor. “Harbor, no! Come with me.” Cody had dubbed the dog Harbor the first day he had sneaked into our shop because the gregarious animal loved to fling himself in the harbor water outside our front door.

  The dog with two names was always a mess unless he was secured with a leash. Lucky Harbor also loved to steal fudge if I didn’t watch him. Chocolate isn’t good for dogs; it can be fatal. I dashed over to Gilpa’s side of the shop for a piece of twine. Lucky Harbor began barking so loudly in protest over having to leave his puddle of bacon that everybody in the shop had their hands clamped over their ears.

  “Please take him into the back somewhere for now, Ranger. Tie him to a doorknob or something.”

  Piers said, “At least the dog shows good taste.”

  Piers found a spoon, then began ladling up the mess on the floor. “You weren’t using your kettles, Ava, so I took them over, thinking I was doing you a favor. You weren’t here when I arrived. You didn’t see Kelsey sabotaging the ingredients.”

  Kelsey yelped, “You liar.” She grabbed the fudge cutter again to wave at him. “You’re the one sabotaging me, you sausage hick from Chicago!”

  At that moment, the fudge judges arrived, two of them through the front door: my landlord, Lloyd Mueller; and a local cookbook author, Professor Alex Faust.

  My grandmother—the third judge—came in through the back door, finally catching up with us. “What’s that smell?”

  “Bacon,” I said.

  “No, the other smell. Like dirt cooking.”

  Kelsey seethed at Piers. “That’s the smell of my ruined fudge.”

  Piers snapped, “It’s real dirt. She’s passing off black dirt as chocolate fudge!”

  Kelsey flew at Piers with a karate kick, which he caught in his beefy hands, but he slipped on the oozing syrup and bacon fat on the floor. They slid out from behind my glass counter loaded with various fudges, landing on their backs in the goo. I rushed to help, but Kelsey got up fast to push me away so she could go at Piers again. I grabbed her in an armlock to break it up—

  Just as Dillon Rivers charged through the door. The cowbell clanged against the wall. “Whoa, are we puttin’ bets down on who wins this wrestling match? I’ve got five bucks on the fudge lady.”

  I let go of Kelsey.

  My tall, killer-handsome ex swept off his hard hat, combing his chestnut-colored hair with his fingers. His muscular chest was bare and glistening already from morning exertion. Both my heart and my stomach did a flippity-flop.

  My mother groaned. She did not like Dillon. She said to me, “I’ll call the sheriff.” She was dialing her phone as she said it.

  Grandma said, “I’ll buzz Gil.” She dug in her jeans for her phone.

  Professor Faust, a genial, sixtysomething, gray-haired guy in a blue shirt and tan pants, stood wide-eyed. He was carrying a stack of his latest cookbook. “Perhaps this isn’t a good time for a meeting? Where can I leave my books? They’re all signed.”

  Everybody ignored Professor Faust because that’s what happens when Dillon is in a room, especially with his shirt off.

  “Hey there,” Dillon said, with a look that said he knew exactly what he was doing to me. He slipped on a neon yellow T-shirt with his construction company logo on it, which he’d had shoved in a back pocket. “Anybody see my dog? And what’s this I hear about the fudge shop closing and the contest being canceled?”

  Ugh, Grandma’s gossipy church-lady friends must have met him on the docks.

  I said to Dillon, “We’re in the middle of something. Your dog’s in the back. You’ll need to take him for a swim before you let him in your truck.”

  Dillon chuckled as he looked me up and down. “Maybe you’d like to go for a swim, too.” He sniffed at me. “You smell like bacon. I better ask you to the prom before other guys get a whiff of you.”

  “Very funny,” I said.

  My mother rushed between us, clicking off her phone. “Honey, come with me to the lighthouse. Now.”

  At first, her urgency was lost on me. Kelsey and Piers were arguing again while cleaning up the slippery floor, and the dog was barking from the back. Cody had come back into the main shop to boss Kelsey and Piers; Cody obsessed about germs and cleanliness in the fudge shop.

  Lloyd, with his salt-and-pepper mustache wiggling, rubbed his bald head with one hand in confusion. He held up an envelope in the other hand. It had to be my rent reimbursement. “Should I hang on to this check and come back another time? This doesn’t look like a good time for a meeting.”

  Grandma was on him like flies on fish left too long in the sun. Shaking a finger under his nose, almost touching his mustache, she said, “This is your fault, Lloyd. You’re ruining my granddaughter’s life. Why?”

  Dillon said, “Hold on there, Sophie. The man’s an upstanding citizen.”

  My grandmother muttered Belgian words under her breath as she advanced on Dillon.

  My mother and I hustled Grandma Sophie out the door before another fight started. I felt bad that my ex was such an object of scorn because he was a decent enough guy; he’
d just been too eager to fall in love when he was too young to handle the concept. Me, too. But Florine and Sophie blamed Dillon for whisking me away to Las Vegas eight years ago to marry him in one of those youthful, stupid indiscretions that, looking back on it, not even I can believe I did.

  I put thoughts of Dillon aside as Mom was driving erratically ten miles over the speed limit through the back streets of Fishers’ Harbor and then even faster on Highway 42 outside of the village. We were heading southwest, with glimpses of Lake Michigan going by like flipped pages in a book.

  “Mom, slow down. There are tourists all over the place.” Tourists often stopped their vehicles at the oddest times to gawk at the spectacular scenery of the lake or to find the quaint art shops tucked away in the woodlands.

  Grandma gasped when Mom hit the horn and swerved around a slowing car ahead of us on the two-lane highway. “Florine, what the hell—?”

  Mom veered into the entrance to Peninsula State Park. We went through the park gates, then headed down Shore Road, which went to the Eagle Bluff Lighthouse.

  I told Mom, “I forgot Libby’s fudge.”

  Mom barely missed a hen turkey and her poults, which were strutting across the blacktop. Before I could complain again, I noticed the sheriff’s car with its red and blue lights swirling in front of the lighthouse.

  The lighthouse was made of Cream City brick with a red roof on top of its main house and atop the cupola tower. In the morning sun, the four-story tower had a yellow glow but with red and blue striations.

  “What’s going on, Mom?”

  Her knuckles were white on the steering wheel. “The sheriff said Libby found something that he wants you to look at.”

  “Me? Why didn’t you tell me?” I knew why. My mother did not handle stress or my adventurous life very well.

  We parked next to the cruiser. Before we got out, my mother had a shaky hand on my arm. “Honey, are you in some kind of trouble again?”

  “No,” I said, though I always seemed to be in trouble and not know it. I searched my brain for something that would require a sheriff but came up with nothing. The fighting confectioner chefs was the only issue that came close to needing law enforcement interference as of late. “Is Libby all right?”

  She paled. “I forgot to ask. When I called the sheriff, he just said something had happened out here and he needed you.”

  By then Sheriff Jordy Tollefson had come out to greet us. He was about six feet, four inches tall; he had six inches on me. Jordy was in his early forties, lean, a runner, with the demeanor of a Marine—perfection and precision. He escorted us inside, into the small room that served as the gift shop. A window had been busted.

  Libby was sitting on a stool by the register counter, sniffling into a tissue. When she saw us, she rushed over to hug Grandma.

  “Oh, Sophie, I’m so glad you’re here. And I’m so sorry it has to involve your granddaughter.”

  A tiny bomb went off inside my stomach. I looked up at Jordy’s stern face and steady brown eyes and said, “What happened?”

  Jordy picked up a Baggie off the counter. It held a rock. “Somebody sent this through the window.”

  Then he picked up another Baggie with a piece of ruled paper in it. In perfect orange crayon, the note said, Somebody will die if you don’t convince Lloyd to throw the contest. Miss Oosterling must not win.

  Blood drained from my head. I looked at Libby wrapped in my grandmother’s arms and said, “Who would do such a thing? It’s a silly fudge contest. I’m so sorry, Libby. Somebody’s threatening you and Lloyd?”

  My mother said to me, “Honey, you don’t seem to get it. Somebody’s threatening you.”