In Hot Fudge And Cold Blood Page 8

  “Right. Yes. Moving on…”

  “I’ll keep it in there. Now, what have we got next. Ooh…”

  Sarah held up another little article from the local paper. I was surprised I—and my mom, apparently—had missed this one.

  It was a picture of Mayor Donovan Charlston with an arm wrapped around Sandra’s shoulder and the title “Local Businesswoman Earns Fudgy Approval of Mayor.” There was no real article, just a sentence underneath about how the mayor was encouraging small business owners in the town.

  “If you’re ever planning on showing your scrapbook to my mom, I don’t think I’d put that in there. It’d get ripped out and she might toss your whole book out the window.”

  Sarah looked alarmed. “Do you think she would?”

  “Oh yeah. Might even set the whole thing on fire with a snap of her fingers.”

  “Can she do that?”

  “I think so.”

  Sarah placed the article on top of her mountain of detritus. “I think I’ve got enough other bits and pieces to work with.”

  “What are you going to do with it when you’re done?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, Sandra isn’t going to appreciate it.”

  Sarah tapped her finger against her chin. “We could turn some of the shop into a kind of memorial for her—paint it black and set up a condolence book next to the scrapbook.”

  “No!”

  Sarah looked alarmed and I tried to switch to a more measured tone. Of all Sarah’s ‘interesting’ ideas, this was certainly one of the worst.

  “I think people planning their wedding won’t enjoy having the death of a relatively young woman being thrust in their faces. It’s not really the right vibe for a bridal store, you know?”

  Sarah frowned as she considered it. “But it would make the shop more balanced.”

  “Balanced?”

  “You know, a contrast. The happiness and joy of a new marriage, in stark contrast to death and murder in the prime of life?”

  I shook my head. I shook my head some more. I shook my head like I wanted to get it off my shoulders.

  “I think contrast is better served in a…” I raised my hands out to either side of me, “…broader context. For example, we have a happy bridal store here, and then there’s the cemetery across town. We have the balance and contrast on a communal level, you see?”

  Sarah slowly nodded her head. “I suppose you have a point.”

  I shook my head. “And anyway, we barely knew her. Once it’s done, why don’t you send your scrapbook to her family in Iowa? Didn’t Randi mention at some point that she’s got an aunt and uncle still living there?”

  Sarah clapped her hands together. “Oh, that’s a wonderful idea. But I think she said they were in Idaho.”

  “Well, wherever they are. She only lived here a few months.”

  Sarah nodded and beamed at me. “You’re so wise, Aria!”

  “I know,” I said, smiling. “I know.”

  “Oh, look at this!” said Sarah excitedly.

  Proudly, as if it were her very own accomplishment, Sarah held up an article with two hands in front of her chest. It was a story about the winner of the county fudge competition—and the first prize winner was none other than Sandra Webb.

  “That’s a good one,” I said to her with a smile. “You should put that in. Where did you get all this stuff anyway? From Randi?”

  Sarah shook her head. “I got it from all kinds of people. A lot of the older residents keep little clippings and stories. One old lady told me she had shoeboxes full of stuff. She’d meant to take up scrapbooking in the sixties, but she never got around to it, so she let me dig through her stuff. Randi was useless.”

  “Oh?”

  Sarah nodded emphatically. “You’d think that since she held the memorial and everything, she would have had something about Sandra. But it was like she barely even knew her! And she didn’t even seem interested in the scrapbook. It was her idea to hold the memorial service, but she did it without actually memorializing Sandra at all. I don’t get some people.”

  “Well, isn’t that something?” I said thoughtfully.

  “But at least the memorial was a success,” said Sarah.

  “It was, wasn’t it? On the business end, anyway. Randi was selling fudge hand over fist.”

  “Yes, I’m sure Sandra would have been pleased to see so many people enjoying the fudge made with her recipe.”

  “Would she, though?”

  Something seemed off about Randi and Sandra’s relationship, but I didn’t know either woman well enough to put my finger on precisely what.

  Could Randi even have been involved in Sandra’s untimely death? Sandra had lived and died by her award-winning fudge, and now Randi was taking up her mantle as Fudge Queen of Sequoia Bay.

  It certainly bore thinking about.

  I would have mentioned it to Jack, but he had warned me before about getting involved in murder investigations.

  Better to keep this to myself, for now.

  Well, to me, Sarah and Kiwi anyway.

  And Mom, if she ever showed up again.

  But the question was: how could I investigate Randi without making a scene? Having been accused of murder myself, I didn’t want to lay the same thing on someone else without proof.

  “I’ll just have to be clever, that’s all,” I said to myself with a nod.

  “What’s that?” asked Sarah.

  “Nothing… just thinking out loud.”

  And think I continued to do until later that afternoon, when I was ready to put my little plan into action.

  Chapter 13

  With Kiwi out of commission, I made my next move alone. I left Sarah behind in the shop, hoping she would remember that we were a Bridal Store and not an Arts and Crafts store, should any drop-ins occur.

  In our business, most of our customers make appointments when they’re serious about making purchases or organizing their events, but we get drop-ins when people are still in the early stages of planning their weddings.

  While not the most enthusiastic employee in many ways, Sarah was very good at turning these potential customers into real customers. Her enthusiasm and zest for life were contagious and she often ended up getting brides more excited about their weddings than they had been when they first stepped inside the shop; Sarah was an expert at alleviating their nervousness and soothing their worries with her calm demeanor, while simultaneously getting them psyched up with her own excitement.

  It was a quick but chilly stroll from my shop to Randi’s Candy Shop. Yet again I was one of the few people foolish enough to be walking, but it was nice to have the sidewalk all to myself. I kept my pace extra brisk in the cold air and I arrived within a few minutes. However, my initial plan of buying some fudge and making some ‘polite’—by which I meant inquisitive and intrusive—conversation was soon thwarted.

  “Well, would you look at that,” I said to myself.

  There was a handwritten sign scrawled in blue marker on letter paper and taped to the glass of the front door. It read: Sold out! Come back tomorrow for another delicious, fresh batch of the BEST FUDGE IN TOWN!

  Sold out, huh? That was something.

  Randi’s business had never struck me as being particularly successful, but it looked like things had turned around since the memorial. Of course she’d always been able to keep the lights on, but I couldn’t ever recall her having sold out of anything before. All those free samples—and paid for boxes—at Sandra’s memorial must have really helped spread the word about her fudge. And with Sandra gone, there was no longer any competition.

  With my initial plan rendered moot, it was time to try something else. If I couldn’t ask Randi questions directly, I could visit the oracle instead. The oracle who knew just about everything about everyone in Sequoia Bay. The oracle known as Priscilla, proprietress of the Black Cat Café.

  There was another advantage to this slight adjustment to the plan as well
: pie.

  “Hey, Aria,” Priscilla greeted me when I arrived.

  I beamed at her and made my way over to the lunch counter. The Black Cat Café had a counter, some tables in the middle, and a row of booths along the side and back walls. I sat in the booths when I wanted a bit of privacy and some quiet, but when I wanted to chat, I made sure to sit at the counter.

  No one sitting up there would ever find themselves bored, as either Priscilla or her partner Nora were able to keep an almost constant stream of news and gossip about Sequoia Bay flowing for any customers brave enough to sit up there.

  “A slice of cherry pie and some ice cream?” she asked with a twinkle in her eye.

  I nodded and grinned. “Just a small one, please.”

  “Of course, hon.”

  Priscilla grabbed a large bowl and began to remove a slice from the massive, home-baked pie. They baked them up in their kitchen every day of the week and were one of the highlights of the café. In my book, the pies were one of the highlights of Sequoia Bay—or even all of California.

  “Not that one!” I said a little too loudly and a little too sharply. “The one next to it, please,” I said, injecting some more sweetness into my tone.

  Priscilla gave me a knowing look as she switched the small slice for the second largest one in the whole pie, and then placed the heavy bowl in front of me with a spoon. I’m sure she knew by now that when I said I wanted a small piece, I didn’t really mean it.

  “How are things at the Blue Moon? Keeping busy?”

  I nodded and chewed the first mouthful quickly so I could respond. “Fine, fine. Sarah is holding the fort. I popped out to get some fudge, originally.”

  “Oh?” she said looking me up and down as if to check for any hidden bags or packages.

  “For Kiwi. But Randi’s shop was closed.”

  “Closed?” said Priscilla with a frown. “I heard she was doing great business these days. There was even a line this morning of people buying fudge to take into work with them. At least, that’s the word around town.”

  “That sounds about right,” I said, balancing a large piece of pie on my spoon in front of my mouth. “The sign said she’d sold out and the shop was closed while she made some more. I guess her candy shop is turning into a full-time fudge shop.”

  Priscilla hmmed thoughtfully, and I took the opportunity provided by the lull to put some more pie in my mouth. There was something about the pastry that was just so much better at the Black Cat than anywhere else. I’d asked Priscilla about it once, but she’d hand-waved it away with a comment about a secret family recipe.

  “I suppose that new recipe of hers is the reason,” said Priscilla. “You know, I didn’t really care for the fudge she used to sell. She got it from some supplier out of town and it just tasted greasy.”

  “Kiwi didn’t like it either,” I said while covering my mouth. Luckily the sentence was short enough that Priscilla could understand me despite my mouth being full of pie.

  “I wonder where she got the recipe?”

  I swallowed half in surprise, but mostly because I was almost ready for another spoonful of the delicious pie. I would have assumed Priscilla knew where the recipe came from already. But perhaps I was ahead of her in the town gossip chain for once.

  “It was Sandra’s recipe,” I said, causing Priscilla’s eyebrows to shoot up. “She said Sandra gave it to her a long time ago.”

  Priscilla eyed me, her expression skeptical. “If she had the recipe all along, then why didn’t she use it? Randi always knew that Sandra’s recipe was better than that other supplier she used.”

  I shrugged and carefully prepared another spoonful.

  “I suppose it was out of respect for Sandra. That was kind of her, don’t you think?”

  Priscilla didn’t look impressed. “I’m surprised to hear that. You know Sandra used to supply Randi’s shop, before she started selling her own out of her house. I find it hard to believe that Randi wouldn’t have started making the fudge herself, after Sandra cut her off.” She glanced off to one side and pressed her lips together, as if trying to recall something.

  “It strikes me as a little strange, that’s all,” she finally continued. “Before Sandra died, Randi was worried about losing her business. If she’d been that worried, you would have thought she would have at least tried using Sandra’s recipe to drum up sales.”

  “Mmhmm,” I said in agreement around my pie.

  “But maybe that is what happened. Maybe she really didn’t want to use the recipe while Sandra was using it. And then, after she died… she gave it a go.”

  I nodded and licked some crumbs from my lips. “It does seem a bit unlikely, doesn’t it? I bet there’s more to the story that we don’t know.”

  Priscilla pulled her lips tight and nodded thoughtfully. No doubt she would be doing some investigating—or at least gossiping—of her own to find out the real story behind Randi and the fudge recipe she was now using.

  “Oh, look, I think someone’s coming to talk to you,” said Priscilla.

  I rapidly chewed and swallowed what I was eating while twisting my head around to see who it was.

  Oh, it’s him, I thought.

  “Hello, Aria,” said Mayor Donovan Charlston with a big grin.

  “Working hard, Donovan?” I asked him with a sweet smile.

  “Oh yes. Talking to my constituents, doing my rounds of the town. It’s non-stop for me. Of course, I have to do it. It’s part of the job. Isn’t that right, Priscilla?”

  “Err, is it?” asked Priscilla with a furrowed brow.

  Donovan nodded three times in quick succession. “Oh yes. I try to visit all the hotspots in town to keep an eye on what’s going on. My townspeople need me. What would they think if I stopped coming in here? Or stopped dining at Mama Victoria’s? They’d say, ‘Where is our wonderful mayor? Why is he no longer gracing us with his presence on a daily or twice daily basis? Has he abandoned us?’ That’s what they’d all be saying.”

  “Right.”

  “Oh yes, it’s tough being the mayor, I tell you. It’s not a job, it’s a—it’s a—it’s a—” he blustered for a moment.

  “Lifestyle?” I suggested.

  He nodded gratefully. “Yes, a very tough lifestyle, being mayor.”

  “Did you want to talk to me about something?” I asked.

  It wasn’t hard to guess what the topic would be. He and my mother had been having an on-again, off-again relationship for years, and there was practically nothing else the mayor would have to talk to me about.

  “Oh, yes. Your mother, Aria.”

  “Yes…”

  “Haven’t heard from her for a few days. She seems to be missing in action. Have you spoken to her?”

  “Not since before the memorial, I’m afraid. But she wasn’t looking her best. She was feeling quite unwell, in fact.”

  “Oh, nothing serious, I hope?”

  I tilted my head to one side. “It’s hard to say. She wasn’t very happy, though. In fact, she was kind of… swollen up. You know how vain she is. She’s probably hiding away until she looks more like her old self.”

  “Vain? She’s a fine-looking woman, your mother, Aria. I don’t think vain is the right word.”

  Vain was precisely the right word, at least in my opinion. Along with narcissistic. There were a few others too: annoying, overly-critical, unmotherly… “No? Well, I think she’s staying out of the public eye for now, anyway.”

  I was a little curious as to what Mom was up to.

  Would she find some way to reverse the spell to get the weight back off magically? Or was she going to have to work it all off the old-fashioned way? If that was the case, I doubted we’d be seeing much of her months.

  “Shame, shame. She brings a brightness to town when she’s around. Don’t you think?”

  “Some people certainly think so,” I said evasively. “Though last I heard, you weren’t really in her good graces, Donovan.”

  He sniffed an
d rubbed his brow. “What? Why?”

  I arched my eyebrows at him. “You really don’t know?”

  He shook his head.

  With a sigh, I put my spoon down. I probably should take a break from the dessert anyway. Eating too much at once is bad for you; at least that’s what some people say.

  “She had heard you and Sandra were spending a lot of time together.”

  “Sandra? Sandra who?”

  I gave him a well-deserved roll of my eyes. “Sandra Webb. The fudge lady? The one who died? You gave a speech at her memorial?”

  “Oh!” he nodded to himself, seemingly pleased to be able to recall her. “Her. What do you mean I was spending time with her? I only have time for one woman, and that’s your mother!”

  “Well that’s not what she thought. She heard you were spending a lot of time in Sandra’s house.”

  “No, no! Oh. Well, I did drop by to purchase some fudge from her on occasion.”

  “Just fudge?”

  “Well. If you must know—and I shouldn’t tell you this, it’s secret mayoral business—we were discussing some possible rezoning plans. You see, her fudge business wasn’t technically allowed to be operating out of her home, not with customers coming in and out, anyway. She was operating it like a shop, but that’s a residential area.”

  “Right.”

  “I’m thinking—and keep this under your hat—about proposing that whole neighborhood be rezoned. It’s full of historic houses that really could put Sequoia Bay on the map. If we got rid of a few of the families, we could turn some of those lovely old properties into proper little businesses. Some Olde-Worlde type stuff, you know?”

  “Like a fudge shop?”

  “Exactly. A fudge shop, a craft shop, a jam shop. A little gallery. Maybe a nightclub for the youngsters.”

  “A nightclub!?”

  He shrugged. “All the big cities have them.”

  “Well, Sequoia Bay isn’t a big city and—”

  “Not yet!” he said, interrupting. He followed that up with a smile, and for a brief moment, I thought I saw dollar signs flashing in his eyes, though surely it was just a trick of the light.