Murder with a Cherry on Top Read online

  Murder with a Cherry on Top

  Cynthia Baxter

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Recipes

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2018 by Cynthia Baxter

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2017955115

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-1412-1

  First Kensington Hardcover Edition: April 2018

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1414-5

  eISBN-10: 1-4967-1414-8

  Kensington Electronic Edition: April 2018

  To Nicole

  Chapter 1

  87% of Americans have ice cream in their freezer at any given time.

  —www.IceCream.com

  “I don’t believe it! I do not be-lieve what I am seeing with my very own eyes!”

  I blinked, then blinked again, hoping I was simply imagining it. Yet there it was, staring at me as boldly as the bright red cherry on top of a hot fudge sundae.

  I stood frozen to the spot, poised like a mannequin over the real-life hot fudge creation I was concocting with all the passion that Michelangelo must have felt as he painted the Sistine Chapel.

  For this ingenious creation, I’d lovingly arranged baseball-size scoops of three delectable flavors of ice cream into an old-fashioned tulip-shaped ice cream sundae dish: a scoop of creamy Classic Tahitian Vanilla, a scoop of sinfully rich Chocolate Almond Fudge, and a scoop of an invention of my own, Berry Blizzard, a tangy strawberry ice cream dotted with bits of fresh strawberry, raspberry, and blueberry and delicately spiced with just a hint of cardamom and cinnamon.

  Over it I’d dripped about a quart of wonderfully gooey chocolate syrup, handmade by me just a few hours earlier. It was a specialty of the house, a recipe I’d created myself: a rich chocolate syrup dotted with pieces of bacon that had been glazed with brown sugar. I called it Salty ’n Sweet Chocolate Syrup with Bacon. I expected my customers at Lickety Splits, my brand new ice cream shop, to call it Heaven on Earth.

  Next came the generous dollop of whipped cream, also hand whipped by moi, followed by an avalanche of chopped almonds, hazelnuts, and pecans.

  In fact, I was just about to add the perfect finishing touch, a plump red maraschino cherry, when the bright, hot pink sign about thirty feet away from where I was standing caught my eye.

  The sign, taped in the window of the shop directly across the street from Lickety Splits, had been neatly hand lettered with a black Sharpie. The sign was right below the pink-and-white striped awning that was edged with swirly letters, spelling out SWEET THINGS PASTRY PALACE. Directly below, in letters that were smaller but even swirlier, were the words HOME OF THE MILE-HIGH CUPCAKE.

  The new sign in the bakery’s window read: NOW SELLING HOMEMADE ICE CREAM!

  “How dare she?” I sputtered, barely glancing at my best friend, Willow Baines, who was helping me out in the shop for the afternoon. “This is absolutely the last straw! It’s bad enough that Ashley Winthrop practically destroyed my entire childhood! That she turned my middle school and high school years into the sequel of Mean Girls! But now that we’re grown up and she still thinks she can just go ahead and ruin my life—”

  “Calm down!” Willow said, sounding annoyingly calm herself. “Take deep, cleansing breaths, Kate. In, out. In, out . . . Somehow we’ll figure out what to do about this.”

  “I know exactly what to do about this,” I shot back. “And it involves a heavy, blunt object. Something along the lines of a . . . a three-gallon tub of Cappuccino Crunch!”

  It wasn’t surprising that Ashley Winthrop’s sudden foray into the world of ice cream had me so upset. Not only had the two of us been enemies practically our whole lives. But fifteen years after graduation—after I’d gone to college, moved to New York City, developed a successful career in public relations, and just three months ago, come back to my hometown to start a new chapter in my life—she threatened to start up our rivalry all over again.

  I’d just become the proud owner, operator, chef, sales force, marketing director, and janitor of the Lickety Splits Ice Cream Shoppe. At the risk of sounding melodramatic, opening my own business truly was nothing less than the realization of a lifelong dream. And the fact that my brand new shop featured my absolute favorite food in the entire universe made the whole experience even sweeter.

  Thanks to the randomness of real estate markets, it just happened that my store was located right across the street from the bakery that Ashley had been operating for a little over five years. I learned that because right after I’d moved back, the local paper, the Daily Roost, had run a big article about Sweet Things celebrating its five-year anniversary, complete with photos. Still, the shop I’d rented had a great location—and everyone knows the number one rule of real estate is Location, Location, Location. It was on Wolfert’s Roost’s main thoroughfare, Hudson Street. And it was less than a hundred feet away from the charming town’s busiest intersection.

  The front of my building was incredibly cute. It had a Victorian look, with ornate wooden columns framing the door and window boxes along the display window. Inside, it had a shiny tin ceiling and a black-and-white tiled floor. It even had an exposed brick wall that gave the place a touch of old-world charm.

  The space also happened to be the perfect size. In the front section, there was enough room for two glass freezer cases displaying the eighteen flavors of ice cream that I intended to change from day to day, as well as the line of eager customers I’d hoped to regularly attract. But there was also room for six small, marble-topped tables, three along each wall. Each table accommodated two black wrought-iron chairs with pink vinyl seats.

  And in back, there was plenty of space for the two industrial-size ice cream makers I’d installed, along with a gigantic ice cream freezer, six feet wide and six feet high, that provided enough storage space for at least two dozen giant tubs of ice cream. I’d also squeezed in a big counter for chopping chocolate and shredding coconut.

  The moment the real estate agent took me inside the empty storefront, I’d seen its potential. And as soon as I’d signed the lease, I jumped into realizing that potential. I’d had the exterior of the shop painted a soft shade of pink, then personally painted the wooden columns and the window boxes lime green. Next I’d put a wooden bench in underneath the big display window, painting the slats pink and green. As a finishing touch, I’d filled the window boxes with pink and white petunias that spilled over the front and sides, the green of the leaves picking up the building’s lime-colored accents.

  Inside, I’d hung paintings of ice cream concoctions along the brick wall. My BFF, Willow, had made them, since in addition to being the most phenomenal yoga instructor in the Hudson
Valley, she also happened to be an amazingly talented artist. On one, Willow had painted a gigantic ice cream cone; on the second, a banana split; and on the third, a huge ice cream sandwich.

  The colorful, almost cartoonish artwork was the perfect accompaniment to the glass display counters, technically called dipping cabinets, that ran across the opposite wall, showing off the vats of ice cream I whipped up in back. To me, Willow’s paintings were a symbol of her confidence in me to succeed at creating a business based on one of the things I loved most in the world.

  But even better than the paintings of ice cream on Lickety Splits’ walls was the real ice cream. That, of course, was what it was all about.

  I planned to offer three basic types of ice cream flavors. The first type was the classics, like chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, and coffee, but I was going to make them so rich and so flavorful that they were guaranteed to be the best version anyone had ever tasted. My Classic Tahitian Vanilla served as the perfect example, since it truly was made with vanilla that had come all the way from Polynesia.

  The second type reflected my own take on the slightly more adventuresome flavors that were popping up everywhere. Hawaiian Coconut that was made with actual strands of fresh coconut and big chunks of macadamia nut. Caramel Sea Salt that had ribbons of luscious caramel running through. Peanut Butter on the Playground, consisting of peanut butter ice cream made with freshly ground peanuts and sweetened with generous globs of grape jelly.

  The third type, which I was most excited about, consisted of my very own creations. The idea of being able to express my love of ice cream in unique ways was what made my heart pound and my head spin as I lay awake nights, thinking up fun and delicious new flavors. Strawberry Rhubarb? I couldn’t wait to make it, especially since I intended to add bits of piecrust pastry to make it just like the ever-popular pie. S’mores? Chocolate ice cream dotted with chocolate chips, little chocolate marshmallows, and broken-up pieces of graham cracker. Cashew ice cream? Kahlua and Chocolate? Cheddar cheese? Goat cheese?

  Why not?

  The shop I was lucky enough to rent was ideal, with every feature I could possibly want. The place was so perfect, in fact, that I figured I could learn to live with having the despicable Ashley Winthrop and her bakery right across the street.

  In a flash, all that had changed. The fact that once again, Ashley had found a way to wedge herself between me and my latest dream was making my head feel as if it were about to explode.

  I was still staring at that sign, thinking that there was probably so much steam coming out of my ears that it was going to melt all the ice cream, when the customer who’d ordered the Hudson’s Hottest Hot Fudge Sundae I’d been in the midst of concocting cleared his throat. Loudly.

  “Uh, excuse me?” he said. “Is that sundae about ready?”

  “I’m so, so sorry,” I said, snapping back into the moment. I glanced over at the young man standing on the other side of the counter, wearing a loud tie-dye T-shirt and sporting a long ponytail. He looked as if he was on the verge of experiencing severe chocolate withdrawal.

  “Let me just add the cherry,” I told him, then proceeded to do exactly that.

  At the moment, there were no other customers in line. Not that the place wasn’t buzzing. Five out of my six tables had customers at them, making a total of ten customers. Six were devouring ice cream cones, sampling a variety of flavors that ranged from simple Divine Chocolate to one of my more exotic offerings for the day, Honey Lavender.

  Three of the customers had gone for more complex ice cream treats. A teenage girl with very cool purple eyeglasses was wolfing down a Bananafana Split, made with slices of frozen chocolate-covered bananas piled up on top. Her friend, sitting across the table from her, was alternating between slowly sipping the ice-cold soda in her Rootin’-Tootin’ Root Beer Float and sucking up small spoonfuls of the baseball-size chunk of Classic Tahitian Vanilla ice cream floating in it. From the looks of things, she was savoring every mouthful with such deliberation that she was going to make it last for at least another half hour. And number ten, well, he was the happy recipient of the hot fudge sundae I’d just concocted, now sitting at a table by himself. From what I could see, he’d already snarfed down a good third of it, dribbling just a tiny bit of Salty ’n Sweet Chocolate Syrup with Bacon onto his tie-dye shirt. Fortunately, it blended right in.

  The fact that there were no other customers for me to serve at the moment gave me a chance to concentrate on my hatred of Ashley Winthrop.

  “Do you know what I’m going to do?” I said, turning to Willow. “I’m going to march right over there and tell that stupid Ashley that—”

  “Don’t do it,” Willow said, grabbing my arm as if to demonstrate that she was prepared to use physical force to stop me if necessary. And trust me, yoga instructors have a surprising amount of upper body strength. “Kate, this is not the time to confront Ashley. You’d be better off waiting until you’ve had a chance to put all this into perspective.”

  “Perspective?” I repeated. “Perspective? Honestly, Willow, when is it going to end?”

  Surely nearly three decades of enduring Ashley Winthrop was enough. And she really had been tormenting me for that long.

  It had all started back in kindergarten. It was probably early October when my teacher, Ms. Trautman, invited us five-year-olds to delve into the exciting new world of finger paints. Even then I was a sucker for bright colors, and I could hardly wait to get my hands on those big plastic jars of paint—in particular, the yellow.

  So as soon as we donned our smocks, I made a beeline for the jar that was the color of daffodils. But Ashley, barely out of Huggies, beat me to it. She appeared from out of nowhere, her pale blond ponytail bobbing behind her as she darted in front of me and grabbed the last jar of yellow before I’d even reached the art supplies table.

  That was just the beginning. In second grade, she stole away my very first boyfriend ever, Skippy Nolan, an impressive young gentleman who’d risen to instant popularity the moment he’d demonstrated his ability to turn his eyelids inside out. Ashley had beaten me in our fifth grade’s annual Spelling Bee Extravaganza, looking infuriatingly smug as she stepped up to the podium to correctly spell the word “ignominious” right after I’d foolishly misspelled “enemy,” a word I could spell in my sleep but that for some ridiculous reason I’d begun by saying “E-M . . .” and sealing my fate.

  By high school, Ashley had graduated to Most Popular. She was homecoming queen, captain of the cheerleading squad, class president both our junior and senior years . . . you get the picture. And she never passed up a single opportunity to use the power she got from being queen bee to make my life more difficult. She would make a cutting joke about my outfit in front of a group of giggling girls, go out of her way to flirt with a boy I had a crush on, and snatch away anything I wanted, from the best seat at the Class Talent Show to the highly coveted position of chair of the junior prom decorating committee.

  None of those gotchas compared to this.

  “But I have to do something,” I insisted. “This is a new low, even for Ashley.”

  “That’s certainly true,” Willow agreed. “She’s been jealous of you since day one, since she knows as well as any of us that the one thing she’s always lacked was a brain that’s half as good as yours.” She ran her hand through her pale blond hair in a short pixie cut, a style that was as practical as her outfit: a loose white T-shirt and stretchy black yoga pants. “But I have to admit that good old Ashcan has really outdone herself this time.”

  I appreciated my best friend’s use of our middle school nickname for my nemesis. But even that didn’t do much to improve my mood.

  “I mean, this goes beyond unethical,” I continued. “Not that it’s the first business decision she’s made that shows her true character. Look at her claim about the Mile-High Cupcake! The woman is guilty of false advertising! How can a cupcake be a mile high? It wouldn’t even be a cupcake anymore! It would be a—a tower c
ake! A spindly cake! A cupcake out of Ripley’s Believe It or Not! A monstrosity that would require cranes to build, and some kind of major support system to hold up—”

  “Deep, cleansing breaths,” Willow said in a soft, calming voice. “In, out . . .”

  But my breaths were coming too fast and furiously for me to control. In fact, they were more like snorts. And that steam was coming out of my ears again.

  “I don’t care what you say,” I announced to Willow. “I’m going over there right now.” As if to show how serious I was, I yanked out the ponytail band I’d been wearing to hold back my shoulder-length straight brown hair and tore off my black-and-white checked apron emblazoned in pink letters with “Lickety Splits Ice Cream Shoppe.”

  “Kate, she’s probably not even there,” Willow said, her tone pleading. “On a beautiful May afternoon like this one, she’s probably off . . . I don’t know, getting her nails done or something. At some fancy spa. In a gorgeous pastoral setting.”

  Just then, as if on cue, a sleek red Corvette pulled up in front of Sweet Things Pastry Palace and slid into the big parking space that happened to be free. The door opened, and who climbed out but Ashley Winthrop, Princess of the Pastry Palace, herself.

  I hurried over to the shop window to get a better look. Willow was a few feet behind me.

  While I hadn’t seen Ashley since high school—graduation day, in fact—I immediately saw that she’d barely changed in the past fifteen years. She was still tall, slim, and graceful, although the easy way she moved had always had as much to do with her extreme level of self-confidence as it did with any innate quality that a ballerina would envy. And she still had long blond hair. But she wasn’t wearing it the way she used to—in a long ponytail that she annoyingly let swing from side to side whenever she walked. Instead, it now hung down her back, straight but with just a hint of curl at the end. The woman was clearly no stranger to a curling iron.