Murder with a Cherry on Top Page 4

  And in both those scenarios, there would be the problem of forcing her to relocate. Grams loved Wolfert’s Roost. She’d lived there for five decades, ever since she’d married my grandfather, the love of her life, and become my true life example of Living Happily Ever After. I didn’t remember him well, since I’d been pretty young when he’d passed away. But I did remember him as a kind, gentle man who always had a smile and a hug for his granddaughters.

  Of course, in those days, the town didn’t have the colorful name Wolfert’s Roost. When Grams moved there—and, in fact, the whole time I was growing up—it had had the same name it had since it was founded in 1699: Modderplaatz. That’s right, Modderplaatz.

  If you think it’s bad in English, it’s even worse in Dutch. Modder means “mud” and plaatz means “place.” That’s right, my hometown’s original name means “muddy place.”

  My high school yearbook was called Modderplaatz Memories. Our football team was the Modderplaatz Monsters. And even though we all got teased by kids from places with more normal names, it never occurred to anyone to change any of it.

  At least, not until 1996 when the residents of another Hudson Valley town, about an hour’s drive south, voted to change the name of their village from the workaday North Tarrytown to Sleepy Hollow. Making the name cuter was an attempt at improving its economy, mainly by attracting tourists.

  The cute new name came from a story by Washington Irving called “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.” Irving, who also wrote the famous short story “Rip Van Winkle,” lived in Tarrytown. He used the place he called home as the setting for his famous tale about Sleepy Hollow, which featured the terrifying Headless Horseman as well as a considerably more sympathetic character, the nerdy schoolmaster Ichabod Crane.

  It’s hard to know if changing the name helped North Tarrytown in any way besides creating a boom in the map-making industry, not to mention the local folks who were lucky enough to print up business cards and personalized stationery. But it sure put a bee in the bonnet of the residents of Modderplaatz, who suddenly decided that their own town’s name could use some improving, too.

  And taking advantage of the Hudson Valley’s most famous writer seemed like the way to go. (The second most famous is probably James Fenimore Cooper, author of The Last of the Mohicans, a great work of literature that these days is commonly used to torture schoolchildren.) A bit of research revealed that another one of Irving’s great works, a collection of short stories, had the charming title Wolfert’s Roost, and Miscellanies.

  Wolfert Acker was a real person from the colonial period. He was born in Brooklyn but moved to Irvington. During his life he worked in government, serving as an advisor to Peter Stuyvesant, who was head of the Dutch colony of New Netherland until it became British and was renamed New York. Acker named his Hudson Valley homestead Wolfert’s Roost, which, in Dutch, actually means “Wolfert’s Rest.”

  Washington Irving clearly liked the name, since he called his own home Wolfert’s Roost and used that name in the title of his story collection. I guess the powers that be in Modderplaatz decided that if the name was good enough for both an advisor to Peter Stuyvesant and the area’s best-known writer, it was good enough for them. In 2005, Modderplaatz became Wolfert’s Roost. And no one seemed the least bit bothered by the fact that the real Wolfert’s Roost was more than an hour away.

  It’s hard to know how much of an impact the name change actually had. A couple of months after the name change, a major arts center opened on the edge of town. I have a feeling that that had an even bigger influence on the town. The arts center was what started bringing in the tourists . . . and, not far behind the day-trippers, the upscale restaurants, the browse-able shops, and irresistible enticements like Annoying Ashley’s bakery, and of course, Lickety Splits.

  But even with the inevitable changes that force their way into every town, bringing about the demise of favorite hardware stores and run-down but convenient little grocery stores, this one was still the place Grams loved the best. The place she belonged. It was her home.

  Which meant that once again it had to become my home.

  I’d just begun fantasizing about pretending I was in the Witness Protection Program—changing my name, dyeing my hair a different color, acting as if I didn’t recognize Ashley or Jake or even Willow—as I pulled into the driveway of 59 Sugar Maple Way after dropping the milk and cream off at my shop. My stomach was in knots from thinking about creative ways to make my homecoming more palatable.

  But then the front door of the house opened and Grams stepped out onto the porch, wearing a big welcoming smile. She was dressed in her usual at-home attire, a pair of black sweatpants and a bright, flowered, cotton blouse. Her hair, which she’d only let go gray about eight years ago, hung in a sharply cut pageboy, neatly framing her face.

  The knots in my stomach instantly turned into limp pieces of rope. They got even droopier when, seconds later, I got another warm greeting as Digger, Grams’s half-crazed but infinitely lovable terrier mix, came racing across the front lawn toward me. His dark brown eyes were so bright and his tail was wagging so furiously that you’d think I was a real-life version of Rip Van Winkle, showing up after having slept for twenty years, suddenly up and around and badly in need of a very large latte.

  Okay, I told myself. So maybe it really isn’t that bad being back in Wolfert’s Roost.

  “Hey, Digger!” I cried, crouching down to scratch the sides of his head, knowing it was something he absolutely adored. “How’s my favorite doggie?” And then, giving in to the irresistible urge to resort to baby talk, I added, “Whooza sweetest doggie in the world? Who? Oh, yes, it’s Digger. Digger’s the sweetest doggie in the world!”

  He was in a state of complete ecstasy, first struggling to jump up and lick my face, then lying on his back, hoping for a tummy scratching. All in all, it was quite a scene.

  I glanced up and grinned at Grams, who stood poised atop the three long stairs that led up to the porch and were cut in half by a wooden ramp we’d had installed right after her fall.

  “I thought I heard your car pulling up, Katydid,” Grams said. “Of course, Digger’s endless barking was another clue that you’d come home.”

  Home. There was that word again. The stressors of the day were seeming more and more remote. Being back here at Grams’s house, the place I’d called home ever since I was five years old and my father passed away, felt as good as climbing into a king-size bed and pulling a huge, fluffy comforter over my entire body—with a dish piled high with macaroni and cheese and a big bowl of Triple Chocolate Chaos ice cream sitting on the night table.

  The house even looked like the perfect place to grow up in. Who wouldn’t instantly fall in love with such a grand, three-story Victorian?

  At least it used to be grand. It was built in the late 1880s, a time when the brand new inventions of Alexander Graham Bell and Thomas Edison were starting to seep into day-to-day life, playing croquet was all the rage, and the Wild West was still pretty darned wild. Coca-Cola, elevators, and ballpoint pens were all brand new phenomena, helping to create modern life as we still know it.

  And the house at 59 Sugar Maple Way reflected all the romance and promise of that era. It had a lovely porch running along the entire front, perfect for wiling away long, lazy summer afternoons with lemonade and a good book. A charming turret jutted out of the center, with a conical roof that, to me, had always looked like a giant ice cream cone. And according to family legend, the house had always been painted bright yellow. The story went that my great-great-great-grandfather, who’d had it built, had insisted to the builder that it be made a color that was “mellow.” The builder had misheard, and . . . well, the rest is history.

  These days, the house at 59 Sugar Maple Way still had a dignified presence, but it was definitely showing its age. The porch sagged so badly that it looked as if it might simply collapse anytime it felt like it. The yellow paint was chipped in some spots, and the window frames were cracked
. They seemed to be crying, “Strip me! Repaint me! Or better yet, replace me!” The front yard was a patchwork of scraggly grass and weeds. I always hoped that if people didn’t look too closely it would simply look green.

  Yet even in its somewhat dilapidated state, the house had plenty of homey touches. There were three mismatched rocking chairs on the porch—one wicker with a tear in the back, one with peeling blue paint, and one that was just plain old wood. I’d spent hours rocking in those chairs as a kid, reading or playing word games with my sisters or just staring up at the clouds and daydreaming. Each rocker was adorned with a needlepoint pillow of a different type of flower, all of them made by Grams. They all showed signs of wear and were faded by the sun. “Just like me,” Grams liked to joke.

  Flowerpots of different sizes and vintages were lined up along the banister, housing a colorful profusion of flowers. Gauzy curtains peeked out from the windows and there was a wreath of dried flowers hanging on the front door, another creation of Grams’s. The welcome mat lying outside the door featured a black silhouette of a cat with the words “Wipe Your Paws.”

  As soon as I walked inside, the feline who was the inspiration for the clever welcome mat predictably came running over to me. Chloe may have been aging, but she hadn’t lost her need for connection with humans. Unlike some cats, she thrived on companionship. In fact, I used to joke to Grams that Chloe had obviously been receiving instruction from Digger.

  As for that other furry little being, he was still at my side, clearly not ready for me to shift my attention away from him—especially to a cat, even though if there was an actual showdown, he would invariably be the one to back down.

  “Hey, you two!” I cried. I crouched down to return their greeting with as much enthusiasm as they’d shown me.

  “How nice that you’re home early so I get to spend more time with you,” Grams said. “Besides, on most nights, when you get home you’re so worn out from the long day that you can barely talk.”

  I couldn’t disagree. Starting my new business had required me to work, work, work every waking hour. Some nonwak-ing hours, as well, since I often dreamed about possible new flavors or better ways to arrange things in the shop. So I was really looking forward to a quiet evening at home.

  I let out a deep sigh as I walked inside, following Grams. I loved every inch of that house, just as I had since I was small. It felt so cozy, as if it were wrapping its big arms around you from the moment you stepped inside.

  The front faced south, which meant that bright sunlight streamed through all day, even in winter. It had large windows, too, curved bay windows in both the living room and dining room that started about waist high and ran all the way up, almost to the ceiling.

  The furnishings were old-fashioned, comfortably worn, and always inviting. The dark red velvet couch with the gold carved feet, the dusty overstuffed chairs, the huge, heavy dining room table with six tall chairs . . . everything in it was designed to feel welcoming.

  And Grams’s signature was present in every room, just as it was on the house’s exterior. In fact, that’s what I’d always loved most about the place. Draped along the back of the velvet couch was an afghan that Grams had crocheted decades earlier, a startling combination of orange, lime green, and gold that screamed, “This was the seventies!” Four more needlepoint pillows were crowded along the back.

  In front of the living room’s overstuffed easy chair was a footstool she’d created, using the rug-hooking technique. On it was a picture of a house, complete with a green lawn and a bright yellow sun. Hanging on the walls were half a dozen of Grams’s patchwork quilts, all of them reflecting her love of color and eye-pleasing geometric design.

  And sprinkled throughout the house were the partially completed craft projects that Grams seemed to work on nonstop. Lying on the couch was a stack of patchwork squares in pastel shades, soft pinks and pale blues and apple greens that would eventually be combined to make a full-size quilt. Her latest knitting project, a purple scarf that looked as if it were made of pieces of popcorn, sat on the dining room table, sealed up in a bag to keep curious cats away. A shoe box on an end table contained antique buttons that waited to be turned into a necklace, using a new technique she’d read about in a craft magazine.

  In addition to all the signs of Grams’s creativity, there were also three curio cabinets that displayed the souvenirs she had picked up during her many travels. A tiki God from Tahiti, colorful hand-painted wooden animals from Mexico, ceramic pitchers and vases from Greece and Portugal and Turkey . . . In fact, her love of travel was what inspired me to do as much globe-trotting as I could, once I had the time and the money.

  Even though it was early, I was already hungry. I set about making dinner as Grams sat at the kitchen table, peeling vegetables and slicing cheese.

  “How was your day?” Grams asked as she attacked a carrot. “And how did you ever manage to get away so early, even though this is still Lickety Splits’ first week?”

  “Willow took over for me,” I explained, glancing over from the stove. “She’s turned out to be such a great help.”

  “It was certainly nice of her to give you the rest of the day off,” Grams commented. “I’m sure you’re exhausted. This has been some week!”

  I was silent for a few seconds, wondering if I should tell her about the return of Ashley Winthrop in my life, suddenly showing up the way she did, as welcome and as unexpected as a canker sore. After all, Grams had been hearing about Ashcan my entire life—and offering soothing words and promises that one day, that girl would get what she deserved.

  Instead, I launched into a report of all the good things that had happened at the shop that day. The customer who had ordered a Peanut Butter on the Playground ice cream cone and liked it so much she’d ordered two quarts to bring home so her kids could try it. The young man who’d ordered a Bananafana Split, mumbling something about how he was celebrating, then stuck a twenty-dollar bill in the tip jar after explaining that what he was celebrating was that he’d just proposed to his girlfriend and she’d said yes.

  It wasn’t until Grams and I had sat down to dessert that I brought up the other noteworthy encounter I’d had that day. Somehow, in order to get the words out, I needed to be seated in front of a big bowl of Cappuccino Crunch ice cream slathered with Bittersweet Chocolate Syrup that had been laced with espresso, a new topping I was experimenting with.

  “So here’s something else interesting that happened today,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Guess who’s living back in Wolfert’s Roost again.”

  “I can’t begin to imagine, Katydid,” Grams replied. She seemed much more focused on licking her spoon, which was coated with my newly concocted chocolate-with-espresso syrup. I had a feeling I’d come up with a winner. “An old friend, I hope?”

  I screwed up my face, not sure if the person I was speaking of would exactly fall into that category.

  “Jake Pratt,” I replied.

  “Really.”

  Grams knew the whole story, of course. After all, she’d been the primary witness to my two-year romance with Jake. Every day of my junior and senior years, I bounded home from school. Over milk and cookies, usually homemade cookies she’d just taken out of the oven, she’d listen to every detail of what had happened with Jake that day. The clever thing he’d said in history class, the funny poster he’d put on his locker, the way he’d won the baseball game against Rhinebeck High by hitting the ball out of the park.

  She’d heard about the bad stuff, too. The occasional quarrels, the disappointment when he’d forgotten our six-month anniversary, the time I got crazy-jealous when Ashley started making comments, extremely loudly, about what a hunk Jake Pratt had become now that he was almost six feet tall.

  And of course, Grams had been right at my side on prom night.

  I still remembered every detail of that evening in May. The spring air had wafted through the screens on the windows, a sure sign that the school year was almost over and summer
was coming. I’d spent hours getting dressed. My primping had started with a mani-pedi and a haircut with styling at Lotsa Locks. Then came a long bubble bath. Finally, I’d spent enough time putting on makeup that you’d have thought I was getting ready for the opening night of Cats.

  Most important of all, of course, was The Dress. I’d spent weeks shopping for it, certain that it had to be the perfect dress for the perfect night. When I’d finally found The Dress, after my hundredth shopping spree with Willow, I put it on in my bedroom and came out to model it for Grams.

  It was long and flowing, but cut so well that it expertly accented the gentle curves of my seventeen-year-old body. It was strapless, my first and last strapless dress. And I adored the color, a pale blue that was the same shade as the sky on a perfect day. I liked to think of it as the color of Jake’s eyes.

  I already knew how special that dress was. But even so, I needed to hear it from Grams.

  “Katydid, it’s absolutely lovely!” she had cooed. “It looks like it was made for you!” She had actually gotten tears in her eyes.

  “Grams, why are you crying?” I’d demanded.

  “Because my little Katydid is all grown up,” she had replied.

  At age seventeen, that was exactly what I wanted to hear.

  The night of the prom, I put the dress on again, and Grams teared up all over again. But an hour later, I was shedding tears of my own. And they had nothing to do with the dress or being happy.

  Jake never showed.

  Not only did he stand me up on prom night. He vanished.

  That’s right, he vanished. He’d left town. No one ever saw him again. No phone call, no note, not even a Hallmark card.

  Not a single word of explanation, much less an apology for ruining what was supposed to be the best night of my high school career.

  No apology for ruining my entire life, either.

  Of course I was devastated. Also, angry and hurt and confused and a whole bunch of other things, not one of them positive.

  I hadn’t heard a single word from Jake since that night, fifteen years ago. I had heard, through the grapevine, that while he’d left Wolfert’s Roost, he hadn’t left the planet. He was alive and well. He was just alive and well somewhere else.