Not much had changed at the Udderly Delightful Ice Cream Shop since I worked there in high school. The building was rustic and homey looking on the outside, but the kitchen where Buzzy crafted small batches of ice cream was sterile like a lab, with bright white walls, porcelain sinks, a black-and-white-checkerboard linoleum floor, and stainless-steel tanks and mixers. One wall was covered with chalkboard paint, and across the top in a rainbow of slightly smudged letters was one of Buzzy’s favorite inspirational quotes: “Bloom where you’re planted.”
After we’d put the milk and cream delivery into the industrial-size refrigerators, Flo and Willow lined up in front of me, Willow in a swirling sundress, Flo dressed in a sunny yellow T-shirt, jeans, and spotless white sneakers she’d threaded with yellow laces. Her reading glasses swung from a lanyard of primary-color beads. “What do we do now?” Flo said.
What do we do? I wanted to say, You’ve been working here longer than I have, but I stopped myself. Everyone was used to Buzzy, larger-than-life Buzzy, telling them what to do.
“We’ll keep things going until Caroline gets on her feet,” I said. “We finished all the ice cream in the dipping cabinets yesterday. Willow, will you please restock from the storage freezers in back?”
“Got it.” Willow dashed down the hallway, skirt whirling.
A teenage guy ran in through the workroom door. He was about my height (5′ 8″) but seemed to be all arms and legs, with shaggy brown shoulder-length hair and a wisp of beginner moustache. He wore baggy cargo shorts, a neon green T-shirt printed with a picture of crossed drumsticks that read Weapons of Mass Percussion, and a set of expensive headphones looped around his neck. He startled when he saw me and stopped short.
“Hi,” I said. “What’s your name?”
“Ah, Brandon Terwilliger?” His voice went up at the end of the sentence, as if he were asking a question. I hid a smile.
“Brandon, I’m Riley. I’m helping out today. Please make sure the napkin dispensers are full and the cups and spoons are fully stocked, then start the waffle cones.”
Brandon pushed his thick black-rimmed glasses up his nose and dashed to the front of the store.
“You don’t have to run!” I took a deep breath. Things were only going to get more complicated and, well, awful, as the days and police investigation went on. Keeping things normal, or as normal as possible, was key.
I considered how not normal my life had been for the last few years. I hated the word “spy”—I know, I know, semantics. Though I understood that the ramifications of my missions were serious, my tasks were simple. Compartmentalizing was key. I’d need that skill here. The busy pace of an ice cream shop would keep my mind occupied and the awful image of Mike’s body at bay.
Getting Udderly up and running was something I could do. I’d worked here many summers as a teenager. The staff just needed someone to take charge until Caroline could hire a manager. I squared my shoulders to project confidence.
Willow pushed a cart loaded with tubs of ice cream to the front of the store.
“Willow, when you’re done with those, please write the chalkboards.” We listed the ever-changing flavors on two chalkboards—one we set outside, one hung over the counter.
“Got it.”
“Flo.” I turned to Flo.
“Ma’am, yes, ma’am,” Flo saluted.
I laughed. “Can you take a look at what Willow’s putting out and what’s left in storage? Take inventory? Then we can make a plan for what flavors to make next.”
“Right,” she said. “And check the special-events orders.”
My stomach dropped. “Special-events orders?”
Flo nodded. “Buzzy took special orders for parties.”
Ah, the first monkey wrench. “Where did she keep those orders?”
Flo scurried to the office, which, instead of having a door had a beaded-curtain in rainbow colors. She parted the curtain and flicked on the light. I followed, my eyes widening when I realized Buzzy had redecorated her office: the walls were painted purple and angel and cow figurines filled several shelves. An antique rolltop desk was covered with stacks of papers. I flicked through them.
“Are these all,” I gulped, “bills?”
Flo shrugged. “I only help at the counter and in the kitchen. Buzzy put special orders on there.” Flo pointed to a calendar on the wall, the old-fashioned kind that had a single number on a page that you ripped away every day. My heart caught as I realized the date hadn’t been changed since the day Buzzy died. I’d never change it. Ripping off those pages would be like ripping open a wound.
I could tell Flo felt the same way. She stepped back, so I flipped through the calendar. On today’s date, in purple ink, Buzzy had written in her looping script: “Two gallons of margarita for Debra Jo Burnette’s bachelorette party.”
My eyebrows raised. “Margarita ice cream?”
“One of her new boozy ice cream recipes,” Flo said. “It’s really a sorbet she called the Ultimate Frozen Margarita. It’s a big moneymaker.”
Boozy ice cream? I shook my head. “If we don’t have it in the freezer, I hope the recipe is in the Book of Spells.” That was what Buzzy called her binder of recipes, which was kept on a table by the chalkboard.
Buzzy had reveled in using creative ingredients. “Margarita,” I muttered under my breath. “Please take care of that inventory and see if we have the margarita made already.” Please be ready.
Flo pointed at the lowest drawer of the desk. “Okay, right after I get the cash register ready. The money’s in the box.”
I pulled open the drawer and lifted a dented metal cash box. “Some high-tech security system here.”
“Oh, don’t worry, Riley, it’s locked.” Flo jutted her chin at a lanyard with a circle of metal keys hanging behind the door. “It’s the smallest one.”
I fitted the key and opened the box. It was stuffed with stacks of wrinkled bills and a few rolls of change. I flashed to the money in the jar Mike had taken from the shop. I hadn’t seen it in the Love Nest. That’s what was missing.
Where was the money jar? Had Mike been killed for a few hundred dollars? Had he been killed in a robbery gone wrong? I’d have to tell the police. But wait Riley, then why was Mike killed in the barn? And what about that note?
Flo patted my arm. “You’re lost in thought, Riley. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Flo,” I said. “You live up the lane. Did you see or hear anything unusual last night?”
She shook her head. “I’ve been asking myself that over and over. It was quiet as usual. Heard some cars, but Farm Lane’s a cut-through. I slept like a log.”
I went to the front of the shop and placed the money in the cash register. It was the same one I’d used all those summers years ago. Like so much here, the shop was frozen in time. Even the muffled sound of the customers waiting to come in seemed the same, and the scent of the waffle cones freshly made.…
I called, “Brandon, how are the waffle cones coming?”
No answer. I went into the kitchen where Brandon was bopping to music on his headphones as he rolled waffle cones on metal forms. They were all perfectly golden. When he noticed me and jumped, I gave him a smile and a thumbs-up.
Back in the shop, Willow had all the tubs of ice cream open in the dipping cabinets, the flavors arranged in rainbow order, making a wonderfully colorful display. I glanced at the clock. We opened at eleven. Ten minutes to go.
On the chalkboard behind the counter, Willow had used an assortment of colors and stylish lettering to list all the flavors. She’d also decorated the borders with sunflowers and a sketch of a black and white goat. “Nice job, Willow” I said. “That goat’s adorable.”
“Thank you,” she brushed chalk dust from her fingers. “He’s one of my babies. We call him Hairy Houdini because he keeps escaping from his pen.”
Flo came into the shop waving a piece of paper. “Here’s an inventory. We need lots.” My heart dropped as Flo continued. “We’re wiped out because the shop’s been closed and no one’s been making ice cream since Buzzy passed. We do have butter pecan, mango tango, pineapple upside-down cake, salted caramel, raspberry chocolate chip, rocky road, cherry dark-chocolate chunk, bourbon-pecan praline, maple walnut, lemonade, and gluten free cookie dough, but we’re low on cookies and cream, funky monkey, brownie bomb, chocolate chip, and peanut butter cup crunch.” She drew a breath. “We have the stalwarts, thank goodness.” The “stalwarts” were chocolate and vanilla. “No margarita, and we need that margarita—remember. They’re picking up at seven—and we’ll have to get going on sunflower.”
“Sunflower?” I blinked.
Willow waved a hand, “Not till next weekend. That’s when we have the Penniman Sunflower Festival here on the farm. We’ll start making it this week.”
A vague memory surfaced. Caroline had mentioned something about a new flavor Buzzy had crafted for the town’s sunflower celebration.
“Ready to rumble.” Flo looped a purple apron over her head. Printed on the chest was the motto “Will Work for Ice Cream.” The clock ticked toward eleven.
Restless customers pressed against the door. I’d figure out the sunflower ice cream later. “Scoops?” I said.
Flo and Willow waved metal scoops.
Brandon carried out a metal rack of crisp, still-warm cones and set it on the counter behind us. The scent—buttery, sweet, with a hint of spicy vanilla—was intoxicating. If I could get through the day without devouring a dozen of these, it would be a victory.
“Okay, Brandon, open the doors and hang up the other ice cream board outside,” I said.
Brandon hefted the chalkboard and opened the door. As a tide of ice cream lovers surged through, a man with the broad shoulders of a linebacker lunged to the front of the line. His forehead wrinkled in an intense expression as he pushed toward Brandon. “You work here? Tom Snow, New England News Now. What can you tell me about the dead man in the barn?”
Brandon’s eyes went wide behind his glasses. He gripped the chalkboard like a shield and stumbled backward.
All the tension, sadness, and worry I’d managed to set aside as I prepared the shop to open surged back at Snow’s words. I turned my emotions to ice as I strode toward the newsman. “Brandon, please put the flavor board outside and then get behind the counter. Mr. Snow, was it? Step outside.” I took him by the upper arm and maneuvered him through the crowd.
Once outside in the parking lot past the line of customers waiting to enter, I loosened my grip. Snow gave me an aggrieved look, straightened his blue blazer, and ran a hand across his blond crew cut. “And you are?”
The length of the line surprised me, but so did the scene outside. Fairweather Road was not only lined with customers’ cars, but with news vans. An oversized news truck with a satellite rig was causing a bottleneck and horns honked as cars tried to edge around it.
A woman with a video camera stood by the rear hatch of a white SUV marked News Now, and to my horror, started filming.
I angled my body away from her.
Now that the camera was rolling, Snow’s behavior changed. His voice warmed and he leaned toward me with a deeply concerned expression. “We’ve heard that a man was found dead in a barn on Farm Lane. Do you know the dead man?”
I inhaled slowly as I gathered my thoughts.
News had traveled fast. Locals certainly already knew about Mike, and with all the reporters here, it wouldn’t be long before the ghoulish and curious flooded into the shop.
My mind flicked through possibilities.
I respect journalists, but this was too close to home and too soon to deal with. Although with every fiber of my being I wanted to kick this guy and his fake concern, I had to stay calm and give him just enough so he’d leave us alone.
“I’m a friend of the family that owns the ice cream shop,” I said. “You should talk to the police.”
“The police have blocked the road and the spokesman hasn’t made an official statement yet. Surely you’re in the know, working here.” He leaned closer, hoping his flattery would work. “Is the man connected to the Spooner family?”
“You’ll have to talk to the police.” I turned back toward the shop but Snow stepped in front of me.
“You’re opening the ice cream shop? Isn’t that a little cold?” He grinned. “Ha, ha, see what I did there?”
I took a steadying breath and narrowed my eyes. The camerawoman shook her head and coughed.
Snow cleared his throat. “Sorry, sorry. We’ll cut that.” The woman nodded.
“The owner passed away recently and the family wants to keep the shop open,” I said.
“Is there a connection between the owner’s death and the man in the barn?” Snow said.
“Of course not!” Inside my thoughts churned. A connection? Buzzy had died peacefully in her sleep. Mike, on the other hand … I couldn’t imagine much worse.
“And the tennis player, Angelica Miguel,” Snow said. “Do you know if she’s connected to the death? The police are on the lookout for her.”
Where was Angelica? Why couldn’t they find her?
Could she have killed Mike? Of course. It was obvious. She’d seen him talking to Emily Weinberg at the funeral. That note … had it been left by Emily? Had Angelica argued with Mike about another woman? Killed him in a fit of jealous rage?
The pitchfork. Angelica was an athlete with great upper-body strength. She’d be strong enough to wield that pitchfork. Or … had the killer murdered her too? And stolen her car?
I shuddered. I’d liked her. Tom Snow stared at me. He was waiting, knowing that I knew more than I was saying, but I wasn’t going to be anybody’s scoop.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” I said.
The camerawoman’s head swiveled around the parking lot. I’d bored her. Good. “I need to get back to work. Don’t bother any of my staff.” Could he? The shop was private property, right? “This is private property.”
At the end of the line, a lanky man watched us. He wore a black cowboy hat and was dressed in well-worn jeans and a denim jacket over a fitted black T-shirt. Silver gray hair peeked out from under his hat; he had a silver moustache and the warmest deep brown eyes. He was so out of place and handsome I did a double take. He glanced from me to Tom Snow. “You okay, little lady?”
Little lady? Sheesh. “I’ve got this.”
I turned to Tom Snow. “Good day.”
Did I just say good day? It felt good.
The cowboy touched the brim of his hat as I strode past. I shouldered through the crowd, ignoring their curious looks.
Was Angelica Miguel a murderer? Or was she a victim of the same person who’d killed Mike Spooner?