Hot Fudge Frame-Up: A Fudge Shop Mystery by Christine DeSmet Page A

register with the dog in tow to tell Cody the horrible news.
    Cody’s gaze fell to the floor. He was just out of high school, with short red hair cut in a cute, spiky cap of fuzz that made him look younger than eighteen, even cherublike. Because he had Asperger’s, I knew from talking to Sam that Cody might be in a quandary as to how to react.
    “It’s okay, Ranger, if you don’t say anything. None of us knows what to say. But we can still smile at customers.”
    “Thanks.” He showed me a printout. “I did inventory when I got here. There’s a pink purse and a Cinderella doll missing.”
    “You’re sure?” It was ridiculous to ask, because Cody was meticulous. He liked things clean, shiny, and in their place. I remembered little Verona Klubertanz and her friends in the shop yesterday. Verona had clutched a doll with her sticky fudge fingers and Bethany had to ask her to put it down. I’d have to ask Pauline if Verona or other girls showed up at summer school today with the doll.
    Professor Faust came back in to collect the rest of his books. His gray hair stood out every which way in tufts after being mussed from the harbor breezes. I gave him the news about Lloyd.
    Alex set his books back down. “How horrible. And unfortunate timing. I talked with your village president only yesterday about the Duck Marsh Street properties.”
    “Why?”
    “The cabins have historical significance. I told Erik that he should ask for a delay of the sale of the properties until the village can join forces with the historic preservation society. The village needs to take a closer look and be involved with preserving rather than destroying.”
    “When did you talk with Erik?”
    “It was a brief conversation in the morning. It was after the ruckus here. I had turned my car onto Main Street and seen Erik coming out of the coffee shop, so I pulled over. I told him saving the cabins instead of allowing Lloyd to demolish them could create a tourist attraction. It should be possible to trace the ownership back to the original Swedes, Finns, and Belgians who built them in the 1800s. I suggested to Erik that perhaps Lloyd had already done those title searches and somebody should ask him to provide that information to the public.”
    “You don’t think the preservation society would sue Lloyd, do you?”
    “Perhaps. I have to be honest—that would be my advice. History is important to me.”
    This type of pressure might have pushed Lloyd to take his own life. With trepidation, I asked, “What was Lloyd’s reaction to this?”
    “I didn’t talk with him about this specifically. I suspected Lloyd was intent on selling the properties, so it’d do me no good to get in some argument. We had to get along as judges, after all, for your fudge contest. But Erik agreed with me and felt honoring the stories behind the cabins could be a historically significant project for Fishers’ Harbor. He said he’d speak with Lloyd. I was going to speak with Lloyd today. God rest his soul.”
    “But this notion of preserving the cottages can’t be new.”
    “You’re correct. Many months back when I was researching my cookbook’s chapter on Door County, I discovered Lloyd owned a lot of real estate and knew a lot of history about the area. I heard about Lloyd’s offer to buy the Blue Heron Inn if he could scrape together the money. It’s an unfortunate irony that as he’s about to buy the inn where a death occurred, his own death occurs. It’s like the Blue Heron Inn is jinxed.”
    A prickly unease crawled over me because Lloyd had been so joyous about me moving into the empty inn.
    I excused myself to find my grandfather, taking Lucky Harbor with me.
    Once outside, the brown dog skittered fast down the wooden planks of our pier, heading straight for
Sophie’s Journey
. He leaped over the boat’s railing, then disappeared inside. As I got closer, I could see him inside the open cabin, licking my grandfather’s face. The dog then launched