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

into the water to paddle for the shallower, reedy marsh area where he loved to catch frogs.
    My grandfather was covered in black oil, which was, as always, in his thick silver hair. His mood was as dark as his looks. With a mug of coffee in his gnarled hands, Gilpa sat at the small table bolted to the floor in the middle of the cabin. I sat down across from him. The trawler rocked on a wave that washed in from a passing speedboat.
    “Sorry about Lloyd, Gilpa.”
    He nodded, watching the dog plop about for frogs. Gilpa’s eyes were rheumy, the lids red. “His passing isn’t good at all.”
    “He was a good man.”
    “Did I ever tell you he got a hole in one at the golf course but never bragged about it?”
    “Yes, Gilpa. You were both in your twenties, I believe.”
    “Lloyd spent his entire life trying to get another hole in one.”
    “I saw him yesterday on his way to golf. He remembered I liked science. And he gave me cookbooks.”
    “He was kind to our family. He let us buy the house instead of renting. Same for the bait shop.”
    I’d heard the story before. Lloyd had bought the cabins and bait shop not long after college. He’d inherited money, but he’d always worked hard at odd jobs, saving every penny. After I was born and my grandparents moved off the farm, Lloyd sold them the house and shop. That’s how they came to transplant themselves from the Belgian community around Brussels and move here amid the Swedes and others of Fishers’ Harbor. I suspected the deal’s terms had been generous; my grandparents had been poor, and still weren’t all that well off.
    “Gilpa, do you want me to put up a sign inside that there are no more fishing excursions today or this weekend?”
    “No, Ava honey. Just like that dog, I need to be in the water. Lloyd would want me to get that ‘hole in one’ today. He used to always catch bigger fish than me, too. He was good at everything.”
    “So are you, Gilpa.”
    He gestured toward the back of the boat. “Not with these damn engines. Hunks of metal are defeating me today.”
    “Maybe Lloyd left you a pile of money and you can buy yourself a new boat finally, one with big, shiny new engines.”
    “Oh, I doubt that. Libby’s getting it all, I’m sure, or a big share of it. He loved her still, you know.”
    “I think she still loved him, too. Which confuses me when I think of him committing suicide right where Libby worked. He wouldn’t do that to her if he loved her.” But doubt nagged me. “Would he?”
    Grandpa sipped his coffee. “Your grandma says he treated Libby with a raw deal, but divorce and bachelorhood suited Lloyd. He just liked doing things without consulting others. He always was a private man.”
    “He told P.M. and me that he was signing a contract with somebody tonight. Do you know who that was?”
    “You mean the buyer for Duck Marsh Street and your cabin? He wouldn’t even tell me. But I respected that. His business was his business; my business is mine. We Belgians don’t go sticking our noses into other people’s affairs. We don’t need trouble. The Old Country taught us that in World War Two. Gotta stay neutral.”
    “But Belgium was overrun by everybody, Grandpa. It wasn’t that they were just neutral. It was that the Belgians chose not to get in a fight.”
    “Which makes me wonder about you.”
    “In what way?”
    “Those goofy fudge makers of yours fighting like that yesterday in your shop was a shameful thing.”
    His scolding was given with love. I said, “I won’t let it happen again.”
    “Good. I understand that P.M.’s boyfriend stirred up this batch of fun called the fudge contest, but don’t let the doofus turn it into a circus, honey. You let guys run your life before on that little TV series and don’t get me started on you-know-who.” He meant Dillon Rivers. “A.M. and P.M. are my favorite superheroine duo. You have special powers and must rule your own life. Remember that.” He winked at me.
    I winked