Read Online Five-Alarm Fudge by Christine DeSmet - Free Book Online

everything was on sale.
    “This can’t be. Milton Hendrickson’s retiring? Grandpa never said a thing. We have to go in and find out what’s going on.”
    We left Lucky Harbor outside, his leash hooked over a small gateway post that marked the few steps of flower-lined walkway to the bookshop door.
    The store was aptly named because Milton looked like an owl. He wore eyeglasses that sported round, dark frames. The only remaining white hair he had stood out in a tuft on each side of his head, much like a horned owl’s feathers.
    Milton was in the back shuffling through old maps and documents. His bookstore was filled with a variety of objects in addition to books. He had at least a dozen old globes, and wooden chests on the floor filled with undecipherable old tools. The place smelled of the pleasant musk of an attic and old books.
    “Mr. Hendrickson,” I called out. He was hard of hearing and refused to wear a hearing aid. “Are you really retiring?”
    “Oh, hello, Ava.” He turned too fast, his shaky hands fumbling and dropping the stack of documents. The papers—all yellowed—skated around us on the dark wood floor. We helped him pick them up.
    I handed back my stack. “Is anybody taking over the shop for you?”
    “Some gal by the name of Jane Goodland is coming tomorrow afternoon. Driving over from Green Bay.”
    “That’s good, then. We need a bookstore.”
    “Oh dear. I’m sorry to disappoint you.” He exhaled a withering breath. “She said she was looking for office space. She’s a lawyer.”
    “Oh no. This has to stay a bookstore.” Memories were bubbling inside me. “This is where we stopped with Grandma and Grandpa every Christmas to buy books from you. What will I do for Christmas now?”
    He gave me a quirky grin. “Maybe reread those old books?”
    I had to laugh. “Maybe you’re right. It’s been a while since I dug out my childhood books.” An idea popped intomy head. “Do you still have picture books and early readers?”
    “Around the corner, near the floor. All half price.”
    I found them and scooped them up, taking them to the register. I explained to Dillon, “For Pauline. She has a baker’s dozen of kindergartners this year and she’s always in search of Christmas gifts. This year they’ll all get a book, and of course my fudge.”
    Dillon’s arms were full of what looked like old maps, architectural renderings of the outsides of buildings, and blueprints.
    I asked, “Did you find something interesting?”
    He laughed. “I’m hoping to find the blueprints for the Blue Heron Inn. It might help us solve the wiring issue.”
    I liked the sound of “us.”
    We took our bags of purchases, got takeout from the bar, and then ate our burgers and fried cheese curds on the dock in front of Oosterlings’ Live Bait, Bobbers & Belgian Fudge & Beer.
    Dillon took off later with his dog to go back to the inn. He stayed in the downstairs suite. Since I couldn’t pay him much, I gave him the free room there. By Thanksgiving I’d be moving in and Dillon would find a condo.
    I relieved Cody, who went to pick up his girlfriend, Bethany. She was in rehearsals for a play at the American Folklore Theater at the nearby park.
    I made fudge until about eight o’clock that night, setting out pink loaves of Cinderella Pink Fudge on the white marble table near the window to cool overnight.
    By the time I was done with the loafing, I thought I’d feel restored. But I wasn’t.
    My head was in a stew about the knife, Fontana, and Grandma.
    I went home to my cabin. It was about thirty feet across the lawn behind the fudge shop. My resident field mouse, Titus, scurried under the couch as usual when I came in. I left a nibble of fried cheese curd on the floor for him and then went to bed.
    The next morning at seven thirty, back in my shop, I wascutting the pink fudge when my phone buzzed in my apron pocket.
    My mother was screeching on the other end of the line. I set the fudge cutter