Game of Cones

Book 4: Lickety Splits Mystery

by Cynthia Baxter

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

In Cynthia Baxter's fourth Lickety Splits mystery, ice cream shoppe owner and amateur sleuth Kate McKay doesn't waffle around scooping up new clientele at a historic hotel, but her hopes
of becoming the Hudson Valley's reigning ice cream queen melt fast when murder checks in!
From the moment Kate arrives at the imposing Mohawk Mountain Resort, not even luggage brimming with hot fudge can sweeten her stay. Instead of savoring alone time with her on-again
boyfriend Jake and leading workshops on whipping together delectable frosty treats, she finds herself stranded at the isolated hotel with a small group of nutty characters—and a dead body.
When the corpse of wealthy cosmetics executive Bethany La Montaigne is suddenly found following a blackout, any of the five strangers trapped with Kate and Jake could be the killer. Chilled to
the core, Kate vows to discover whether the victim's mortal enemy was a smooth-talking playboy, bubbly millennial, mousy librarian, charming Englishman, or the Mohawk's creepy general manager …
Bethany's life was chock full of scandals and there's little doubt that someone refused to endure another taste. With just a sprinkling of clues, it's up to Kate to bring justice to a culprit who believes that revenge is a dish best served cold …

Release date: November 24, 2020

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

“This isn’t exactly my idea of a romantic getaway,” Jake mumbled, peering out the rain-splattered window of my truck.

I leaned closer to the steering wheel, struggling to focus on the curving road ahead of me. Given the sheeting rain, the ominously dark afternoon sky, the Wizard of Oz–style wind, and the thick mist that was threatening to turn into serious fog, I had to agree that this certainly wasn’t what either of us had expected.

The idea of spending a long weekend at the Mohawk Mountain Resort, an old-fashioned lakeside hideaway nestled in the Catskill Mountains just thirty miles away from our hometown, had sounded positively idyllic when I’d first gotten an email from the resort’s general manager a few months earlier. Growing up in the Hudson Valley, I had heard plenty about the historic hotel that had been a popular retreat since the mid-1800s. Yet I’d never actually had a chance to stay at the sprawling resort, enjoying its unique style of rustic luxury and pretending that I was living in another era.

True, when I was a teenager I’d hiked around the 30,000-acre property a few times. I had had the pleasure of tromping through the woods and across clearings and over ridges, making my way along trails with colorful names like Pine Needle Walk and Mountain Vista Ridge and Rocky Road—a name which these days, as an ice cream empress, I found especially endearing.

But that was just the grounds that surrounded Mohawk. The glorious stone and wood building that constituted the actual resort, perched high atop a mountain as if it was the preserve’s centerpiece, had merely served as a distant backdrop during my day trips. After all, while the outdoor area was open to the public, the 250-room hotel and its reported Old World luxury had been reserved for guests only. And those aforementioned guests were required to have some pretty impressive credit card limits in order to bask in its splendors.

So when I’d unexpectedly received an invitation from the hotel’s general manager, Merle Moody, I had literally whooped with joy. In fact, I had decided to say yes even before I’d read her entire email.

In her note, she had explained that Mohawk frequently conducted theme weekends as a way of attracting visitors during the off-season. Past theme weekends had ranged from jazz workshops to yoga-and-meditation retreats to storytelling marathons. She told me that she was getting in touch with me because she knew I had an ice cream emporium, the Lickety Splits Ice Cream Shoppe, located nearby. In mid-November, she was interested in having Mohawk host a weekend of lectures, demonstrations, and hands-on workshops built around the theme of ice cream. Payment would be minimal, but the gig would give me a chance to combine work and play in a scenic spot.

The general manager went on to say she wanted to call this theme weekend We All Scream for Ice Cream. She hoped I’d offer classes on topics like Making Exotic Ice Cream Flavors at Home and Thirty-Three Toppings to Make Your Ice Cream Sensational. Ms. Moody noted that mid-November was a particularly slow time, so she was anxious to offer something exceptionally upbeat.

I wasn’t surprised that business at the resort was sluggish at this time of the year. My ice cream shop had also been experiencing a dramatic slowdown. And all I had to do was look out the window to understand why.

“Think of it this way,” I told Jake as we chugged along in my red pickup truck. “You and I will be tucked away inside a cozy mountain retreat, sipping hot chocolate and eating ice cream in front of a roaring fireplace. We won’t care at all about the storm raging outside.”

“I was hoping to do some hiking,” Jake said. As I glanced over at him, I saw that he was squinting as he gazed out the window. I got the impression he was wondering if somehow he could will the rain away. “And according to the website you can go canoeing on the lake. They have rowboats and paddleboats and kayaks, too. And paddle boarding, which is something I always thought would be great to try, since you actually stand up as you skim the surface of the water. Then there’s swimming in the lake. And fishing, of course . . .”

He let out a deep sigh. I knew exactly what that sigh meant: That given the storm raging all around us, none of those options was going to be even close to feasible.

Even though I was already pretty bummed out over the weather being so horrid, Jake’s dismay over the way it was ruining our plans was making me feel even worse. While his purpose in tagging along was supposedly to serve as my “assistant” over the course of the weekend, there was a lot more behind my decision to bring him with me.

He and I had recently rekindled our old romance, one that had started when we were back in high school. While our relationship had been rudely interrupted by fifteen years of having no contact whatsoever, fate seemed to have brought us together once again. The two of us were still feeling our way, trying to decide whether or not we could make a go of it now that we had been given another chance.

My sense was that Jake had few doubts about the two of us being a couple once again. In fact, he had been the one who’d pushed for it. Not long after he and I had accidentally run into each other after our long separation, he had made it clear that he’d be happy to pick up where we’d left off. And I had finally agreed that our relationship deserved another chance.

Now that we were actually back in that relationship, however, I continued to wrestle with uncertainty about whether or not I had made the right choice. I thought I had forgiven him for the painful and abrupt way our high school romance had ended. But deep down, I still wasn’t 100 percent convinced.

But there was more to it. I wasn’t sure about whether or not I even wanted to become involved with anyone at this stage of my life. I was working long, exhausting hours as I struggled to get my own business off the ground. Lickety Splits was still brand-new, having opened only six months earlier. Running a retail store that specialized in homemade gourmet ice cream was a huge change from working at a public relations firm in New York City. And while I loved being my own boss, the demands of running my fledgling enterprise practically single-handedly were turning out to be a lot more daunting than I’d ever dreamed.

There had been plenty of other huge changes in my life, too. After a decade and a half of being pretty much on my own, I was back in my hometown, Wolfert’s Roost, living under my grandmother’s roof. While this was the house that I’d pretty much grown up in, a wonderful Victorian that I truly loved, being back there was still a major adjustment. Cohabitating with my grandmother as an adult, rather than as a child, gave me delightful companionship but less independence. And because I’d moved back so I could help Grams as she aged, it also meant that I’d taken on more responsibility.

Then there was the fact that suddenly I was also looking after my eighteen-year-old niece, Emma, who had moved in with Grams and me unexpectedly. She was lively and strong and very much her own person, but it was still my job to serve as a sort of mother figure to her.

I’m not saying that I was unhappy about my new situation. It was just, well, different—not to mention demanding, complicated, absorbing, taxing, and at times absolutely exhausting. And the idea of adding Jake Pratt into the mix sometimes struck me as one challenge too many.

But as I drove along, I reminded myself that this wasn’t the best time to be thinking about my ambivalence about my relationship with the man sitting beside me.

“The weather can’t be this bad the whole time we’re there, can it?” I said.

I had just turned off the main road onto a considerably narrower one. It was marked by a rather crude wooden sign with the hand-painted words MOHAWK MOUNTAIN RESORT and a big arrow. But I already knew the answer to my own question. I’d been checking the ten-day forecast all week. Not only was rain predicted for the entire weekend ahead. The torrential rain, fog, and wind that already surrounded us had been labeled a nor’easter, a serious storm that’s almost as bad as a hurricane.

As if to answer the question I’d just asked, at that very moment a tree branch flew into the windshield with a loud bang, making me jump. Instantly my heart leaped into high gear as adrenaline coursed through my body.

“Whoa!” Jake cried. “This is going from bad to worse! Hey, you don’t suppose they’ll cancel the workshop, do you?”

I shook my head, meanwhile making sure to keep my eyes glued to the road ahead. By this point I was pretty sure the mist could officially be called fog. That was because I could only see about ten feet in front of me.

“I got an email from Merle Moody early this morning,” I told him. “You remember me mentioning her, don’t you? She’s the general manager of the resort and the person I’ve been in contact with all along. She said that Mohawk hasn’t ever shut down, or even cancelled a program, since the day it first opened in 1868 as a simple tavern with four guest rooms.”

“It was nice of her to check in with you,” Jake commented.

“Actually,” I said, “from the tone of her email, I got the feeling she wasn’t trying to reassure me as much as she was making it clear that I’d better not be thinking of cancelling.”

Or maybe I was just being too sensitive, I thought. The wording of the general manager’s email had struck me as crisp. Cold, even. But I told myself that the feeling I got, that she was ordering me to show up rather than simply being matter-of-fact, was probably related more to my own apprehensions about the weekend ahead than anything else.

Jake and I were both silent as we continued up a road that was quickly becoming steeper, narrower, and more twisting. We were already surrounded by a dense growth of trees, mighty maples and white-barked birches and towering evergreens so dense that they practically formed a barricade. The fog was growing thicker with every turn in the road. Yet even through the hovering mist’s dense grayness, I could make out signs printed with warnings about deer, and then wild turkeys, crossing the road.

“Funny, I don’t recall this road being so scary,” I finally remarked, hoping I wouldn’t encounter any wildlife along the way. “Then again, the last time I was here was when I was about sixteen. Willow and I drove up on a Saturday in October. I was so excited to be spending the entire day with my best friend! It was positively thrilling that the two of us were going off on an adventure all by ourselves.

“I remember that the air was brisk and the leaves were absolutely gorgeous,” I went on, feeling as if I was actually going back in time. “They were blazing with color, bright red and orange and gold . . . It was one of those perfect autumn days that make you glad you live in the Hudson Valley. Willow and I spent the whole day hiking and taking pictures. I also remember that we brought along a fabulous picnic lunch that Grams had packed up for us. She made the best chicken salad, with walnuts and grapes and celery. And she’d baked tiny chocolate chip cookies that were so much fun to eat . . .”

“That sounds really nice,” Jake commented. From his wistful tone, I got the feeling that the rest of that sentence, best left unspoken, was something along the lines of, “unlike now.”

We drove on, my teeth clenched so hard that my jaw started to ache as I slowly veered around one treacherous turn after another. At least there were no deer or wild turkeys flinging themselves into the road. Unlike us, they were apparently much too smart to venture outside on a day like today.

Jake and I traveled higher and higher up into the mountains, with clouds of fog still drifting past. At times we could see just how perilous the road was, while at other times we could scarcely see what was in front of us at all. Frankly, I didn’t know which was worse.

And then the fog suddenly cleared. In the distance I could see the resort’s expansive main building looming up ahead of us like a mirage.

In all the photographs I’d seen, as well as in my own memory, Mohawk had seemed like paradise. The hotel, with its jaw-dropping backdrop of mountains and forests and a gigantic lake, had looked palatial. The resort was huge, a jumble of half a dozen different wings and extensions jutting off the original wood-and-stone building that stood at the center. The newer parts were painted a muted shade of apple green that blended in with the natural setting. As for the oldest section, it remained dark brown, with the same rough-hewn wooden shingles and craggy gray stone walls it had always had. The wooden porch that lined the original building, overlooking the lake and the mountains beyond, had been duplicated in the newer sections as well, creating a cohesive look to what might otherwise appear a bit chaotic.

In the photographs, the lake was invariably sparkling in the bright midday sun. Happy guests in canoes and rowboats cheerfully waved to each other. Other guests, also smiling, strolled along the trails, looking as if there was no place else in the entire world they would rather be.

Today, however, Mohawk reminded me of a haunted house. Hill House, perhaps, the eerie mansion that was featured in the classic black-and-white horror film The Haunting. That’s the movie in which the actress Julie Harris sees throbbing walls with eyes and hears children crying until she’s driven to near insanity, rushing out onto a road where she’s accidentally run over by—

Stop! I told myself. There’s nothing the least bit creepy about the Mohawk Mountain Resort! It’s a luxurious, historic hotel with a fine reputation and a top chef and a fireplace in every room. And you’re going to enjoy every single minute you’re there.

Three seconds later, I heard a tremendous boom and felt the earth shake.

“What was that?” I shrieked, stomping down on the brake and bringing my truck to a complete stop with a jolt.

Jake had already turned around in his seat, trying to see out the back window. “It sounds like it was behind us,” he said, “but I can’t see anything from here. I’ll have to get out.”

“Don’t get out!” I cried. I had visions of never seeing him again. I figured that like Julie Harris, he’d meet up with some terrible fate, perhaps one that involved evil deer or malicious wild turkeys.

“I’ll just take a quick look around.” He had already opened the door and was climbing out of the truck, pulling up his hood in a feeble attempt at protecting himself from the pelting rain.

A few seconds later, he was back, hurling himself into the truck and splattering me with so much water that I might as well have gone outside with him. His light brown hair was soaked. So were his shirt, his pants, and from the looks of things, everything else he had on as well.

“A tree fell,” he announced grumpily.

“Is that all,” I replied, relieved.

“You don’t understand,” he said. “A big tree. A really big tree. With a thick trunk. Like a five-foot-wide trunk. And it fell right across the road.”

I’d barely had a chance to digest his words before he turned to me and explained, “From the looks of things, nobody’s getting in or out of here for a very long time.”

“You mean we’re stuck up here?” I cried. Suddenly, the idea of spending a few days in a lovely but remote mountain resort struck me as terrifying. I tried to remind myself that nothing much had changed, that this had been the plan all along. But somehow, having no choice in the matter put a very different cast on the situation.

“Maybe it’s not that bad,” Jake said. “If a work crew came in here with some electric saws, they could probably clear the road. If they worked on it for a while, anyway.”

I tried to believe him. But I definitely got the feeling that he was just trying to make me feel better.

I started driving again, my heart even heavier than before as we continued on our way. Whatever enthusiasm about the weekend ahead that had lingered even after the horrendous weather had put such a damper on things—pun entirely intended—had by now fizzled out completely.

As the big house got closer, I wondered how many people would manage to make it up the mountain for the theme weekend.

Jake must have been thinking the same thing. “Even if they have to cancel the ice cream workshops,” he said with forced cheerfulness, “we can still have that romantic getaway we’ve been planning.”

I looked over at him and forced myself to smile. “Candlelit dinners, cuddling in front of a roaring fire . . . yes, we certainly can.”

I tried to hold on to that thought as I drove into the circular driveway in front of Mohawk, the uneven cobblestones that paved it making for a strangely bumpy ride.

While the scale of the building was truly grand, the façade was anything but. The rough-hewn wooden shingles were faded and in some spots missing. As for the front porch, up close it looked pretty dilapidated, as if a serious gust of wind could knock it over. The windows that ran along the front as far as I could see were dark, almost like eyes that were staring out at us dully. On a dreary day like this one, I would have expected the entire place to be lit up in an attempt at making it look at least a little bit inviting. Yet it almost looked as if no one else was here.

The main entrance, an imposing wooden front door, was marked only by a small sign. I pulled my truck up in front of it, expecting a bellman to appear. Jake and I were going to need some serious help to unload. It wasn’t our suitcases that were the problem. It was all the paraphernalia I’d brought along for the workshops I’d be leading. My demonstrations on how to make ice cream and all kinds of assorted related concoctions, for example, required multitudes of bowls, spoons, machinery, and of course lots of ingredients. But as we sat in the truck, staring at the front door, we still didn’t spot any signs of life.

Jake and I exchanged nervous looks.

“Should I honk?” I asked, my voice cracking.

Before he had a chance to answer, the big wooden door opened. Slowly. In fact, the only reason I even noticed it was opening at all was because of a dim light that was on inside, a striking contrast to the grim gloominess all around us.

But rather than a perky bellman leaping out, a thin, slightly stooped woman eased her way through the door. She stood on the porch for a few seconds, studying the two of us as we continued sitting in the cab of my red truck.

My first impression of her was that she was stern. The serious expression on her face was a good match to her simple gray dress, navy-blue cardigan, and practical black shoes. Somehow she managed to emanate an air of gloom, as if she was a member of the Addams Family. She reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t quite place who that was.

Jake and I climbed out of the truck, each of us grabbing one of our suitcases.

“You must be Katherine McKay,” the woman called to me from the porch. It almost sounded like an accusation.

“That’s me,” I replied. “But please call me Kate. And you must be Merle.”

“Mrs. Moody,” she corrected me sharply. “I prefer to be addressed as Mrs. Moody.”

It was then it clicked. I finally figured out who she reminded me of: creepy Mrs. Danvers from the Daphne du Maurier classic novel Re. . .