Fudge Factor: A Mike Dodge Mystery

Jan. 1, 2024

“Were the brownies off limits or something?”

Under the circumstances, it was pretty tasteless. I’m not inclined toward any of the forensically accepted methods of measuring the relative temp of a dead person, so I instead embrace a “before the body’s even in the ground” kinda code.

In point of fact, I had no idea how far below 98.6 Forrest had dipped. But I did know it was somewhere around minus-10 bloody F outside, with black ice on the steep, winding drive to County 650 North to the state road to and on and all the way south on I-55 to the Millington ramp onto Business 55 past the Comfort and the Holiday and the Denny’s and the Dunkin’ and the FastFill down Main to University and right on Oakview two blocks and another up and one more half-block into the Casa Dodge driveway. The previous three day’s snow was now a two-foot vehicle bumper and makeshift crypt, and the Lake Effect had moseyed down from Chitown to generate an anthropomorphically howling gale that might have sent the Hound of the Baskervilles galloping for the nearest kill shelter.

And if this party went all Donner on us, Sarah and I as second-tier guests were the likely first brunch of the new year. Unless everybody suddenly got pretty cool about expired meat pretty quickly. Yeah, I heard it, but at least I kept my cannibalistic meanderings to a print narrative. I looked elsewhere as the guy I knew only as Derek shrugged uncomfortably at the disapproving clutch of former celebrants gathered about the kitchen island.

Not that Derek had lacked context. A half-eaten square of chunky chocolate lay a few inches beyond the blood pool now largely contained by Forrest’s thick and tasteless holiday sweater. The open Tupperware container on the tiled island countertop now held a scattering of crumbs. Plant-based semi-sweet chocolate chips, to be precise, nestled into a dairy-free, egg-free, spelt flour batter enriched with flax egg batter.

Technically, the brownies had been off limits. As a strip of masking tape across the burpware lid declared in gratuitous 90-point script, they were DELIA’S! Over the course of the evening, our hostess had read the law to those whose gluttonous paws strayed too close to DELIA’S! bowls and saucers. Delia was the host’s prodigal daughter and the token holiday vegan, somewhere between the sociopolitical refugee treated with wary delicacy and hypersensitivity, and, depending on the beholder, the village witch or newly outed weirdo who’d picked up peculiar ways at college.

Forrest, on the other hand, was full-throttle omnivore. After devouring his own slab of prime rib, he’d washed it down with sweet-and-sour meatballs and artistically fanned deli meats and hot queso dip and basically anything chlorophyll-free that wasn’t nailed down. Apparently, after the state cops and WEEK meteorologist Chuck Collins and our previously convivial hosts blocked our departure, he’d declared open season on DELIA’S! rations.

**

Sadly, it wasn’t even my worst New Year’s. Personally speaking, of course.

New Year’s Eve for Premarital Dodge was usually more an end-of-year liquidation than a new product rollout. A save-the-date that couldn’t be broken after the relationship was past saving. 1984 rang in with me consoling the morose assistant typesetter who’d been dumped by the ink rep she’d been patronizing throughout our supposed romantic interval. As the ball dropped on 1987, the physician’s assistant who’d been ducking our second, third, and successive dates for unexpected shifts hauled me to her folks’ soiree on Indy’s fashionable north side before doing a reverse Cinderella at 12:01. I was far better with municipal statutes and federal policy than with the whimsical vagaries of the heart.

Married New Year’s is just a flat-out groaner, at least for Sarah and I. A night of fleece sweats and Netflix and Ryan Secrest destroyed by marathon small talk and semi-consensual midnight grappling with folks I’d strived to avoid for 364 days. At least at Sarah’s uncle’s annual meatballs-and-euchre fests, I could disappear into the disinterested mob with my plate of summer sausage and spinach dip. I’d never had the agonizingly intimate pleasure of the New Year’s dinner party, but a spate of family mishaps had thwarted our pre-Yuletide snowbird escape, and I’d done a deep dive for the only mingle-wear that had survived retirement, and endeavored not to spill au jus in the presence of the senior insurance VP for whom Sarah had long-schlepped and his gilded Christmas card family and friends. 

“But would he have?”

Marc Kellum looked up glumly from the couch. The exec collapsed there after nearly a half-hour on the phone with the sheriff’s department, which was currently outgunned by nature and the County Highway Department. “Would who have what, Mike?”

I’d sort of been thinking aloud. “Sorry. Would Mr. Grieg really have gotten into your daughter’s stuff? She told me he was her fifth grade teacher, her favorite teacher?”

“And a golf buddy,” the insurance VP sighed. “So?”

“The fridge was full of goodies,” I noted. “Sarah’s mentioned our granddaughter Ella, right? Well, she’s involved in this fourth grade mean girls battle of wills right now, and these little psychopaths have been stealing lunches and backpacks and planting evidence and ratting each other out like former White House staffers. Would a guy like Grieg who’s been herding feral cats for years just graze on unauthorized munchies?”

“Especially the way he was putting it away all night?” Delia’s girlfriend, Lina, had been draped crossways over an oversized armchair watching what looked to be some indie movie on the 72-inch wall-mount. The waiflike young woman – a sort of Kristen Stewart without the robust charisma – hadn’t looked away from the screen, and a chunk of chocolate was poised in her indigo-nailed fingers. “I mean, how could the dude have even fit one more bite in there?”

With the kitchen closed for forensic service, I’d breakfasted on M&Ms Jan Kellum had been too exhausted to clear from the dining room table. Plain ones at that – they’re stuffing everything but hoisin pork in there these days, and one of Central Illinois’ Fortunate 500 puts out the Lean Cuisine candy.

“You’ve got some, uh, something on your—“ I attempted, tapping the corner of my lip. It must have been my tone.

“Relax,” Lina murmured. “This is one of the group brownies – I snagged one for a midnight snack, then that shit happened.”

“I thought you and Delia were both vegans.”

“They’re all vegan.” It was Tracy, from what I understood, a Kevin Bacon cousin of Jan’s from down the road who’d babysat Delia and her brother, who currently was doing the 1 percenter’s Rumspringa in Europe while working up the energy for life or something. Sorry -- I get a little blue-collar proletariat in this neck of the woods. “Jan actually likes them better.”

“Then why did Delia have --?” I started to ask.

“MY BAD! MY BAD!” Derek yelled from the next room. The one with the corpse. The Original King of Graveyard Comedy stumbled into the room. Lina cranked the volume and returned to her brownie.

“Kitchen’s off-limits, I told you,” Marc mumbled.

“Yeah, I guess so! I saw there was still some salami and cheese left, but Mrs. Kellum about bit my head off. I gotta have some protein, dude.”

“Check my garage stash,” Mr. Kellum said. “I think there’s still some jerky. But not the shit under the work table, hear me?”

“I know, I know.” Derek vanished.

“Like a stray Labrador,” Marc explained. “He just showed up with Delia one day after school, and we’ve been feeding him since. I think he had a monster crush on her for forever...”

Lina made a loud sucking sound, which may have been passive-aggression or a nut lodged in her molars. I made for the guest lavatory, with a detour to the garage and a side-trip to the TV room beyond the galley where Sarah was either consoling Jan Kellum or talking Vera Bradley, since her purse was in her lap. The Weather Channel was muted, but I could see in ginormous HD letters we’d probably be here a bit longer.

Jan’d always been conversational with me but somehow viewed me as some kind of small-dose oddity Sarah hauled along with her pricey handbag. They both looked up like I’d run out of kibble.

“Sorry to interrupt, but I need something. Well, two things.”

“What?” Sarah beamed, nonetheless projecting menace.

“Not you,” I said.

**

“You got any idea yet?”

I was brushing lint from my cable-knit sweater, and since it had nothing to do with the shearing or captivity of animals, I continued as Delia awaited her answer. “About?”

Lina had moved onto another anemic indie, wet-thumbing Chex shrapnel into her mouth. Cousin Tracy was scanning a Town and Country that I suspected to be décor since the last time any Kennedy, Shriver or Radziwill had visited Millington was probably before GPS. Marc was out on the couch, and Derek was safely sprawled out of Lina’s kicking range, apparently trying to reason out plot and nuance.

“Idea about?”

“Dad said you helped catch that New Year’s killer a couple of years back (see “The Ideal,” by my former high school buddy Martin Ross).”

I set the lint roller on the end table and planted my palms for a dismount. Delia wasn’t budging, and I needed a clear periphery to stick a landing. I sighed. “Yeah, I have a pretty good idea why, but I’ll need to talk your mom into letting me back onto the crime scene. OK?”

Delia stepped back, and I affected an exit that might have been grander had my left leg not gone asleep.

I caught up with my e-mail in the guest john, posted a New Year’s greeting to my Facebook coterie, and tried Curtis Mead again. My friend the detective was either sleeping off the ball-drop or cursing his caller ID.

After I fake-flushed and fake-washed (I’m not an animal even in subterfuge), I returned to the living room, grinned as I peeked furtively toward my chair, and gently shook Marc Kellum’s shoulder.

“Family meeting,” I announced. 

 **

“Forrest wanders downstairs in the wee hours, for what, I don’t know,” I began. “Maybe a nocturnal bite or a glass of water, whatever.”

“Brownies,” Derek stated.

“Nope, I don’t think so. Somebody got to the brownies ahead of him, and that’s what I think Forrest discovered when he came into the kitchen. Now, somebody grabbing a midnight snack, not so unusual, though there were a ton of leftover goodies in the fridge including brownies that weren’t labeled exclusively for DELIA! Whoever got into Delia’s special cache had other options, but went for the one treat they weren’t supposed to touch.”

“Unless it was Delia!” Cousin Stacy murmured. “It’s the most reasonable explanation – she was the one person who had no other choice but her own brownies. Oscar’s Razor. Maybe Forrest walks in to find Delia chowing down on fudgy goodness, all grown-up now, and his dude hormones start surging. Before she knows it, the old bastard has her pinned against the marble counter next to the knives—“

“Jesus,” Delia breathed, coming off the couch. “We’re cutting off your Oxygen Network, Trace. Even if Mr. Grieg wasn’t totally gay, which was like the worst-kept secret at Millington High, you see me sticking him?”

“S’okay, guys,” I interrupted, resisting the urge to uphold good Mr. Occam’s name. “Delia couldn’t have been present at the murder scene, for reasons I’m about to explain. But if you’ll forgive me, my blood sugar is fading fast. Hope you don’t mind me getting into your secret garage stash. Matt.” Sarah’s ex-boss frowned and glanced to Delia’s mother as I pulled the can I’d lifted earlier from behind the lamp. I began to pry the red plastic lid free, and the three Kellums jumped in unison with Lina – and a fifth party. I tossed the sealed can aside and raised my palms.

“Just thinning the pool a little,” I assured Delia. “I was pretty sure I was right, though I certainly could have just asked your folks. But I wanted to see who else knew. Why I asked you for your party receipts, Jan.” I drew the lengthy grocery slip from my pocket. “We got your steaks, your potatoes, your asparagus, your romaine, your Caesar dressing for dinner. One apple and one cherry pie for dessert.

“On to a selection of fine wines and spirits. The Godzilla Cold Cut/Cheese Platter, as well as multicolor peppers, broccoli florets, carrot sticks, celery, and Kalamata olives for the crudité, with French onion and bacon horseradish dips to accompany. I’d chalk the Corn and Rice Chex, the sesame sticks, the melba chips, the mini-pretzels, and the Cheese Nips up to a back-of-the-box party mix.

“Plain M&Ms, mint buttercreams, Ruffles, organic blue tortilla chips and salsa. Hummus and pita chips, popcorn, mini-spinach quiches and crab puffs. Colossal jumbo shrimp and crab legs with cocktail sauce. Everything for the perfect snowbound house party. Well, except one major food group. Anybody? I’ll give you a clue. Who actually prefers plain M&Ms?”

“Nuts,” Sarah supplied, possibly just to expedite.

“Yup, nuts. A choice of two fruit pies – no pecan or cream pies. Almost every finger food you could imagine, except cashews or smoked almonds or macadamias, and a party mix without peanuts? My lord.” I retrieved the Beer Nuts. “By the way – this one’s a fresh can, still safely sealed. I took a peek through the case you’d stowed for Delia’s visit. The other can, the one opened just enough to gather a handful of the delightful laminated nuts and stacked back under the full ones, I bagged up for my buddy Curtis and his tech guys to analyze.”

“So I have nut allergies,” Delia frowned.

“Yeah. And who knew that? Your mom and dad, of course, and I assume Lina.”

“She almost killed me with some pad thai our second date,” Delia smiled. Lina shrugged.

“Who else might know? Scratch that. Who’d have to know? How about your former elementary school teacher? With food allergies on the rise, school districts are sensitized to potential illness and liability, and my guess is the insomniac Mr. Grieg was concerned when he found somebody else raiding Delia’s brownies and set them straight. Then he spots some telltale debris on the counter. Like maybe somebody’d crushed a handful of Beer Nuts and got caught before they could clean up after themselves. Then maybe Forrest realizes the would-be brownie thief should also know about Delia’s peanut allergy and the risks of leaving even peanut pieces or dust where she might be exposed. But what and who he suspects seems incredible, so he tests one of Delia’s brownies. And that’s when the brownie tamperer returns and winds up killing the one witness to their murder attempt. So who wants to kill Delia?”

“The joke,” Cousin Stacy muttered. “That shitty joke about the brownies.” She turned to Derek. “You were defecting. It musta killed you to know she was with somebody else, and then she actually brings her to the party.”

Derek laughed. Not maniacally, which would have sewed the whole thing up nicely if Angela Lansbury had been invited. “Dude, I’ve known Delia liked girls since junior year. We’re just buds.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Nice try, Tracy. You’re the one who’s been deflecting, by the way, trying to point toward your cousin and then Derek. You babysat for Delia. You would have to know about her nut allergy.”

Cousin Stacy succinctly suggested a fun solo New Year’s activity in which I might participate.

“So after we sealed the kitchen – well, verbally sealed it, anyway – you must have been desperate to get rid of the evidence. So I gave you the opportunity. Along with the grocery receipts, I asked Mrs. Kellum for something else. I had it with me this morning – I was using it to clean non-existent crumbs from my clothes. I assumed you didn’t want to get caught doing a detailed cleanup in the kitchen. So I made it easy. All you had to do was grab the lint roller after I left the room, make sure the coast was clear, and quickly roll the counter where you’d crushed her nuts and doctored the brownies.

“I may be giving you too much credit, but you weren’t going to be stupid enough to throw the evidence in the garbage for the cops to find. All you had to do was rip off the tape with the nut trace and stuff it in your pocket.” I nodded toward the roller, which she’d returned to the end table. “See, virgin tape – not a sign of cheap Target sweater fibers. The cops will find them in your jeans or coat pocket. And maybe some candied peanut skin -- those things are hella messy.”

“Why?” Delia demanded, and Tracy sank back into the cushions.

“The way you looked at me last night,” she finally whispered. “You were so little that night you walked in on us. When your, when your dad hugged me last night, you looked…funny.”

“I didn’t look any way, except beat from the drive,” Delia growled. “What’d I walk in on?”

Fuck. I hadn’t even thought about motive, just assumed some kind of family shit I didn’t want to know about was in play. Delia was now looking back and forth between her cousin and Sarah’s former boss. Who was looking back and forth between me and Delia.

The babysitter. Life imitates Lifetime.

Then I spotted Sarah looking back and forth between her former boss and me. I hoped the plows and the cops showed up before whatever suppressed memories perking inside Delia bubbled to the top. At any rate, it was going to be a long, cold ride home.