Scoop to Kill: A Mystery a La Mode - By Wendy Lyn Watson Page 0,56
color. Beauty parlor curls gave volume to her wintry white hair, and pearls the size of garbanzo beans studded her ears. She carried a small gold cake box in one hand and a beaded clutch in the other.
The other couple was also decked out in fancy clothes—he in a brass-buttoned navy blazer and Kelly-green-and-navy-striped tie, she in a peacock blue chiffon-skirted cocktail dress and a towering hairdo of golden-blond curls—but they blended a little better. It’s hard to put my finger on the differences, but the Gundersons just didn’t look like they belonged in Dalliance, Texas. Too much polish, not enough sparkle.
I greeted them with a big smile, and received one from Rosemary in return. George wore his usual dour expression, but I was learning not to take it personally.
“Tallulah Jones,” Rosemary said. “We’ve come to celebrate!”
“I can see that,” I said with a chuckle. The flush on the ladies’ cheeks and the twinkle in their eyes suggested at least one bottle of champagne for the evening.
Rosemary leaned across the counter conspiratorially. “The Grants, Hazel and Jim, have been married for forty years,” she said in a stage whisper.
“Hush, Rosie,” Hazel said. “You’ll have everyone doing the math and figuring out what an old lady I am.”
Rosemary giggled. “Nonsense. You were a child bride, after all.”
The two women laughed delightedly, while Jim and George Gunderson looked on with small smiles of indulgence.
“I’m so glad you decided to celebrate your fortieth with us,” I said.
Hazel stepped back and rested a hand on her husband’s arm. “On our very first date, Jim took me to an ice cream parlor after our movie. One malt, two straws.”
The soft smile on her face as she looked into Jim’s eyes made me melt a little. That one tiny twist of her lips spoke volumes of moonlit walks and gentle teasing and all the thousands of moments of quiet joy that made up a long, happy marriage.
“When Rosie suggested we come here for dessert, the soufflé and tiramisu at the Hickory Tavern lost all their luster.”
“I’ve just heard so many wonderful things,” Rosemary explained, “I finally decided I had to try your delicious ice cream myself. And now that you’ll be providing dessert for the benefit for Bryan Campbell, George here is intrigued, too.”
“The benefit will be an important event for Dickerson,” George intoned.
“Yes, I’ve hardly seen George these past two weeks. He’s been working late at the university every night, just like he did before he got tenure.”
George’s brow wrinkled, but Rosemary gave his arm a little squeeze. “Don’t worry, dear. I know your work is important, and Madeline’s been keeping me company.”
She held up her gold cardboard box. “I hope you don’t mind. We decided halfway through dinner that we should come here, but I’d already ordered my lemon soufflé, and I couldn’t let it go to waste.”
“Oh, of course I don’t mind,” I said. “What can I get for you?”
“What would you recommend?”
“Well, we make our ice cream using a traditional French pot method, so there’s very little air. As a result, it has a dense, velvety texture. It doesn’t really need dressing up. A dish of one or two of our signature flavors would be a good choice. My personal favorites are the raspberry mascarpone, the balsamic strawberry, and the dark chocolate-hazelnut. We also serve sundaes—sauced with brandied cherries, salted caramel, or bittersweet fudge, and topped with fresh whipped cream—milk shakes, and traditional malts.”
“Oh, my.”
A satisfying response. I smiled.
“What do you think, George?”
He removed his glasses and rested the temple piece against his lip, lowered his lids, and hummed thoughtfully.
I take my ice cream more seriously than most, but even I thought his heavy contemplation went over the top. More like Henry Kissinger considering diplomacy in Southeast Asia than a man considering dessert.
“I suggest,” he intoned in a sonorous voice, “we try the raspberry and the chocolate, a scoop of each.”
“Excellent choice,” I said, smiling right through the urge to roll my eyes.
Hazel snuggled up next to Jim. “We’ll have a chocolate malt. Two straws.”
I laughed. “Why don’t y’all take a seat, and I’ll have your ice cream ready in a jiff.”
While Hazel and Jim’s chocolate malt spun on the mixer, I dished up the Gundersons’ ice cream in small pressed-glass dishes and garnished them with complimentary vanilla pizzelles, cookies that looked like small, flat waffle cones.
I could have carried the dishes out in my hands, but I opted to use the tray we kept behind the counter. The mention of the