Give Me Chills Page 2

  "I'm a ride developer."

  I frowned. "A what?"

  "I develop roller coaster rides. I've got a big project underway right now. It's almost finished."

  “But you live here, on Devil’s Beach. Why not in Orlando?”

  He shrugged. “I wanted to live the island life. This is way better. The water, the beach, the downtown. I can kayak, fish, swim. Lots to do. This is the best place in Florida. And I can work from home. My company is actually based in Hong Kong, but the ride developers are all over the world. I travel to Orlando quite a bit, though. It’s not a bad drive.”

  "I didn't know that a job like that even existed. But it makes sense. Those parks spend millions on those rides. Is yours a scary ride? Lots of twists, turns, drops? Monsters? Darkness?"

  I made a circular motion with my finger, but inside I shivered, thinking about sitting next to him in a darkened space.

  "Nope. It's a water park ride. Called The Tunnel of Love. It's a wet ride."

  “A what?”

  “A water ride.”

  “Oh, like river rapids?”

  He grinned. “Not quite that exciting. Something a little more low-key and romantic. Maybe you can go on it someday.”

  Well, then. "I might take you up on that. As long as there's no upside down, backwards-forwards action." I cringed at my words. Why was I such a geek?

  "Yeah. Maybe when everything's calmed down." His voice was a murmur, as if he was talking to himself. He blew out a breath.

  I nodded, insanely curious to know why his week had been so terrible. Was the roller coaster development world particularly cutthroat? Or did he have problems in his personal life? A girlfriend. That was probably it. My mind raced, creating all sorts of wacky scenarios. I assumed he was a little older than me, around thirty. He had to have a significant other. Was he getting a divorce?

  "My aunt died," he blurted.

  I gasped, pressing a hand to my chest. "Oh! Oh. I am so sorry. The one you bought the ice cream for? How old was she?"

  His shoulders slumped. "Yes, same one. She was seventy-five. Actually, she was my great aunt. She lives here on Devil’s Beach. Well, lived. I was just getting to know her. My mom and I found her through one of those DNA kits, and wouldn’t you know it? We were in the same place. It was a total coincidence that I’d moved to the island where she’d lived for years. She was the sweetest woman. It's weird, because we'd only started spending time together and were just getting to know each other. But her death hits hard. She was like the grandma I never had."

  I swallowed a lump in my throat. Had I not been inside my van, I'd have hugged him. I couldn't stand to see anyone upset, and I often absorbed others' emotions.

  "I'm sorry, Zander. That's just terrible. Was she sick?"

  He shook his head. "No. She was in great shape and looked much younger than her age. Her housekeeper found her two days ago."

  "So sad." An uncomfortable silence settled between us. "Did you give her the ice cream? Were you able to attend her dinner party?" God, I hoped so. At least maybe he'd have a final, pleasant memory with her…

  Zander shot me a small smile. "I went, and she loved your ice cream. She served two pints at the party and kept the third for herself." A sad laugh escaped his lips.

  Now I was about to cry. I wondered if she'd gotten the chance to finish a pint but figured that would be an extremely inappropriate question. So I twisted my mouth and nodded in sympathy.

  "Hadley, I wanted to ask you a favor."

  I leaned in, eager to help ease his suffering. "Anything."

  He stared into my eyes with such intensity that a fluttery feeling settled in my stomach.

  "Since she loved ice cream so much, I was wondering if you could make an ice cream cake for her wake."

  Three

  "Is that a Florida thing, bringing an ice cream cake to a wake?"

  I leaned on the doorjamb of Steer Clear, a vegan food truck that parked in the spot next to me on the weekends, and peered at Amelia and Devon, the owners. They were married and had become my closest friends on Devil’s Beach.

  They stopped wiping the interior with cloth rags and homemade apple cider vinegar cleaner and stared at me.

  "No," they said in unison.

  "You're sure? Because the way Zander sounded, it was the most natural thing in the world. I assumed I didn't know the local customs, being from New England and all."

  "Babycakes, you're not in Moose Knuckle New Hampshire, anymore." Amelia let out a giggle and tossed her long, cherry red ponytail over her shoulder. "Seriously, I've lived here my entire life. And so has Devon. We met in third grade. We've been to our fair share of funerals. Family, friends, you name it. I have never seen an ice cream cake at a wake."

  I winced.

  "And my family came here from Jamaica, and we visit there often," Devon piped up, snapping a plastic top over what looked like tofu in a container. "Never seen an ice cream cake there at a wake, either."

  "Hmm. Well, I agreed to make one."

  "What flavor?" Amelia asked.

  I could tell by the sound of her voice that she was fantasizing about the cake. They were both vegans, but Amelia had snuck small cupfuls of my ice cream when Devon wasn't around. She'd begged me not to tell him, saying vegan frozen treats just didn't satisfy like full-fat ice cream.

  I lifted my shoulders. "I guess I'll do that salted chocolate almond since Zander seemed to like it. Probably with a layer of French vanilla."

  "When are you going to give us a vegan option?" Devon wiggled his dark eyebrows.

  "Soon. After I make the funeral cake."

  "The wake cake. I think it's kind of sweet," Amelia said, leaning against the small stainless steel counter.

  "Sweet?" I croaked.

  "Yeah. The two of you don't know each other at all, and yet he trusts you enough to make something that gives him comfort. Something he knows his auntie would love. I think that's kind of special."

  "I guess when you put it that way…" I sighed. "Well, I have to get going. I need to plan this whole thing. I haven't made an ice cream cake in while." Not since I was in New Hampshire, not since my ex's birthday party…

  "Knock ’em dead with the wake cake," Devon called out.

  Amelia groaned. "Way too soon, dude."

  Back in my apartment, I tried to keep the cake as simple and elegant as possible and worked through the night to assemble it. Ice cream cakes needed time to set and freeze, and since Zander had asked me to arrive at his aunt's home at three the next afternoon, I needed to get moving.

  First, I pressed chocolate wafer cookies into a springform pan, then layered two flavors of rich, decadent ice cream: first vanilla, then the salted chocolate almond.

  After all that, I carefully drizzled melted chocolate over the cake. For the showy topping, I arranged Ferrero Rocher chocolate balls in an artful pile on top, then dribbled more chocolate over those.

  It looked beautiful and smelled delicious, and the fragrant chocolate mixed with the nutty aroma made my stomach twinge with hunger. I hadn't eaten since the afternoon. I popped one of the extra Ferrero Rocher balls into my mouth as I thought of Zander's haunted expression.

  Then I collapsed into bed and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  The next day, I sat at the kitchen table and busied myself with paperwork until I had to bring the cake to Zander's aunt's house. I planned to drop off the cake, then head to the park to sell ice cream for the sunset crowd.

  Truthfully, I was a bit nervous but wasn't sure why. Probably because I'd soon be confronting death and grieving people, not something I'd expected as the owner of an ice cream truck. I'd surely absorb all the deep, sad emotions from everyone I met, and just the anticipation of that left me exhausted.

  Raking in a deep breath, I pushed my chair away from the table. Nothing left to do but get ready. I slipped on simple black pants and a black blouse, along with black ballet flats. I scraped my black hair back into a severe ponytail and studied myself in
the mirror. Makeup? Ugh. I didn't want to look garish or sexy for a wake. Still, I swiped on some under-eye concealer, a little blush, and a slick of lip gloss just so I'd look less stressed.

  Then I packed the cake into the freezer in my VW van and headed off.

  Normally, I used my scooter to get around the island. The van was strictly for trips to and from the food truck parking lot, and to the warehouse kitchen. It had made it from New Hampshire to Florida, but barely. It would be impossible to transport an ice cream cake on a scooter, so van it was.

  Zander's aunt's home was only a couple miles away, on the other, richer, side of the island. Since it was peak tourist season, it took almost twenty minutes to chug through the bustling beachfront traffic. I was still getting used to how busy it was here.

  About ten minutes into the journey, my van let out an awful noise. It sounded like a dying goose, or an off-pitch robot's fart.

  I slapped the steering wheel. "Oh, crap. Again?"

  It was the horn. It came on without warning at inappropriate times. It had happened with alarming frequency on my drive south, starting in South Carolina, and when I’d arrived on Devil’s Beach I'd gotten a mechanic to look at the problem. He'd sworn he'd fixed it, but obviously hadn't. It was a quirk of my fifty-plus-year-old van, and one I might have to live with.

  Brrrrhhhhgghhhh

  I glanced over. A guy in a suit driving a slick black Tesla stared at my bleating lavender-and-white van and smirked. I curled my lip. The rest of the trip went like this, with my horn blaring and people laughing and pointing. Just great.

  "You honkin' at me, sweetheart? I'll give you something to really honk about," one bald guy yelled, and waggled his tongue at me lasciviously. Gah. I shot him my frostiest scowl and took the next exit.

  The van intermittently honked and bleated and chirped the rest of the way. As I pulled up to the address — located in an upscale residential part of the island, with big homes and backyards with stunning Gulf views — the van let out one long wail.

  "Crap, crap, crap," I muttered under my breath.

  Fortunately, I was early, and there were only a few expensive-looking cars out front. Hopefully one of those wasn't Zander's because I would die of embarrassment if he heard my adorable little van make a noise like this.

  I gingerly took the cake out of the freezer in the back of the van and stepped carefully to the front door of the one-story, angular modern home. I'd read an article in the local paper recently about the city's cool, mid-century modern homes. This must be one. It was sprawling and slate gray with stark white shutters. Using my elbow, I rang the bell. The door opened and an older man greeted me with a tight smile.

  "Hi. I'm Hadley. Zander asked me to make a cake for, uh, the wake." I held up the box.

  "Of course, of course. We've been expecting you."

  I walked in, and he pointed down a corridor. "The kitchen's that way. I'm with the funeral home and we haven't started yet. I appreciate you being early. Just go down the hall. The housekeeper should be there and she’ll tell you where to put your cake."

  I thanked him warmly and padded down the hall, my ballet flats making little noise on the gleaming terrazzo floor. Zander's aunt sure had a beautiful place, filled with windows and sunshine. There were lush plants everywhere, and from the peek out the window, she'd cultivated a tropical garden around a gorgeous pool. I spotted the Gulf of Mexico in the near distance, flanked by a couple of palm trees as if it were a postcard.

  It was the Florida I’d dreamed of. What I wouldn't give to swim every day in a paradise like that.

  Soon I found myself in the kitchen, a large space with all-white cabinets. It was surprisingly sleek; I figured a woman of her age would have a more homey, old-fashioned cooking space. But the only older women I knew were the ones back in New Hampshire, dressed in head to toe L.L.Bean fleece and sensible boots. Zander's aunt had tastes that were far younger than her seventy-plus years, if the modern art on the walls was any sign.

  I eyed the Subzero fridge and the Viking stove with envy. She hadn't skimped on the details. What concoctions had she made in here?

  I glanced around nervously. There was no one in the kitchen, and I stood, dumbly, ice cream cake in hand.

  The echo of footsteps rang in the air and I turned toward the corridor I had just come down, expecting to see someone. The funeral home guy, maybe. But it was empty. I turned toward the back wall. My gaze fell on a white French door. I saw the faint outline of paned windows in the door, but a filmy white curtain panel covered the glass. Where did that lead? The pantry? Another corridor? While it looked like an angular, one-story home from the outside, it had obviously been added onto over the years. The house seemed almost maze-like from the inside.

  The silhouette of a black form came into view behind the curtain-covered French door. I stepped forward, expecting it to open.

  "Did you get rid of the ice cream carton?" It was a woman's voice, nasal and low.

  "Of course. I wouldn't want anyone here to grab a scoop and get accidental cyanide poisoning," a man said, then guffawed.

  My mouth opened in a silent gasp.

  "That was such a brilliant idea, giving her one giant dose. And the almond perfectly masked the poison in the ice cream. I love your brain."

  I ceased breathing for a second. Were they talking about poisoning someone? With almond ice cream? My almond ice cream? I licked my lips. No. I must have misheard. My heart slammed against my chest.

  "But you love me for more than my brain," the man said.

  I leaned in, straining to hear more. The woman cooed, and I saw the shape shift behind the gauzy curtain. It was too opaque to make out any detail.

  "Hadley!"

  I flinched and fumbled, almost dropping the cake. When I whirled around, Zander was striding down the corridor with a grin on his gorgeous face.

  Four

  I blinked several times in Zander's direction, then glanced over my shoulder at the French door. The dark silhouette was gone.

  "Oh wow. You brought the cake. You're a sweetheart, you know that?"

  My gaze returned to Zander and I tried to steady my nerves. "Um. Thanks?"

  Even though he was a foot away, he seemed alarmingly close. Tall and broad and oh-so-masculine. He was in a dark-gray suit, black shoes. Way out of my league, and staring at me with a concerned, attentive expression. But the attraction I felt was squelched by the unease clawing in my chest. Had I just heard two people talking about poisoning someone?

  "Are you shaking?" Zander's brows drew together.

  "No. I'm okay." I straightened my spine, hoping to control the trembling. My fingers were as frozen as the cake I held in my hands, and I gripped the cardboard box a little tighter. The cake! I needed to get it into the freezer before it melted.

  "Here it is." I smiled weakly, holding the box toward him.

  "Excellent. Let's take a look, then I'll find a place in the standalone freezer. The wake doesn't start for another hour, so it shouldn't be out in the open, should it? I doubt if there's space in here." Zander took a few steps toward the sleek stainless steel refrigerator and pulled the freezer door open, then laughed. "Nope. Would you look at that? Packed with vodka and ice cream."

  I peered in. Several bottles of expensive vodka were lined up on the shelf, along with cartons of store brand gelato. "Your aunt was an interesting lady."

  Zander shut the door. "You don't know the half of it. I'll have to tell you the story of Aunt Linda's life sometime."

  Wait. Were those two people talking about killing Aunt Linda? Duh. This was a wake. She was the deceased. Who else would they have been talking about? Things were happening too fast, and I felt as though I was several steps behind. Zander took the cake from me and set it on the white granite counter.

  "I just want to take a peek." Flipping open the box top, he grinned. "Wow. I can smell the almond and vanilla."

  A stupid, tight smile was plastered to my face. The muscles in my legs twitched, as if they were p
reparing to run without a prompt from my brain. Almond. Why would that flavor mask the taste of cyanide?

  Zander shut the box and motioned with his head. "C'mon. We'll put it in the other freezer for now."

  Without waiting for my answer, he reached for the French door. While I knew I should leave, I was curious where the door led — and whether the two people I'd overheard were behind it. So I followed.

  "Excuse the mess," Zander said as he flipped on a light.

  My eyes adjusted to the fluorescent overhead bulbs, and I realized we were in a garage. A packed to the gills, boxes to the ceiling, junk everywhere kind of place. As orderly and beautiful as the rest of the house was, this room was a disaster. It was also oppressively humid and obviously not air-conditioned.

  "Here we go." Zander opened the top of a white freezer wedged between a bicycle and two wheelbarrows stacked on top of one another. The cold air mixed with the humidity, creating a plume of vapor that enveloped his head. He nestled the box inside, and I looked around.

  If the people I overheard had been in here, where did they go? My eyes went to the far corner. There was a door partially obscured by a giant box. That was the only possibility of an exit. It probably led to that pretty garden near the pool, and to the garden behind the house.

  "Aunt Linda had asked me to help her go through everything in here. A lifetime of stuff. She'd wanted to sell the house but knew she'd have to make the garage more presentable." Zander slammed the freezer shut. "Now, God only knows what's going to happen to this place."

  I shifted from one foot to the other. Then I glanced to my left. It was a small blue recycling bin. I spotted three empty cartons of my ice cream with Give Me Chills stickers on the front. I'd had a designer create a cartoon of my van, and the stickers were the cutest things on the planet.

  My handwriting was visible on one pint. Salted double chocolate almond, I'd scrawled in red Sharpie. I raked in a breath.