Scoop to Kill (26 page)

 

 

Mix the soda, the berries, and the sugar in a medium saucepan over high heat. When the mixture comes to a boil, reduce heat to medium and simmer for about 20 minutes (until the liquid is greatly reduced). Strain the liquid to remove the berry seeds; you should have about 1 cup of syrup. Allow the syrup to cool completely.

Add 1 cup of syrup and 2 pints of vanilla ice cream to a blender and mix on high until smooth and creamy.

The childhood flavors of chocolate, graham cracker, peanut butter, and marshmallow find a more sophisticated presentation in this ice cream cake. What’s more, almost all of the components come straight from the supermarket, so this cake is a snap to put together.

½
cup light corn syrup

½
cup peanut butter

1 7½
-ounce jar marshmallow fluff

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Start by making the fudge sauce: Bring the whipping cream and corn syrup to a boil in a heavy medium-sized saucepan set over medium to medium-high heat. Immediately remove from heat and whisk in chocolate until smooth. Refrigerate, stirring occasionally, until cool but still pourable (about 45 minutes).

When you put the fudge in the fridge, start your crust. Spray a 9-inch springform pan with a little non-stick spray. Combine graham cracker crumbs and brown sugar; mix in melted butter. Press in the bottom and up the sides of the pan. Bake at 350 for about 10 minutes, until set and slightly browned at edges. Remove from oven and cool on counter.

Once your crust is cool and the fudge sauce is set, make your peanut butter ice cream: First, soften the vanilla ice cream enough that you can mix it in a stand mixer or with a handheld mixer. Don’t allow it to soften too much, though, because it will develop ice crystals when it refreezes. Mix the ice cream and peanut butter until well combined.

Spread one half of the ice cream in your graham cracker crust. Top with ¾ cup fudge sauce and spread to cover evenly. Freeze for about 10 minutes. (Keep an eye on the rest of the ice cream to make sure it doesn’t melt—you may need to stick it in the freezer for some or all of the 10 minutes.)

Spread the rest of the ice cream on the cake, then spread with another ¾ cup fudge sauce and freeze for about 10 to 15 minutes.

Meanwhile, make the fluff and the peanut butter caramel: Fold the whipped topping and the marshmallow fluff together. In a small saucepan, mix the peanut butter and the syrup(s) together over medium-low heat until well combined and the consistency of honey.

Spread the marshmallow mixture over the top of the cake and drizzle with about ½ cup of the peanut butter caramel. Sprinkle with the chopped nuts and return the cake to the freezer.

To serve, run a sharp knife around the outside of the cake and release the pan’s sides. Slice carefully, running the knife under very hot water in between cuts. Drizzle serving plates with remaining fudge sauce and peanut butter caramel before topping with the cake.

 

E
loise Carberry folded her arms across her pinkaproned bosom,
tsk
ed softly, and shook her head as she threw down the figurative gauntlet. “They sure look alike to me.”

Tucker Gentry drew himself up straight and tight as a banjo string. “Criminy, Eloise. It’s ice cream. It all pretty much looks the same.”

She
tsk
ed again.

Tucker and Eloise squared off over a stainless-steel table, bare save for two white paper cups, each holding a single melting scoop of ice cream. One of those cups contained Tucker’s entry in the hand-churned-ice-cream category of the Lantana County Fair, a flavor he called “pepper praline.” The other cup held a scoop of Texas Twister from Remember the A-la-Mode, a smooth vanilla with a swirl of
dulce de leche
and a kick of ancho chilies.

“They don’t just look the same. They taste the same,” Eloise insisted. Her claim drew gasps from the crowd behind her. Word of the scandal must have spread through the fairgrounds, as the gathering in the creative-arts-exhibit pole barn was growing by the minute.

Tucker was just a little fella, his shoulder blades clearly visible beneath the wash-worn cotton of his blue plaid shirt, but he had honed his speaking voice through years of being the youth pastor at the One Word Bible Church. “I assure you, if Tally’s ice cream and mine taste the same, it’s not my doing.”

Every head in the crowd swiveled in unison to look at me.

As one of the judges in the edibles division, I had been in the exhibit when Eloise made her charge, but since it was my own recipe Tucker had allegedly copied, I’d quickly recused myself from taking any part in resolving the matter. Still, I didn’t consider the dispute personal until Tucker turned the tables and implied
I
was the thief.

Under the scrutiny of all those onlookers, I felt the burn of a blush lick my cheeks.

I was still trying to figure out how to respond to Tucker’s veiled accusation when my grandma Peachy elbowed her way in front of me.

“Young man,” she barked, “you mess with my girl, you mess with me.”

Some folks might not think an eighty-five-year-old woman with a bum knee would be much of a threat. But Peachy’s name is the only sweet thing about her. She can shoot as straight as she can spit, and I’ve seen her stand down a longhorn bull with nothing but a wire whisk in her hand.

If Tucker Gentry had had the good sense God gave little bunny rabbits, he’d have tucked his tail between his legs and apologized. But instead he narrowed his eyes like he was going to go toe-to-toe with Peachy.

Garrett Simms cleared his throat. He stood a head taller than anyone else in the room, had to be close to six foot four inches, with pale red hair all over his head and just about every visible bit of skin. Despite his height and hirsuteness, he had gentle features, womanly hips, and a quiet, lilting voice. Normally, Garrett didn’t command much respect. But as the head judge of the edibles division of the Lantana County Fair, he wielded considerable power. When he held up his soft pale hands in a plea for silence, the bickering stopped.

“Miss Ver Steeg and I will decide whether Mr. Gentry’s entry should be disqualified.”

Kristen Ver Steeg, the third judge on the panel, shook her head. “Sorry, Garrett. I need to recuse myself, too.”

I can’t speak for the whole crowd, but Kristen’s announcement caught me off guard. Kristen Ver Steeg was a relative newcomer to Dalliance, having opened a small law firm in town just a few years before. Both her office and her swank condo community were out on FM 410, in the part of Dalliance that was more suburb than small town. The only reason she’d been given a spot on the judging panel was that, as a former member of the pageant circuit, she’d volunteered to coordinate the Lantana Round-Up Rodeo Queen Pageant.

In short, Kristen was a Dalliance dilettante. I couldn’t imagine she’d ever crossed paths with Tucker Gentry. And while she might know Eloise Carberry—as the reigning president of the League of Methodist Ladies and a founding member of the Dalliance Fat Quarters quilting club, Eloise knew just about everybody—the two women couldn’t have had enough history to justify Kristen recusing herself. After all, Dalliance is the sort of town where you can’t sneeze without someone’s second cousin saying “God bless”; we had to play fast and loose with notions of “bias” if we wanted to put together a panel of judges for any of the fair competitions.

Garrett Simms must have shared my surprise. “Really?” he asked.

By way of an answer, Kristen moved a step away from the table.

Garrett shrugged. “All right, then, I guess I’ll make the call.”

Eloise Carberry handed him a plastic spoon, and Garrett picked up the first cup of ice cream. Tucker’s.

Garrett had just closed his fleshy pink lips around the spoon when my cell phone started vibrating in the front pocket of my jeans.

I pulled it out, cussing under my breath. The screen indicated it was my cousin Bree calling. She was manning the A-la-mode booth over on the midway.

I hustled a few yards away, ducking behind a shelving unit lined with jars of preserves, and answered.

“What’s up?”

“Hey,” Bree said. She never moved faster than a sashay, but she sounded like she’d been running. “I need you back here, pronto. You and Peachy. And bring that man of yours, too.”

“Is everything okay? Is Alice all right?” About the only thing Bree got worked up about was her precocious teenage daughter. Alice didn’t raise much heck, but she still managed to get herself into some sticky situations.

“She’s fine as frogs’ hair. For now.”

“Well, I’m kinda busy here,” I said. “Eloise accused Tucker of stealing an A-la-mode recipe—”

“Tally,” Bree snapped. “This is an emergency. You’ll never in a million years guess who just moseyed past the booth.”

“Who?”

“Sonny Anders.”

“No.” The last anyone had seen of Alice’s daddy, he’d kissed his toddler child on the forehead before driving off into the night with an exotic dancer named Spumanti.

“Yep. Just strutting down the midway, bold as brass.”

“Sweet Jesus,” I breathed.

Bree laughed. “I don’t think the good Lord had anything to do with this.”