To Fudge or Not to Fudge (A Candy-Coated Mystery with Recipes)

by Nancy CoCo

  “You are bad,” I said.

  “Hey, I wouldn’t talk if I were you,” she said. “At least I have a date.”

  “If you haven’t noticed, I’m a little too busy to date.” I sat back and closed my eyes. “If I agree to be part of the cast of Chef Thomas’s show, I won’t have any time at all.”

  “What about that young candy maker who came by this morning looking for a summer internship?”

  I opened my eyes and pursed my lips. “I completely forgot about her.”

  “I thought so. Her resume is on your office desk.” Jenn raised her arms in a long catlike stretch. “Look at it in the morning.”

  “I’m not ready to give up kitchen time to someone else,” I admitted. “I waited my entire life to make it mine and now it’s here.”

  “I happen to know your grandfather fostered new talent every year.”

  “Yes.” I nodded and finished my drink. “It’s how he took time off to play cards at the senior center. I don’t have a hobby or a regular card game to attend to . . .”

  “Maybe you should,” Jenn said pointedly. “All work and no play makes for a dull life. You’re young—you shouldn’t be so serious.”

  “The fate of the McMurphy is in my hands. It’s an awesome responsibility and everyone is expecting me to fail.”

  “If it sinks, it sinks.” Jenn shrugged. “It wouldn’t be your fault. Your parents aren’t exactly here working in the family business.” She waved her hand at the apartment. “All I’m saying is relax. You’ve been waiting your entire life for this—enjoy it while you have it.”

  I got up to take Mal out for her nightly walk. “Come on, Mal. Let’s go out.” I took her halter and leash off the hook by the back door.

  Jenn followed me to the back door. “Don’t be mad at me. Someone had to say it. As your best friend, it’s my responsibility to let you know when you get all work and no play.”

  I helped Mal step through her halter, clipped on the leash, and pulled doggie-poo bags out of the container near the door. Mal jumped up and down, pressing for the door in doggie excitement. “Your concern is duly noted.”

  “Good.” Jenn nodded. “Have fun on your walk. If you find another body, call me. I like to see Shane in his natural environment.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I think one body is enough for one day.”

  CHAPTER 6

  “I’m Allie McMurphy. I am the owner and fudge maker at the historic McMurphy Hotel and Fudge Shoppe,” I said. “Mackinac Island is the fudge capital of the world and I like to argue that my family fudge is the best on island. Our recipe has been around for over one hundred years . . .” I paused in horror. “I’m sorry. I forgot what else you wanted me to say.”

  “Talk to the camera,” came a disembodied voice from behind the bright lights.

  I turned back to the tiny red dot and tried to imagine a human face. This television stuff was harder than it looked. “I forgot what I was supposed to say next.”

  “Talk about the murder you helped solve.”

  “Oh.” I dropped my shoulders. “Why?”

  “It adds color to the show,” the voice said.

  “Come on, Allie, you can do better,” Chef Thomas’s voice came from my right.

  I caught myself looking into the dark at my right and instead addressed the camera in frustration. “I don’t see how solving a murder helps me win a fudge competition.”

  “It’s not about winning,” the director said. “It’s about what you can bring to the show that will make viewers look forward to the viewing every week.”

  “Peter,” I begged. “I’m not the person you want on your cast.”

  “Look at the camera.”

  “You are exactly the person we need.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You owe me for this, Chef Thomas,” I muttered and narrowed my eyes. “Paybacks are hell.”

  “Smile and talk about the dead man you found in your utility closet.” Peter’s voice held a tone of laughter, and I sent a stink eye in the direction of his voice.

  “While remodeling the hotel this spring, I was horrified to find a dead body in the second-floor utility closet . . .” said the voice behind the camera.

  Sighing, I turned back to the camera, gave my best fake smile, and repeated what he said, “While remodeling the hotel this spring, I was horrified . . .”

  See? I was naturally bad at the television thing. It’s not that I didn’t want to help Peter out. It was that—well, I was a fudge maker and an hotelier. I wasn’t a reality-television person. Now Jenn on the other hand—she had the looks and the personality for television.

  I mentioned that to Peter after my screen test. “Seriously, Jenn’s smart and pretty and personable. You should sign her up for your show.”

  “She can’t make fudge like you can,” he said. We sat outside on the veranda of a small café near the Grand Hotel. A waitress in a gray costume with a white cap and a white apron brought us a plate of tea cakes.

  “She doesn’t need to make good fudge,” I pointed out and helped myself to a petit four. “She just has to look good on television.”

  “You see, that is why I want you on the show. Not a single person in the cast can cook let alone make decent candy. I was hoping to bring you in so that at the very least I wouldn’t have to lie to all of them about who’s the best.”

  “You could bring us in as a team—Jenn can do the talking and the interviewing, etc. I can be the silent partner who makes candy in the kitchen.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” he said and made a face as he bit into a cucumber sandwich. “For crying out loud.” He spit out his mouthful. “This place charges more than a five-star hotel. Why can’t they get a decent cook?”

  “The food’s not that bad here.” I snagged another cake. “You’re being way too fussy.”

  “Humph,” he snorted. “My palate is used to finer food.” He flagged the waitress down.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Take this back and tell the cook I want today’s tea platter, not last week’s.”

  “Is the food not right?” She asked, her brown eyes wide with concern. “Because chef is very good.”

  “Tell him I want fresh or I’ll come back there and show him how to cook.” He handed her his business card and turned back to me. I watched as she scurried off with the plate in her hand.

  “I wish you hadn’t done that. I was enjoying the petit fours.”

  “You’ll like them better when they are fresh.” His blue eyes glittered knowingly.

  “Okay, so tell me the truth. The director hated me, didn’t he?” I held up my hand when he started to speak. “No, don’t try to be kind.”

  “He wants you on the show,” Peter said. “And I want you on the show.”

  “I’m trying to run a business,” I whined.

  “I hear through the grapevine that you have an applicant for assistant candy maker. Is that right?”

  “Who told you that? Jenn?” I sat back and crossed my arms and tried not to pout. “I want to make all the fudge. I want it to be my success or failure.”

  “Think of her as your assistant. You don’t need to chop all the nuts or cut up the fruits or wash the dishes . . . need I go on?”

  I relaxed a little and tapped my finger on my cheek. “I see what you mean.”

  He reached over and took my hand in his. “Do this for me, please. I need to be able to have real fudge. It will be good for you and good for your shop.”

  I lifted the left side of my mouth in a disbelieving tight-lipped look. “Fine.”

  “That’s my girl.” He patted my hand.

  Just then the door to the café burst open and a red-cheeked, heavyset man in a chef ’s coat and hat barreled toward us. He had a platter of tea cakes in his hands, and the waitress followed behind, her eyes wide.

  “What is the problem with my tea cakes?” the chef said. “I made these myself not twenty minutes ago.”

  “If you made them twenty minutes ago, I’ll e
at my hat.” Peter went into full professor mode. “The bread is stale on top and soggy inside. The petit fours are far too sweet and I detect ice crystals in their center, which tells me they were frozen. Take me back into your kitchen. Let me see if you keep them in the freezer.”

  “No, sir, you cannot go into my kitchen. This is an outrage!”

  I watched in part horror and part humor as Peter got up, grabbed the tray, and strode straight back into the kitchen. I could well imagine what would happen next. I remember his “man on a mission for good food” mode. I was thankful it wasn’t me he berated this time.

  I paid the bill and left a hefty tip on the table. It would be hours before Chef Thomas would emerge from the kitchen vindicated. The poor cook had laid down a gauntlet in front of one of the masters at the cooking school. I almost winced when I heard plates smashing in the kitchen. Almost.

  Instead I walked away as quietly as possible. Seriously, did I want to expose myself to those tantrums again? This time they would be far worse—played up for drama and the estimated one million watchers.

  But then again, one million watchers who may be using my Web site and calling in orders for me to ship them fudge so that they could taste what Chef Thomas did.

  While Papa had left me with a good chunk of money, with the new Grander Hotel opening its doors, it never hurt to do a little publicity. What was that Jenn said? Bad publicity is better than no publicity.

  Speaking of publicity, it was high time I went back to the Town Crier and got that ad in the paper. I could also use it as an excuse to ask Liz what new gossip was going around about the bones Mal had dug up from under the lilac bush.

  Then a thought hit me—would it be too morbid to make neon orange fudge in honor of whoever lost their toes?

  Maybe not.

  CHAPTER 7

  “Rex isn’t giving me a lot of details,” Liz said. She sat at a desk behind the counter of the Town Crier. Dressed in cargo pants, a camp shirt, and fabulous boots, she had her feet up on the desk and her hands behind her curly hair. “I even tried baiting him with my feminine wiles.”

  That made me laugh. “He seems too no-nonsense to fall for that.”

  “He’s a guy,” she said with a shrug, released her hands, and leaned forward on her desk. “I always use the Erin Brockovich trick on a guy.”

  “Does that work?”

  “Often enough.” She sent me a fast grin. “Rex has been married twice. The man likes women so I had to try.”

  “Does he date?” The words came out of my mouth before I could stop them.

  “Some, not anyone on island that I know of.” Liz shrugged. “Last I heard there was this chick in St. Ignace. Why?”

  I paused and looked at her. Sometimes it was best not to say.

  “It’s like that, is it?” She asked and leaned back, putting her hands behind her head.

  “No, not really.” I wiggled uncomfortably in my seat. “One—I don’t have the time. Two—there was this thing with Trent Jessop that never got resolved. . . .”

  “Ah, the legendary coffee-spot incident. Yes, I heard about that.”

  My cheeks heated up in a blush. “Darn small community.” I pressed my hands to my cheeks to try to get them to calm down.

  “Hey, I’m a reporter. I hear everything that goes on around here.”

  “He acted as if it’s nothing. So maybe it was nothing.”

  “Oh, it was something.” She studied me. “I happen to know that he doesn’t make a habit of doing that in public.”

  “Oh.” It was all I could say. The memory of that incident was enough to throw me off track.

  “Is that all you wanted to know? How the investigation is going? Trust me, you could have called.”

  “No.” I pulled my small clutch out of my coat pocket. “I came down here yesterday to put a help-wanted advertisement in the classifieds. Then Mal pulled up those bones and I completely forgot why I came.”

  She sat up and pulled a paper out of the in-box on the top. “Okay, that’s simple enough. What are you looking for?”

  “I need a part-timer on the housekeeping staff and someone to relieve Frances at the front-desk reservations.”

  She handwrote notes on the paper. “Did you try the St. Ignace or Mackinac City employment agencies?”

  I made a face. “I prefer someone who knows the island—maybe spends the summer up here with their family like I did as a kid.”

  “So a local help-wanted . . .” She scribbled another note.

  “Yes.” I craned to make out what she wrote, but her handwriting looked more like scratches. “Can you read that?”

  Liz laughed. “It’s my personal shorthand. I developed it taking interview notes. I didn’t want the standard shorthand because people could read it and sometimes a reporter needs to keep information close to the vest so that their byline has some meaning. With so much social media, some things go viral quicker than I can write a decent article.”

  I winced. “I bet it’s tough these days.”

  “It is.” She raised an elbow in a slight shrug. “But the Town Crier is a family tradition. I’m not willing to let it go. Besides, we publish online as well as hard copy.”

  “Then it’s a labor of love.”

  “Yes.” She nodded. “There’s no money in it.”

  I drew my eyebrows together in concern. “Do you work elsewhere?”

  “Are you wanting to hire me?” She grinned. “I’m expensive.”

  I laughed. “No, I’m really looking for cheaper help. I was just being nosey.”

  “I freelance a lot. Newspapers might be going the way of the dinosaur, but everyone still needs competent writers who can put out good copy.”

  “So my want ad will be written by a pro . . .”

  She laughed. “Not sure if it will be read by the person you are looking for. You should put a note out on craigslist or one of the other sites.”

  “Oh, right. That’s a good idea.”

  “She’s good at scaring away business,” Angus MacElroy said as he came into the front from the back office. “Take the woman’s money.” He put his hand on Liz’s shoulder. “We could use it to replace the mulch under the lilac bushes.”

  “Hi, Mr. MacElroy,” I said and smiled.

  “Don’t smile at me,” he grumped and pulled the rabbit’s foot out of his breast pocket. “I’m still alive and for some crazy reason want to continue to be alive.”

  “Oh, Grandpa, that line’s going to get old fast.” Liz wagged her finger at him.

  “Remember you said that when this young lady finds my old bones trussed up somewhere.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. MacElroy, should I find your dead body, I’ll call Liz first so that she can take the credit and figure out who did it.” I winked at him as I handed over my debit card.

  “Have you heard anything else about the bones?” Liz asked her grandfather. “I know you have an ear to the ground when it comes to the locals.”

  “Everyone is interested in whom it might be, but no one knows of anyone missing, which leads us all to believe it was a fudgie who lost their way.” He shrugged. “The only good thing as far as I’m concerned is that toenail polish means those bones most likely belong to a younger female. That’s the speculation at the senior center anyway.” He put the rabbit’s foot in the breast pocket of his dress shirt and patted it. “This may mean your streak of finding old men dead is over. Not that I’m taking any chances.” He mumbled the last bit just loud enough for me to hear.

  “Angus?” I turned to the old man, who was giving me the squinty eye. “I’m buying a help-wanted ad. Liz has the particulars. All you have to do is swipe my card.”

  Angus swiped the card, then pulled a receipt pad out of his drawer and scrawled something on it in ink. He ripped the top off the pad and waved it at me. “Your card and your receipt.”

  “Thanks!” I stuffed it in my pocket and turned to leave.

  “Rumor has it you’re going to be part of that reality T
V program being filmed at the Grand. Is that true?” he asked.

  “I suppose.” I shrugged. “I’m only doing it as a favor to my old mentor and hoping it will bring more publicity for the McMurphy.”

  “Those things are scripted, you know.”

  “Technically they’re not scripted, they’re coached. I applied on one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That they boot me out early on. I’m too busy to give up a month—especially June—for these shenanigans.”

  “You know, there’s a great story there, Grandpa,” Liz said. “We could do a behind-the-scenes look at the making of a reality cooking show.” She drew the title across the air with her right hand. “I’ll interview Allie. We’ll get all the dirt about what really happens at one of those shows.”

  “I signed a disclosure waiver already.” I winced. “All I can tell you is that I did the screen test today. Now if they don’t put me on the cast I can tell you about the director and Peter. But until then I’m legally bound not to say anything. And their lawyers are ferocious when it comes to any leaks.”

  Liz made a face and shrugged. “I kind of figured but a reporter has to try.”

  “It doesn’t mean you can’t interview the director and the crew,” Angus said.

  “I’ll introduce you to Peter Thomas. He was my most-hated and then most-loved professor in culinary school.”

  “I had one of those,” Liz said. “It’s a good angle.” She rubbed her chin. “Not as good a story as a dead body. But then right now that’s not going anywhere. For all we know those bones in the mulch were two years old.”

  “Where’s that killer dog of yours?” Angus asked me.

  “Mal?” I smiled. “She’s with Frances, welcoming the guests.”

  “Call me if she finds any more bones, okay?” Liz got up and went to her desk to pick up a notepad. “I need to see how close I can get to an insider look at that reality team.”

  “Don’t tell them I sent you, I can’t afford to be sued,” I said.

  “Mum’s the word,” Angus said and zipped his lips and threw away the key.

  I laughed. “I haven’t heard that term in years. I think Grammy used to say it when she would sneak me a cookie.”