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

by Nancy CoCo

  He bent down and picked up the stubborn old woman. She stiffened so that when he picked her up he could only lift her under her folded arms. She popped up, legs still crossed as if she were on a flying carpet. Rex unceremoniously took her into the cell and deposited her on the cot. Then he left her there, locking the jail cell behind him.

  “I’m going to call the newspaper,” she threatened him. “They need to know about police brutality.”

  “Have at it.” Rex waved her phone in the air. “I have your phone. You get one phone call. I suggest you call your lawyer.”

  He turned on his heel and headed back to me. I hurried back to the space where he left me. “Crazy old woman,” he muttered as he came through the hall door.

  “So that was Mrs. Finch? How old is she?”

  “She must be in her nineties.”

  “That’s a lot of gumption for a woman that old,” I said and bit my bottom lip. “What are you going to do if people rally around her? If Liz or Angus got wind of her protest it would be plastered all across the front page.”

  “Then I’m sure I will be patted on the back for job well done. That woman and her dogs have been terrorizing the island for at least the last thirty years.”

  I laughed. “If she’s in her nineties, I’d suspect she has been terrorizing for a lot longer than thirty years. What are you going to do if people really protest?”

  “I’ll open the jail cell. Either she’ll go on her own or she’ll stay on her own. At least for now I know my crime scenes are safe.”

  Mal wagged her tail in my arms and put her paw on Rex’s arm as if to agree with him.

  “Thanks again for the use of Mal,” Rex said and glanced at the clock. “Wait, I thought you were supposed to be at the Grand by seven PM for that reality show.”

  “I am,” I said. “How did you know?”

  “It’s a small island,” he answered. “News travels and you are going to be late.”

  I followed his gaze to the wall clock that read 6:50 PM. “Oh, look at the time. You’re right. I’m going to be late. Best of luck with Mrs. Finch and let me know if you want Mal to help out any more.”

  “I will—be careful out there,” Rex called after me. “Remember to lock your doors.”

  “Okay, bye.” I waved behind me and scooted out the door. There was no time to let Mal walk and do her business. At this rate I’d be lucky to be only five minutes late. If I let Mal down, I’d either have to drag her after me or miss my curtain call altogether while she continued to sniff the local gardens.

  Decision made. I scurried back to the McMurphy and put Mal in her crate. “You’ll get your walk when I get home, okay?”

  Mal wagged her tail and circled her blanket-filled crate three times before she settled into a peaceful ball of fluffy curls. I raced upstairs and grabbed my duffel bag full of supplies. We’d been told we would need to bring clean underwear, a toothbrush, and toothpaste, along with a brush and face wipes.

  The director couldn’t guarantee we’d get home until morning, and he wanted us to have an overnight bag just in case.

  Duffel in hand, I slipped out the back of the McMurphy. The late-night light was soft as the moon had slipped over the horizon. Mackinac Island was far enough north that summer twilight lasted a long time as it fought with the sun and the darkness that followed it.

  It occurred to me that I forgot to ask what kind of bones they had dug up. Did we know if the victim was a man or a woman? Or if they had been murdered or merely died of natural causes.

  I guessed I’d find out more in the morning. But for now I was late, and I knew that wouldn’t sit well with Peter. If the great chef had one pet peeve, it was tardiness. I had learned that long ago when I was in school.

  This would be my first time ever being tardy for Peter. I winced at the thought of how angry he’d be with me. Shaking off the haunting feeling of dread, I hurried faster to the Grand Hotel. I guessed I’d find out what my consequences for being late would be. Like it or not, I had signed a contract that listed the times I was supposed to report in. Would this be the last time I was allowed on set?

  CHAPTER 15

  “You’re late,” Austin said as I rushed through the door of the Salon D. He pushed his long bangs out of his eyes. Today he wore round black-rimmed glasses. His slim body was covered with a white T-shirt and blue jeans.

  “I know.” I made a face and grabbed the outfit he held in his hand on my way to the curtained dressing area. It should have been uncomfortable changing behind a curtain in such a public place, but at this point, I was beyond embarrassment.

  “Let me guess, your dog dug up more body parts.” He stood outside the curtain as I ripped off my clothes and quickly dressed in the styled outfit.

  “No, the police had Mal sniffing gardens to look for more evidence. I was at police headquarters picking her up.” I stepped out in a denim skirt and checkered blouse. “Really?” I asked as I waved my hand over the outfit.

  He held his hands as if they were a camera lens. “Perfect girl-next-door. On to hair and makeup.” He pushed me to the director-chair seats.

  “Just don’t braid it, okay?” I sat in the chair. “And avoid the Gilligan’s Island Mary Ann look.”

  “Ha, Mary Ann is exactly the character you’re cast as.” He grabbed up a brush and brushed out my shoulder-length brown hair. “You’re going to be team cooking tonight,” he said. “It will be very anxiety provoking. Things will go horribly wrong but your team will pull it out in the end. Of course, not before you get bullied by the mean girl and step in to encourage the African American boy.”

  “Do you mean Jabar?” I asked as he scraped my hair to the side, put it in a low ponytail, and sprayed all the wispy hairs into place. “I’ve tasted his candy. He’s very good.”

  “Not tonight,” Austin said as he placed a chef’s hat on my hair, pinned it into place, and then sprayed so much hairspray I coughed until my eyes watered.

  “Justine, get over here.” Austin snapped his fingers at the young blond makeup artist. He checked his watch. “She’s five minutes late. I don’t know if they will want to write that into the script or not. After all, you are supposed to be staying at the mansion on the hill with the others.”

  “I live on island, people are going to figure out I wasn’t staying with the others,” I pointed out as Justine dutifully finger tapped foundation on my face.

  “Oh, there you are.” Patrick, the redheaded, freckled producer’s assistant, came rushing into the salon. “Cameras are rolling. So what we’re going to do is rush you into the kitchen while Chef Thomas is giving instructions. There’s a red X on the floor in front of the two fudge cooling tables. Take your place on the X and Chef will rip you a new one. Can you squeeze out any tears?”

  I grabbed the script story he had in his hand to quickly figure out what all was going to happen in tonight’s shoot. “I think I can,” I said with a nod of my head. “I know he certainly made me cry while I was in school. I’ll try to relive those moments.”

  “Good.” He rushed me out of the salon and down the hall into the kitchen set. “Look apologetic” were his last words as he shoved me into the lights and cameras.

  The director rolled his fingers for me to enter. I swallowed when I heard Peter giving instruction. No one was ever late for his class. Lack of punctuality was an insult and the first time he ripped you a new heart. The second time you were thrown out of the class to cool your heels for an entire semester. Trust me, no one wanted that.

  It seems my tardiness played well with the writer’s vision for the show. I stood on my spot and waited, wishing I were able to join the rest of the cast behind their respective tables. But no, I was left to cool my heels while a twinge of embarrassment colored my cheeks.

  Finally, dramatically, Peter turned to me. He was no longer my friend. The man was once again the soul-searing demigod chef who held your dreams in his hand. “You’re late!”

  I squirmed. “I’m sorry, I had an emergen—�
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  “No excuses!” he shouted. “Do you have any idea what kind of opportunity you are given here? Do you know how many others were rejected so that you had this opportunity?”

  “No . . .”

  “And you waste my time and the time of your fellow contestants by being late.”

  “I apologize.”

  “Not good enough! You must be taught there are consequences for blowing an opportunity like the one you have here today.”

  I looked at the eight remaining cast members. “Sorry.”

  The director held up his hand, which was a cue for “hold your places.” The cameras turned their lenses on the other cast members. The self-taught candy maker looked empathetic while the rest of the cast held various expressions from horror to disgust to glee at the prospect of my consequences.

  Then the director made a whirling motion with his finger and the cameras once again turned their cold eyes on me and Chef Thomas.

  “This is an elimination round,” Chef Thomas announced. “The challenge is to come up with a fresh savory fudge recipe. Each team will be given two minutes to take two ingredients from the challenge table and the rest of their ingredients from the pantry. Work together or go it alone at your own peril. You have thirty minutes and each team must present one plated savory fudge for judgment.”

  The camera panned to the group. The teams were split into guys versus girls, who looked alternately eager and horrified by the variety of cheeses and savory meats on the table.

  Then Chef Thomas turned to me. “For your consequence, you are your own team. You will have a five-minute wait period and then you will get one minute to gather what you need from what’s left at the savory table and the pantry.”

  The director pointed the lenses on me, and I looked rightfully horrified. Then he pointed to a spot in the corner with a stool and small workspace. I went to the spot as directed.

  “Your time begins . . . now!” Chef Thomas said, and the two teams ran to the savory table, grabbing the best ingredients, then rushed to the pantry.

  After the appropriate amount of time, the cameras once again pointed at Chef Thomas, who made a big deal out of timing my “one” minute to gather what I needed.

  I didn’t waste time thinking about the savory. I was left with Slim Jim sausages and sharp cheddar cheese. Grabbing a bag of potato chips off the shelf, I raided the pantry for the staples in fudge making—sugar, cocoa, and cream.

  “Time!”

  I went back to work. The idea was to create the basic fudge, then chop the savory into chip-size bits, and garnish with crumbled potato chips for a taste of an American picnic.

  The cameras rolled while we worked. The other teams had a person to create the fudge and a person to set up the plates and the rest to prepare the ingredients. Since Slim Jims were already cooked, I didn’t have to waste time cooking bacon or sausage like the other two groups did.

  More importantly, I was used to working alone and so my inner timekeeper moved quickly and efficiently. Another part of my consequences was the lack of a candy thermometer and an electric food processor to chop. It was not a problem for me. Papa Liam had believed in the original McMurphy recipe—that meant learning what a true soft-ball looks like in a bowl of ice water.

  “Five minutes—” Chef Thomas sounded the alarm. The other teams scrambled. The team of guys was embroiled in a personal dispute over whose recipe was best and how best to crumble bacon and plate the fudge. The female team had their fudge done, cooled, and plated with three minutes to spare. All of the members gave each other a high five.

  I ignored the butterflies in my stomach. It was hard not to get caught up in the competition part of cooking. I remembered to breathe through the process and trust the flow.

  “One minute,” came the call, and the cameramen closed in on me. I cut my fudge, sprinkled the garnish, and plated as they counted down: “five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one! Time’s up!”

  Everyone’s hands went up to prove they were done, and the team members clapped in relief.

  Next, I stood at the table in front of the judge. On my plate was a simple piece of red, white, and blue checkered fabric. Three pieces of garnished fudge rested in a pyramid. I glanced at the others’ work.

  The female team had chocolate and caramel garnish on the plate. Their fudge was extra creamy vanilla with a brie base and bacon garnish. The quarreling men’s team had two presenters vying for Chef Thomas’s attention. They explained their Swiss cheese garnish and bacon-infused dark chocolate fudge.

  The camera moved to me and my simple plate. “It’s an American Picnic theme,” I said. “There are bits of Slim Jim and cheddar throughout. The garnish of salty potato chips helps contrast the savory with the sweet of a simple cocoa fudge recipe.”

  The judges were Mrs. Birdwell, head of the historical society, Karla Heys, the owner of the Heys Candy Shoppe on the island since 1875, and Chef Thomas.

  The judges gave their impression of each type of fudge. Each judge was directed to give a good or a bad critique. They were instructed to question the quarreling team as to why there were two spokespersons, and they made a big deal about how the Swiss cheese garnish, while yummy, did not qualify as use of a savory ingredient in the fudge. They praised the creamy quality and smoky bacon flavor of the chocolate.

  Finally, they came to me.

  “Why are you not a part of a team?” Karla Hays asked.

  “I arrived late,” I said and stood with my chin up and my hands clasped behind my back.

  “Why were you late?” Mrs. Hansen asked me.

  “I have no excuse,” I said as I thought of how Chef Thomas worked at school. No reason was a good enough reason to be late. “I worked alone on my project and it shows in the simplicity of my plate.”

  “You are excused while the judges debate the merits of your work. Remember this is an elimination round. One or more of you will be going home,” Chef Thomas said.

  We all filed into a small room with a waiting room set. Here one camera was placed in the middle of two couches. We were directed where to sit and to act relieved to be done, but nervous about the results.

  “You did a good job on a last-minute project,” Cathy, the leader of girls’ team said.

  “Thanks,” I replied and slumped into my assigned seat. “I hope the design and flavors weren’t too simple.”

  Meanwhile the camera focused on the still-fighting leaders of the guys’ team. The director had worked up Tony, the loudmouthed New Jersey fudge-shop owner, and Jabar, the African American culinary-school graduate.

  I glanced at the watch on my wrist. It was two AM. I had my fingers crossed that I would be eliminated this time. These late night shoots were killing me.

  Thirty minutes later, we were called in for the judgment section. I stood with my fingers crossed behind my back that this silliness would finally be done.

  The judges already taped their sections. In fact, Mrs. Birdwell and Karla Hay were no longer in the room. I envied their early release. The director left Peter to give the news of winners and losers. He was directed to read from the script while the cameras focused on the contestants. The two sections would be spliced together in editing and look as seamless as if they were all in the room with us.

  Peter started with the vanilla fudge team, expressing his delight at the flavor, texture, and presentation.

  “Team A,” Chef Thomas said. “You are the winners of this round. You are free to leave.”

  The girls hugged each other in relief and gave high fives as they left the room.

  “Team B and Chef McMurphy, one or more of you are going home.”

  “And cut,” the director said. “Contestants, move to the closer red Xs. Set up for close-ups on the contestants.”

  We were herded together, and our plated fudges were replaced with copies, made by the prop crew, that would not melt under the lights.

  “And five, four, three, two, one . . .” The director pointed to Chef Thomas.
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  “Team B, your lack of ability to work together on a team assignment is appalling. In the fudge business your egos must be checked at the door. Couple that with your lack of two savory ingredients in your fudge and you are clearly not up to par on this challenge.”

  He turned to me. Winked. Then read. “Chef McMurphy, your tardiness is appalling and unacceptable in this competition. The simplicity of your plate was rudimentary. That said, you took your loss of time well and used what was left over to create a surprisingly tasty fudge. Chef McMurphy . . .”

  He paused while the director counted down with his fingers.

  “You are still in the competition. You may leave.”

  CHAPTER 16

  I was all set to be eliminated. I must have looked as stunned as I felt. It took me a moment to realize that I was to leave, and I nodded and walked out. We were told to rally in the waiting room, where the single camera caught our reactions to our placements.

  Team A gushed over my making it through this section. They hugged me and patted me on my back. I smiled at the praise and expressed my surprise.

  Fifteen minutes later the remaining contestants came in. The writers had indeed let go both of the leaders of Team B, leaving only Tim the faux hawked teddy bear of a guy from Indiana and Jon, the younger tattooed kid from Seattle.

  After our reactions were shot, we were told we could go home. I changed out of my wardrobe in the ladies’ room, exhausted.

  “Chef Thomas really likes you,” the self-taught woman said as I came out of the stall dressed in my yoga pants and T-shirt with the McMurphy logo, the wardrobe on a hanger. She ran a brush through her light brown hair.

  “He was my advisor in culinary school,” I said.

  “I’ve bet they’ve scripted you to win. I’m Cathy, by the way.” She offered her hand.

  “I know, it’s on your hat on set,” I said and shook her hand.

  Cathy giggled. “It certainly is. You’re Allie, right?”