by Nancy CoCo
“Got it.” He put the pencil back behind his ear. “I’ll get started on it right away.”
“Great, thanks.” Brent went off stage to make the display. I stirred my fudge until it boiled long enough to reach soft-ball stage.
I noticed that the other two contestants had people making three separate fudge bases on my right and cutting up add-in ingredients on the left.
Meanwhile, my two “helpers” stood grim watch over me like a pair of angry genies.
“I thought Cathy said you two were nice guys,” I muttered.
“Did you hear something?” Jabar asked Tony.
“Something buzzing like a mosquito,” Tony replied.
“We should squish it if it gets too close.”
“Really?” I put my hands on my hips. “Really? This is how you’re going to play this?”
Neither said a word.
I shook my head and poured the chocolate base on the cooling table and started talking as I folded and cooled it. “My Papa Liam McMurphy made fudge demonstrations a true entertainer’s art. He would fold the fudge in long streams and create art outlines in the air as he told his story. One of my favorite stories was a take on the old Henny Penny story. Do you know that story?”
I glanced up, but all I saw were folded arms and unsmiling faces. “I see that you need to hear this story. There once was a little rabbit who said to her friends, ‘Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we shared carrot fudge?’”
I tossed the cooling fudge in the air and created the outline of bunny ears that fell back to the table as I talked and scraped and folded. “‘Who’s going to get the carrots?’ Little bunny asked.” I tossed the outline of a carrot. “All of bunny’s friends had things to do and were too busy to gather carrots. So little bunny did. ‘Who’s going to peel the carrots?’ bunny asked. Again all her friends were busy. So little bunny peeled the carrots.” Again I tossed the outline of a carrot. “‘Who is going to get the cocoa and the sugar and the milk?’ bunny asked. Again every one of her friends was too busy to gather the other ingredients. So little bunny did.”
I noticed how the cameras were focused on me and Papa’s story. “Little bunny was getting tired of doing everything herself. So she asked her friends, ‘Who is going to cook the fudge?’ But no one had the time to cook the fudge. So little bunny did.” I outlined a spoon with the twist of my wrist. The fudge was growing thicker, and I hurried my story. “When the fudge was cooked, little bunny asked, ‘Who is going to cool the fudge?’ Again no one had the time to cool the fudge. Finally, a sad little bunny added carrots to her fudge.”
I separated the base into three parts. For the first part I sprinkled crispy rice and caramel pieces on the top of the cooling fudge and carefully folded it in to create a crunch-bar fudge. On the middle piece I added peanuts and caramel for a Snickers-bar fudge, and on the third part I added coconuts and almonds for an Almond Joy fudge.
“Finally, it came time to cut and serve the fudge. Little bunny asked, ‘Who will cut and serve the fudge?’ No one volunteered, and so bunny cut and plated her own fudge.”
I sliced up the fudge into the appropriate piece count and placed each piece in a tiny paper cup the color of a Reese’s candy holder. I kept talking as I worked quickly. “When little bunny’s friends gathered to eat the fudge she reminded them, ‘Who gathered the carrots?’ ‘You did, little bunny.’ ‘And who cut the pieces?’ ‘You did, little bunny.’ ‘Who gathered the other ingredients and cooked the fudge and cooled the fudge and folded and cut the fudge?’ ‘You did, little bunny.’ ‘Ah yes, so I did. And who is going to eat the fudge?’”
I paused and let the silence draw out. “‘That’s right,’ said little bunny. ‘I am going to eat the fudge.’ And so she did, giving none to anyone who didn’t want to help.”
“That’s a stupid story,” said Jabar. “There’s no way you can eat all that fudge.”
“In the end,” I said, “all the viewers will know who deserved to win the fudge challenge.”
For the final type of fudge I created pourable chocolate fudge and used it to coat fresh popped popcorn, then added peanuts to the mix and cut it up into a chocolate version of Cracker Jack fudge.
By this time Brent came in pushing the bicycle display. He stayed to help me fill the display with plated fudge as the audience started the countdown of “Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one.”
“Time’s up.”
I put my last piece of fudge on the display and put my hands in the air. A quick look around showed everyone on set with their hands in the air.
“Team members, thank you for your help. You may now leave the kitchen.”
My team was the first to leave. I noted that Brent hung back and watched as the team helpers left the studio to go to the greenroom and await word of the winner.
The other two finalists explained their fudge choices and displays. The man had a baseball diamond display and made classic ball-game fudges—including a hot dog–inspired fudge and a nacho-inspired fudge. I gave the guy points for originality. The other woman had a big birthday cake display with balloons. Her fudges included vanilla cake batter flavored with sprinkles, red-velvet fudge, and German chocolate fudge with pecan and coconut frosting. My teeth hurt looking at her sweets.
It came time for me to explain my fudges. “I created an old-fashioned bicycle display because bicycles are iconic to Mackinac Island.”
“Why the big-wheel bike?” the director asked.
“Because it recalls nostalgic Victorian times, also a hallmark of Mackinac Island. I then chose to create candy-bar fudges because candy bars and Cracker Jacks are all served on the boardwalks where summer and bicycles meet.”
The director dismissed me so that he could have the surprise judge do the taste test and judge on presentation, variety, and taste.
I walked to the greenroom, where they had a camera set up to capture us waiting and sweating out our final judgment.
“Good job, you two,” I said and shook their hands. “Your displays and fudge varieties were truly lovely.”
“Thanks,” Mark said.
“How do you feel?” I asked Erin.
“I think I could win,” she said and sat back. “My fudges speak of the wonder of childhood.”
“And you?” I asked Mark.
“There’s nothing more iconic than baseball on a summer afternoon,” he said. “With my savory fudges I’m pretty sure I won this hands down.”
“Wait, savory fudge is not something little kids will eat,” Erin said. “I think mine is better.”
“I disagree,” Mark said. They stood and went toe-to-toe for a while. The camera guy ate it up, sticking the camera into their faces to show the emotion on their faces as fingers pointed back and forth and faces turned red and arguments turned heated.
I moved away from the fight scene, disappointed with what they called good television these days. While I was scooting away from the other two finalists and the camera guy, something caught my eye as out of place.
Tilting my head, I looked again and saw what looked like the handle of a baseball bat sticking out from the skirt of a table that was set up with food and beverages for the cast and crew. Was I seeing things? Was Peter’s story going through my mind? I mean, who would bring a bat on set? And who would be silly enough to leave it lying around if they used it on someone?
I went over and got down on the floor to take a closer look. Lifting the skirt to the table, I saw there were a number of boxes under there containing a croquet set, a volleyball set, and bats and gloves for softball.
“What are you doing?” Brian asked.
“Oh.” My heart rate picked up. It was a bit like being caught with your hand in the cookie jar. “I dropped . . .”
“What? Did you lose a contact or something?”
“That’s it,” I said and pretended to feel around on the floor near the table. “Don’t move.”
“Surely you wear disposables.” He tapped his toe.
“Wait! Found it.” I sat back on my heels and pretended to put in the contact. I batted my eyes a couple of times and then stood. “Much better. Strange how contacts still pop out sometimes.”
He gave me a narrow-eyed stare. “Go sit down on your mark.”
“Right.” I scurried over and took my seat on the waiting couch where we pretended to be on pins and needles over who would be the winner. For a moment I contemplated whether it would be Mark or Erin who won. Neither one had made friends or real enemies on set so I guess it didn’t matter who won.
“The judge will see you now,” the call went out, and we rose and shuffled out the door. I paused at the open door and asked Caroline, the ever-vigilant director’s assistant, a question. “What’s with all the sports equipment under the table?”
“Oh, the producers wanted to hold a wrap picnic instead of a party. They felt it would be great for the show to highlight the lawns and atmosphere on the island.”
“Huh, nice idea.”
“Thanks,” she nodded. “It was mine.”
“Of course it was,” I muttered, then asked, “has that equipment always been under there?”
“I’ve been adding to it every day I get to the mainland.”
“Did you get bocce ball?” I added when she appeared to wonder at my questions. “I understand it’s a great lawn game.”
“Thanks, I’ll look for it.”
“Allie McMurphy is wanted on set ASAP!” The call came down the hallway, and I scurried off to find out my reality-show fate.
CHAPTER 35
“So, who won?” Jenn asked when I dragged myself home at two AM . . . Thursday.
“What are you doing up at this time of night?”
“Couldn’t sleep.” Jenn stood in my galley kitchen and stirred a small pot of hot cocoa. She wore a silky nightshirt and matching robe.
“Is that real cocoa?” I sat my weary bum on the barstool and leaned against the counter.
“Yes, I saw you hadn’t come home yet. I figured we could both use something to help us sleep.”
“You are awesome.” I leaned my elbows on the countertop and rested my chin in my hands.
“Did you win?”
“I can’t tell you that,” I chided. “By contract, I can’t say a word. But I can tell you that I spoke to Peter today.”
“How is he?”
“He looks horrible and doesn’t remember a whole lot, but other than that, he’s alive and mending.”
“Did he remember who did it?” She poured the cocoa into two cups and passed a steaming cup on to me.
“No.” I sipped. “He remembers having his head covered and then being beaten. He thinks it was two men and he said it felt like they hit him with wood—like a baseball bat.”
“Ouch.” Jenn leaned against the counter and hugged her cocoa. “Two men? If they had a bat they could have killed him. Why didn’t they finish the job?”
“That’s a good question. I think whoever beat Peter wanted him out of the job, but not necessarily dead.”
“Someone he knows then. Only someone who cared would say when to stop.”
“Something else,” I said. “I discovered a series of lawn games in the greenroom under the table. Among the things were baseball bats, softballs, and gloves.”
“Did you tell Rex?” she asked. “They could test the bats for residue or something, couldn’t they?”
“I don’t know. You’re the one dating the science guy.”
“I’ll ask Shane in the morning.”
I sipped my warm chocolate. “How’s the work going for the last Lilac Festival tea?”
“We’re ready to make it quite the bash. I’ve got tents to be set up in the park at the foot of the fort. We’ve asked everyone to wear eighteen-nineties dress. I even have costumes from the Old Tyme Photography shop for those who don’t have a costume.”
“Wow, sounds great. Is there music?”
“Yes, I’ve scored a three-piece orchestra to play classical pieces. You should see Sandy’s centerpieces. They’re works of art. I asked her if we could auction them off.”
“Wait.” I drew my eyebrows together. “Won’t an auction disrupt the genteel tea setting you described?”
“A silent auction, silly. It will benefit the women and children’s center and I think it will help Sandy get her chocolatier company going.”
“I am proud to say the McMurphy sponsored you and Sandy with your new businesses. Just promise me you will never get involved in these reality shows. Deal?”
“Wait, what? But I’m ready for my close-up . . .” She framed her face in the old Vogue manner.
We both giggled. “Oh, now, it’s so late we’re getting slap-happy.” I got off the stool and put my cup in the sink. “I’ve got to get up in a couple hours.”
“I don’t know how you are doing this,” Jenn said. “You have to sleep sometime. Why don’t you text Sandy and have her come in in the morning and take care of the fudge?”
“Yes,” came my mom’s voice from the hallway. She stepped out into the low light from the lamp over the kitchen sink. “You can’t make fudge on this little sleep.... You’re asking for disaster.” Mom wore a silky housecoat in a floral pattern. Her face was bare from makeup and her hair was brushed back and hung to her shoulders.
She was a beautiful woman, one of those women who look better every year. My dad used to tease that she aged like a fine wine—better the longer it lived.
“I asked Sandy to cover me yesterday when I went to visit Peter. She’s making centerpieces. She doesn’t have time to cover for me.”
“And if you get hurt then who will cover for you?” Mom hugged her waist. “Liam would have a fit if he knew you were making fudge on so little sleep.”
I cringed. “Okay. Fine.” I hated the idea of giving up control of the McMurphy even for a day or two. But Mom was right. The last thing I needed was to be so tired I caused an accident. Burns from boiling sugar were nothing to mess with.
“Good,” Mom said. “You go to bed and get eight hours of steady sleep. I will contact Sandy at seven AM and open the fudge shop. You have enough fudge made that things will last until nine AM. I can handle the customers while Sandy makes the first two batches of fudge.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I said and kissed her cheek. “I’m lucky to have you still looking out for me.”
“I’ll remind you that you said that the next time you get mad at me for interfering.”
Nine hours later I was up and dressed and drinking my first cup of coffee. The problem with getting a good night’s sleep after surviving on only a few hours a night was that your brain didn’t want to wake up. I stood groggy and crabby and clung to my cup of coffee as if it were the only lifeline to sanity.
There was a knocking at the back door. “Oh,” I exclaimed as the sound startled me out of my groggy stupor. The apartment was four floors up, and the only way to get to the apartment’s back door was to climb up the fire escape. I went to the door and moved the tiny linen curtain that covered the face-high square window.
“Hi, Allie, can I come in?” Rex stood in front of the window. The man was wearing his official uniform. Somehow it made him even more attractive.
I opened the door. “Why are you knocking on the back door?” I asked as he stepped in. A quick look out behind him showed the metal ladder for the fire escape was lowered. No one else was in the alley.
“I wanted to talk to you without the entire town knowing,” he said. “Coffee smells good.”
“Would you like a cup?”
“Thanks!”
I pulled a thick blue mug out of the cupboard and poured him the last cup from my French press. “We have fancy coffee downstairs in the coffee bar.”
“This is great, thanks.” He took the mug from me.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Where’s your puppy?” He wandered into the living room.
“She’s downstairs with Frances and my mother.”
“Your
mother’s on the island?” He tilted his shaved head, his blue eyes laser bright. “I don’t think I’ve met her.”
“Please, I might be tired, but I’m not so tired to smell a redirect when one comes along. Why are you here, Rex?”
“I got word that you saw some yard games being stored on set that may—and I stress, may—have something to do with Peter Thomas’s assault.”
“Yes, it was the weirdest thing. I saw a bat shape sticking out from under the catering table in the greenroom. When I checked it out, I saw that there were three baseball bats, some gloves, and softballs. There were also more lawn games like croquet and horseshoes. When I asked about them I was told they were being gathered to hold an end-of-show picnic.”
“Okay.” He sat down on a stool and sipped his coffee.
“Peter said he was beaten by baseball bats . . .”
“That’s correct. Is there any evidence that these were the bats used on him?”
“What do you mean by evidence?”
“Did you see blood on them? Smell bleach that could have been used to get rid of blood?”
My shoulders slumped in disappointment. “No. I thought you could get a warrant and check them out yourself.”
His right eye twitched. “I wish it were that simple but we have to have just cause and a judge who believes that cause. If Mr. Thomas’s wounds are indicative of a blunt instrument such as baseball bats, then if I find a bat near where he was wounded or in the possession of a suspect, then I can get my warrant and have Shane do his magic.”
“If his wounds look like a blunt instrument? Did you see Peter?” I put my hands on my hips. “He didn’t exactly run into a door.”
“The medical examiner is going over the photos of his wounds along with the X-rays to make that determination.”
“But Peter told you he was hit with baseball bats.”
“Mr. Thomas said that they covered his head and then beat him with what he thought were baseball bats. Witnesses can be wrong.”
