All You Need Is Fudge

by Nancy CoCo

  “Don’t worry,” the old woman said and waved her hand as if to brush away my protest. She patted Mal on the head. “What a pretty little doggie. How nice to have visitors.”

  “Are you sure she’s okay?” I asked as I faced the woman. I crouched down to look her in the eye.

  She appeared to be all there. I could see the intelligence shine.

  “She’s fine, dear,” the older woman said. “What did you call her?”

  “Mal. It’s short for Marshmallow. I’m Allie. Allie McMurphy.”

  “Hello, Mal.” The older woman scratched her behind the ears. “Are you out on a walk this fine morning? Did you come all the way from Main Street?”

  “She likes her walks,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Please have a seat, dear.” She pointed toward the white, wrought iron garden chair next to a matching bistro table. On top were a bright blue tablecloth, a set of white teacups, and a teapot. “I was having a refreshment. Would you like something?”

  “Oh, no thank you,” I said and took a seat. “Are you Mrs. English?”

  “Oh, no, dear. Cassandra is my stepsister. I’m Mrs. Jones.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Jones,” I said. “I’m relatively new to the island. I used to come to Mackinac every summer growing up, but I’m living here now and getting to know all the locals.”

  “That’s right. Your grandfather died this spring, didn’t he? I was so sorry to hear that. He was a jolly fellow.”

  “He had his moments,” I agreed. “Did you know him well?”

  “Oh, no. I’ve only been here with Cassandra for a year . . . but I did see him on occasion at the senior center when they had their monthly birthday lunches.” Mrs. Jones leaned toward me. “I like to go for the cake.”

  “I like birthday cake, too,” I said with a smile. “Mal seems to be really taken with you.”

  “She’s a dear. She reminds me of my Fluffy. Fluffy was a bichon. She lived to be seventeen years old. Almost as old in dog years as I am now. She would have liked you, Mal.” The old woman lifted Mal’s chin and looked her in the button eyes. “Bichons love other bichons.”

  “Mal has a good eye for nice people,” I said.

  “And a good nose for the dead, I hear.” Mrs. Jones looked at me. “You’re the one who keeps finding the murdered souls.”

  “Oh, um, not on purpose,” I said. “Angus McElroy keeps pulling out his lucky rabbit’s foot around me. He’s worried about the number of dead people I’ve found, but I swear I don’t make it a habit.”

  She laughed and reached for her cup of tea. “It’s okay. I don’t hold it against you.”

  “Mal, get down.”

  “Oh, no, she’s fine,” the woman said and put her hand on Mal’s back. “She’s not begging.”

  “I don’t let her near a table,” I said. “She has to learn manners.”

  I went over and lifted Mal from her lap. “We are so sorry to interrupt your morning. We should be going.”

  “Oh, no, dear. You aren’t interrupting.” Mrs. Jones put two sugar cubes in her teacup and stirred. “I fully expected you to come around sooner or later.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You have been investigating that poor girl’s murder. The one you pulled from the water.” She took a sip from her teacup, her gaze filled with mischief. “It was only a matter of time before you found out my son Harold was the key witness. I was certain you would be coming by to check out his story.”

  “Oh.” I sat down.

  Mal wiggled in my arms.

  “Right.”

  “What would you like to know, dear?”

  I swallowed hard. “Well, I guess I wanted to know if your son truly is a stargazer. I’m sure the police have checked out his story, but I wondered how good the view was from your home.”

  “I see.” She sipped her tea. “The telescope belonged to my stepsister’s grandfather. It has been in the house for over a hundred years. It’s on the roof near the first turret. There’s a widow’s walk there. The old man had it installed so that his wife could look for his ship when he was out on the lake. You see, he was a merchant and owned quite a few ships that moved through the lakes to Chicago and down the rivers. It was quite the waterway at the time. A lot of goods still move through the lakes. Sadly, it’s mostly sand, gravel, and oil these days. We don’t move manufactured goods this way much anymore.”

  “I see. Everyone knows that the telescope is there?”

  “Oh, yes, it’s quite a fact. I believe my stepsister’s mother has a biography in the library where she talks about the widow’s walk and the telescope.” She eyed me over her cup. “Anyone with a library card would know it’s there.”

  “Does your son use it?”

  “You’d have to ask him,” she said with a slight shrug. “I’m usually in bed by nine PM. He has a job at the Nag’s Head that keeps him out quite late. And then, there’s his new lady love. He doesn’t think I know about her, but I do.”

  “Who is she?” I asked.

  “Why would you want to know?”

  “She might know if he was here that night looking at the stars . . . or not,” I said. “She could corroborate his story.”

  “Funny. I wonder why the police didn’t ask me that.” She shrugged. “Perhaps they took him at his word. He’s a good boy, my son.”

  “I’m sure he is.” I patted her hand. “I bet he has a very good mother.”

  “I’m so proud of him,” she said with a sigh. “His lady is a member of the yacht club. He told me he met her there. I remember how exclusive that club is and I’m glad to know he is with a woman of good breeding.”

  “Have a good day, Mrs. Jones. It was so nice to meet you.” I put Mal down and tugged her onto the grass and away from the house.

  “Thanks for the visit, dear,” she called after me. “Come by again any time and bring your lovely doggie friend.”

  “Thank you,” I called, waving back at her. I rounded the corner of the house and looked up. She was right. There was a widow’s walk on the roof. I looked carefully and saw a long metal tube that could have been the telescope of so much interest. I had almost asked her if I could go up and look through it, but that would have been too forward. Besides, I was pretty darn sure that Rex already did . . . and at night. He wouldn’t have left anything as important as Paige’s life to a witness whose story wasn’t checked completely. It would be too easy to defend with an he said-she said argument.

  I frowned as we walked down the winding road. Harold Jones had a girlfriend from the yacht club. I glanced at the house. Mrs. Jones was right. The club members were very exclusive. Did they think Harold owned the English house? The man worked at the Nag’s Head bar. He wouldn’t be doing that if he had money . . . so why would a woman from the yacht club be dating him?

  I heard Jenn’s voice in my head. He might be really hot. It made me laugh. Mrs. Jones was in her eighties. At his youngest, Harold Jones was in his forties. What hot forty-year-old worked at a bar on a small tourist island and then went home to stargaze?

  It didn’t add up. Maybe if I could figure out who his girlfriend was, I would have better insight into what his motives might be for testifying. Was the killer offering him money? That would make sense. If he wanted to impress a yacht club member he would need a lot of money. I hurried down the hill with Mal.

  I needed to get back and do a fudge demonstration, then Jenn and I had a meeting with Mr. Devaney about the engagement plans. If I had time later in the afternoon, I might run by the yacht club and nose around a bit. I suddenly remembered that we were excused from the committee. That meant no entrance without a membership and I didn’t have one. I blew out a long breath. I would have to wait until the race week closing gala. Luckily, Trent had told me last night we were still going. It might be the last time I’d get inside the yacht club for a while. I would have to find out everything I could without being too obvious. It was going to be tricky.

  I ha
d to have a proper plan if I was going to pull this one off.

  Chapter 20

  “It feels strange meeting you girls here for lunch without Frances,” Mr. Devaney said. He looked ruffled by the secrecy. It was pretty clear he didn’t like it.

  “Well, you wouldn’t like being a spy, would you?” Jenn asked and winked at him.

  He harrumphed.

  We were seated in the corner of the Grander Hotel’s bistro. It was the best place we could meet for lunch without any of the locals knowing. The Grander Hotel was brand new on the island and run by an outside firm. Most of the locals boycotted it out of principle. They liked the idea that the island hadn’t changed from the Victorian era. The new hotel was fully updated, energy efficient, and a replica of a Victorian mansion.

  It was the replica part they hated the most. Everything else on the island was original. People worked hard not to turn the island into a theme park, but we needed new emergency equipment and updates to the police and fire departments . . . and the developers of the Grander Hotel had deep pockets. In the end, the replica was built and the island’s emergency responders had enough money to buy two fire trucks and hire two more policemen.

  It was really a win-win . . . unless you were a local. Then you groused about it. As it turned out, most of the tourists were suspicious of the replica and preferred to stay in an original. That was good news for the McMurphy, as well as the other hotels. The added hotel space was filled by overflow and brought more people downtown to eat at the pubs and buy fudge.

  I wasn’t afraid to give them my money for one lunch. As far as I was concerned, the Grander Hotel did more good than harm to the island.

  “What can I get you?” The waitress was dressed in full Victorian worker garb—long gray skirt and white leg-of-muffin sleeved blouse with an apron over it all, white hair cap.

  We gave her our orders.

  “What do you girls have for me?” Mr. Devaney asked.

  “We have three options,” I said. “We wanted to give you choices.”

  “How soon can these options happen?” he asked. “I don’t want to wait weeks while you two create something elaborate.”

  “All three could be set up within a few days,” Jenn said. “Of course, that will make some more expensive than others.”

  “I’m not worried about the cost,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I want to do it soon before Frances gets suspicious or some knucklehead lets her in on the plans. If it were up to me, I’d just ask her this evening over dinner, but I want this to be her last proposal. I want it to be as memorable as all the young kids are doing it nowadays.” He paused and looked at us. “What?”

  I grinned. “Like all the young kids are doing it?”

  “I see those YouTube clips,” he replied. “I’m up-to-date on trends. I’m just pretty sure a mob of dancers would scare the hell out of Frances. Let’s not do that.”

  “Got it,” I said. “No mob of dancers.”

  Jenn’s eyes sparkled. “We don’t want to give Frances a heart attack.”

  “She’s stronger than you think, but that’s off topic. Our first idea is a romantic dinner on the roof of the McMurphy with the island at your feet. Jenn and I would decorate it like a fancy terraced restaurant complete with fairy lights, candles, and soft music so that you two can dance.” I paused and watched his expression.

  Mr. Devaney had the best poker face ever.

  “Okay, number two is a romantic moonlight carriage tour around the island where you would stop at Lovers Point. We would have set up a picnic dinner complete with candles, soft music, and views of the bridge.”

  “And the third choice?”

  “The third choice is to rent the sunporch at the Grand Hotel and have a three-piece orchestra playing while you are waited on hand and foot by your own personal staff. They would be very discreet, of course,” Jenn said.

  “Well, I can imagine which one is the most expensive,” Mr. Devaney said. He pursed his lips. “What do you girls think?”

  Jenn and I looked at each other. We had discussed what to say should he ask our opinions.

  “We think that any of these three would be memorable and romantic for Frances,” I said.

  “But you prefer one of them,” he said as the waitress came with our drinks.

  We waited patiently for her to leave. Even though we didn’t know her, there was a chance she knew someone who knew us and word would get out. It would be hard enough to explain our lunch should anyone ask, but we had agreed upon a back story just in case.

  “We think Frances would like the McMurphy option best,” I said. “It’s where you two met and is her home when she isn’t at her apartment.”

  “Hmm,” he said as the waitress brought our lunches.

  Jenn and I let him think about it while we ate. Since he was a man of few words, I was on pins and needles wondering if the suggestions were anything that appealed to him. Our discussion turned to the security camera that was being installed on the back of the building.

  “I wonder why Papa Liam didn’t have one installed earlier,” I said.

  “It’s a small island,” Mr. Devaney said. “People here don’t lock their doors outside of tourist season and even then rarely.”

  “Right.” I pushed my empty plate away. “The issue came up because I investigate murders.”

  Mr. Devaney shook his head. “I think it’s a different situation when you have two young girls living alone versus an old man. Your grandfather knew people on the island. He was never more than a few feet away from friends. You girls are new.”

  I frowned. “We need extra care?”

  “Let’s say it’s a different animal,” he said.

  “If you ask me, it’s a good thing,” Jenn said. “Well worth the money.”

  “I agree.” He leaned forward. “I’ve decided on a proposal.”

  “Wonderful!” Jenn said and we all leaned in like conspirators.

  “I want the rooftop one.”

  “Yes,” I said with delight. “When?”

  “When can you get it done?”

  “Well, tomorrow night is the end of the yacht race week. The yacht club is having its final gala,” I said. “If you can wait a couple days, the night crowds will dissipate and you won’t be disturbed by pounding party noise.”

  “Fine. Let’s do it the night after the gala.” He put his hands on the table to stand. “You girls can do that, right?”

  “Yes,” Jenn and I said together.

  I added, “We will need your help to get things up on the roof without Frances noticing.”

  “It won’t be a problem,” he said. “We’ll tell her we are having estimates done on creating event space up there. It will account for any workmen that go up.”

  “Perfect,” I said.

  “I’ve got a plan of action right here.” Jenn pulled out papers from her tote. She handed us each a copy.

  “This is well thought out,” I said as I looked down at the list of tasks that had to happen. Each task was assigned to me or Mr. Devaney or Sandy or Jenn.

  “I’m a good project manager,” Jenn said with a grin. “We’ll meet again tomorrow to see where we are. It’s going to be a lot of fun.”

  Mr. Devaney harrumphed. “It all depends on your definition of fun.”

  “Keep your eye on the prize,” I said to him. “Frances is going to be so happy. It will all be worth it in the end.”

  “It better be,” he said. “I’m counting on it.”

  Raspberry Chocolate Chip Bars

  Ingredients

  ¾ cup butter

  ⅔ cup sugar

  ⅔ cup brown sugar

  1 beaten egg

  1 teaspoon vanilla

  1 cup mashed raspberries

  1¾ cups flour

  2 teaspoons baking powder

  ½ teaspoon salt

  1 cup dark chocolate chips

  Directions

  Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Grease and flour a 13- x 9-inch p
an.

  In a medium bowl, cream butter and sugars until smooth. Add egg and vanilla until combined.

  Fold in raspberries. Stir in flour, baking powder, and salt. Add chocolate chips.

  Spread into pan.

  Bake for 20-30 minutes until set. Cool.

  Sprinkle powdered sugar on top and cut into bars. Enjoy!

  Chapter 21

  “Are you still going to the yacht club gala tomorrow?” Jenn asked me as we walked back to the McMurphy.

  “Trent asked me,” I said. “Unlike the opening night fund-raiser, this one is black tie.”

  “I know.” Jenn sighed. “I had such high hopes of going, but after we were not-so-graciously kicked off the committee and handed our business hats, I have no way to go. Shane isn’t part of or even interested in the social set.”

  “Neither am I,” I said.

  “But think of all the great networking opportunities,” Jenn pointed out.

  “You are the networker. I’m a fudge maker and for one, am so glad I have you. I wouldn’t know half the people I’ve met on the island.”

  Jenn laughed. “I do get around, don’t I?”

  “Do you know Harold Jones?” I asked.

  “Who?”

  “Harold Jones,” I repeated. “I think he works at the Nag’s Head Bar and Grill.”

  “No, why?”

  “He’s the eyewitness who placed Paige on the pier the night Carin was murdered.”

  “Really. Hmmm. How did he see her and not say anything to the police at the time of the murder?”

  “Well, he was stargazing from the widow’s walk on Cassandra English’s cottage. He claims to have heard an argument and turned the telescope on the pier where he saw two females fighting. One stepped into a circle of light and he recognized her as Paige. Then a meteor caught his eye and he focused on that for a moment. When he looked back at the pier both women were gone.”

  “That is oddly coincidental,” she said.