All I Want For Christmas is Fudge (A Candy-Coated Mystery with Recipes Book 4)

by Nancy CoCo

  “Anyone recognize him?” I asked, and stepped closer.

  “No,” George said. “But he’s wearing a disguise.” He reached over and pulled off the fake white beard and Santa hat.

  “I still don’t know him,” I said. “But he’s good-looking for a stiff.” My attempt at a joke fell flat. The dead guy’s eyes were open and devoid of life. Still, he was attractive. His oval face, light-brown brows, and long slender nose reminded me of the actor who played the Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz.

  “Has to be a tourist,” Rex said.

  “Looks like he was bashed pretty good,” George said, and gently turned the head to expose the nasty blood-splattered indentation on the dead guy’s temple.

  “Do you think it’s the cause of death?” I asked.

  “Hard to say from here,” George said. “We need to take the body to the ME to figure that out.”

  “Who found him?” Rex asked.

  “I did.”

  “She did.” The two Santas turned to me with curiosity on their faces.

  “I’m also the one who called nine-one-one. These two jogged up while I was on the phone. Are you going to call Shane in to investigate the crime scene?” I asked, my heart full of hope.

  “Charlene has him coming in,” Rex said. He straightened and gave me a squinty look. “Are you two still dating?”

  “We took a break while I was in Chicago,” I said. “Why?”

  “Convenient that you found the body and Shane is coming to the site,” Rex said a little too offhandedly.

  “Oh, please! I’m not going to kill someone just to see Shane again,” I said with a frown.

  “True love can make people do crazy things,” the gregarious Santa said, and waggled his eyebrows at me.

  “I wouldn’t kill anyone,” I said, and put my hands on my hips.

  “I’d suggest you don’t leave the island until we have this figured out,” Rex said. His blue eyes twinkled and I sent him the stink eye.

  “I have a job I have to return to in a week.”

  “Then you’d better hurry and solve the case,” George said with a wink. I scowled at him. It was difficult. His gorgeous copper skin and high cheekbones made for one heartbreaking man. Not to mention the long black braid that ran down his back. If I didn’t already have a thing for a skinny, brainy guy who wore glasses, I’d certainly be hanging around the island for the local EMT.

  A snow machine pulled up and a man in a black snowsuit and helmet stepped off. He pulled his crime scene kit off the back of the machine, lifted his faceplate, and carefully stepped toward the crime scene. One look at that face and my heart went pitty-pat.

  “Hi, Shane,” I said, and sent him my biggest welcome smile.

  “What do we have here?” Shane asked, his expression impassive.

  “One frozen Santa,” Rex said, “with a killer gash on his temple. The snow last night covered all the tracks. She found him.” He gestured toward me.

  Shane’s gaze flicked over me as if I were of little interest. My heart sank a bit.

  “He says I have to stay on the island until the crime is solved,” I said.

  “In that case,” Shane said as he set down his forensic case, “we should get right on it.”

  My expression fell at his cool response. Somehow my return to the island wasn’t exactly as welcome and romantic as I imagined. Now I knew how Allie felt. Finding a dead guy wasn’t as much fun as they made it seem on television.

  Chapter 2

  “Hi, Jenn, how was your run?” Frances Wentworth, the reservations manager and all-around helping hand of the Historic McMurphy Hotel and Fudge Shop, greeted me. Frances was in her early seventies and carried off the bohemian chic look with pizazz. Her brown hair was cut in a short bob and swung just above her shoulders. She wore giant silver earrings encrusted with various gemstones, which I suspected were real. She had on a white T-shirt sprinkled with a purple rosebud pattern, a long denim skirt, and a thick, handmade purple sweater to coordinate the two. She wore granny boots on her feet and silver bangles on her wrists.

  “Extraordinary,” I replied, and headed to the coffee bar in the lobby of the McMurphy. My best friend, Allie, had remodeled the place in the spring and wisely added a five-foot-long bar that held fresh coffee and cocoa twenty-four hours a day. I pulled out a mug and half filled it with coffee, then dumped some sugar, caramel syrup, and a splash of half-and-half into the brew and wrapped my hands around it. “Oh, Caramella kitty,” I purred when I spotted the calico cat who had adopted Allie. She sat on the back of one of the wing-backed chairs closest to the fireplace. Her tail twitched as she pretended not to notice me. I had to give her a rub between the ears and she purred against my hand. “How’s little Mella, Mella today?”

  “That cat missed you,” Frances said.

  “I missed her, too.”

  “I heard you had an interesting morning,” Allie said as she hopped down the stairs. My best friend was gorgeous. Slightly shorter than me, she had an oval face lit up by stunning hazel eyes fringed with thick, long lashes. Her brown hair was also thick and held a slight wave so that all she had to do was finger comb it and it looked like it had been set with hot rollers. She had long legs and arms and a curvy figure that stunned any man who got within a few feet of her.

  Her bichon-poodle puppy, Marshmallow, bounded ahead of her and took a flying leap toward my feet. The dog was wearing a red-and-white Christmas sweater.

  I braced myself for the pup’s classic slide into me. “Mal!” I loved that little doggie so much. I held my coffee high and leaned down to pat her head. Caramella gave Mal the evil eye.

  “What happened?” Frances asked.

  “Jenn found a body,” Allie replied.

  “Oh, my goodness!” Frances said, and looked at me over the top of her deep-purple-framed reading glasses. The glasses had rhinestones along the earpieces and in the cat-eyed corners. “What happened?”

  “I spotted a guy in a Santa suit sleeping in a snowbank.”

  “Only he wasn’t sleeping,” Allie said, and picked Mal up.

  “No, he was quite dead.” I sat in the chair and pulled Mella into my lap. Her soft fur and purring comforted me.

  “I guess you’ve caught Allie’s tendency to find murder victims!” Frances exclaimed.

  I laughed. “Yeah, Charlene at nine-one-one dispatch asked me if I was Allie.”

  “Charlene would,” Allie said, and crossed her arms. She pouted. Frances and I giggled.

  “You must have been so upset to find something so awful on your morning run,” Frances said.

  “Yes, I was,” I said, and sipped my coffee while Mella snuggled in my lap.

  Mal seemed a little jealous and squirmed in Allie’s arms. Allie put the pup down and Mal jumped up into the chair with me and the cat. “Hey!” I said. “There’s coffee in my hand, guys.” But the two pets seemed not to care. Mella retreated to the top of the chair, where she could bat the puppy on the nose.

  “They love you,” Allie said when I stood.

  I sent her a squint-eyed look and walked over to the receptionist desk to find a place to keep my coffee safe.

  “Any idea who the victim was?” Allie asked. She smelled of Christmas fudge. She wore a chef’s white coat, black slacks, and black athletic shoes.

  “No,” I said, and leaned against the dark wood. Frances worked behind the receptionist desk. She had a comfortable tall chair and the desk held her computer screen and keyboard. I teased her once that the perch behind the desk was her throne, where she could survey her subjects as they arrived. Allie had had a small sign made that said, QUEEN OF THE MCMURPHY.

  “I imagine if he was a local, Rex would have known him,” Frances said as she read her e-mails.

  “Was there a lot of foot traffic on the trail?” Allie asked. “The island is crawling with Santas.”

  “I suspect most of them are here to drink,” I said with a smile. “There were two guys jogging. I passed them easily before I spotted someth
ing red in the snowbank just off to the right.” I sipped. “The poor fellow was planted face-first in the snow, with his arms and legs at weird angles.”

  “And you called nine-one-one . . .” Allie said.

  “Yes,” I said. “Rex Manning and George Marron came out to the scene.”

  “Oh, I bet Rex was happy with that,” Allie said sarcastically. “I swear he thinks I’m the one who brought killers to Mackinac Island.”

  “You have to admit there have been quite a few murders since you arrived in May,” Frances said. “At least you’re not a suspect this time.”

  “Well, Allie might not be, but I think I am,” I said, and blew on my coffee to cool it.

  “What? That’s crazy,” Allie said, and touched my arm. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No,” I said. “Rex told me not to leave the island until the investigation was over.”

  “Why would you kill someone and then call nine-one-one?” Frances asked.

  “Rex suggested that I called so that Shane would have to come out.”

  “Oh,” Allie said with a twinkle in her eyes. “That’s right. A crime scene would mean Shane would be investigating. How is he? Was he glad to see you?”

  I looked at the floor. My heart hurt a little. “No,” I said, and tried to keep the tremble from my voice. “He was not happy to see me. Not one bit.” I looked up at Allie, who had an expression of concern. “He gave me the cold shoulder and said he’d make quick work of the investigation so I could get back to Chicago.”

  “Oh, now, that’s just wrong,” Allie said, and gave me a hug. “You’ve kept in touch, right?”

  “Yeah, I text and call. At first we texted and called a couple of times a day. Shane came to Chicago for a couple of long weekends. But lately . . .” I paused, not sure what to say. Then I decided if I couldn’t be frank with Allie, then I really had a problem. “Things have fallen off. I think it’s the distance. It’s part of the reason I wanted to come for Christmas week,” I admitted. “I was hoping to see him and rekindle things. I think I’m in love with him.”

  “Well, then he should be happy to see you,” Frances said.

  “That’s what I thought,” I said. “I’d told him I was going to try to come out for the run. I called him last week, but he didn’t return my call.” I drew my eyebrows together. “Do you think he’s found someone else?”

  “I haven’t heard that he’s seeing anyone else,” Allie said, and touched my arm. “Mackinac and St. Ignace aren’t that large. I’m sure word would have gotten out if he has.”

  “Have you been seeing anyone else?” Frances asked.

  “Who? Me?” My eyes went wide. “No, no way. I mean, I tried, but no one was Shane.”

  “What do you mean, you tried?” Frances asked. Her brown eyes were quite sober.

  “Well, when I first went back to Chicago, Shane and I agreed we should see other people,” I said. “But then we kept calling and texting and he came to see me, and I thought we were still a thing.” I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “I wanted to tell him that I plan to come back to Mackinac Island for good this spring.”

  “You do?!” Allie said with great happiness in her voice.

  “I do,” I said, and let a grin show on my face. “I was going to tell you on Christmas, but since we’re talking about it—”

  “Yes!” Allie said, and hugged me tight. I hugged her back and we did a little happy dance together. “Do you really feel ready to come back to Mackinac Island? Won’t you miss Chicago?”

  “I had so much fun here. Plus, there are so many great weddings and such to plan,” I said. “I wanted to know if I could share your office space like I did last summer. You know, if I could use the McMurphy as my main event-planning place?”

  “That would be perfect,” Allie said. “It will be the two of us . . . year-round? Not just during the season?”

  “Year-round,” I agreed. “Look how gorgeous this place is in the winter. All the snow! It’s a winter wonderland. Who wouldn’t want to get married here? Think of all the Valentine’s Day romantic getaways, and in March we could do winter’s last-gasp events.... I’m so full of ideas.”

  “That’s wonderful!” Frances said, and came around the desk to give me a hug. “I know Allie can use this news. She’s been doing nothing but fudge making since the off-season started.”

  “No, I haven’t.” Allie blushed a pretty color. “I’ve been going out. Trent is teaching me how to ride a horse.”

  “He is?” I asked, and teased her. “Are you getting any better at it?” The last time I went riding with Allie and Trent, she had bounced around painfully behind us.

  “Yes, I am better,” she said, and stuck up her chin. “Okay, not much better, but a little better.”

  We all laughed. I put my arm through Allie’s. “Come on, I’ll help you with today’s fudge orders. You are the expert at making it. But I can package and prep it for shipping.”

  “Sounds perfect,” Allie said. “I’ve got two batches of Rocky Road ready to go and a batch of dark-chocolate cherry and a batch of peanut butter. I’m also going to test out a new recipe. It’s called Sweet Hot Dark-Chocolate Fudge. Can you believe—it calls for cayenne pepper!”

  “Sounds wonderful and tasty. We have our work cut out for us,” I said, and turned to wink at Frances.

  “I told you, all she does is work.”

  “Not true,” Allie said. “We went out last night to do the pub crawl with the other Santas,” Allie said, and her eyes twinkled. “Right, Jenn?”

  “That’s right,” I said. “We went to three bars and were home by midnight.”

  “So exciting,” Frances said with dry humor.

  “You have to consider that I needed to be up by five-thirty AM to work on the fudge orders,” Allie said.

  “And I was up and out for a run by six AM,” I said, and tugged Allie toward the fudge shop.

  “I don’t know how you young people can get things done on so little sleep,” Frances commented while putting on her reading glasses.

  “We take naps,” I said over my shoulder, chuckling.

  “Grammy always said that you need to be out of bed and living,” Allie said. “People die in bed.”

  “People die by doing stupid things due to lack of sleep,” Frances said. Her words followed us to the fudge shop area of the lobby. The McMurphy had a large open lobby that contained a candy kitchen and a glass-enclosed counter that was filled with trays of fudge during the season. When Allie remodeled, she’d had the construction crew replace the wall between the candy kitchen and the lobby with tall plates of glass. That way anyone in the lobby could watch the fudge making. It allowed for 270-degree viewing. People liked to come in and sit in the overstuffed chairs and watch. Ever since Caramella had entered the picture, the fudge shop now had glass French doors that kept the animals out of the way of scalding hot sugar and the possibility of being injured.

  “We’ll be careful,” Allie said.

  “You be careful,” I said. “I’m just boxing candy.”

  “You never know,” Allie said, winking. “You could get a wicked paper cut.”

  “I’ve been known to do that, haven’t I?” I laughed. It was good to be back at the McMurphy.

  Sweet Hot Dark-Chocolate Fudge

  2 cups of sugar

  ½ cup of premium dark cocoa

  1 cup of milk

  ½ teaspoon of cayenne pepper, ground

  4 tablespoons of butter

  1 teaspoon of Mexican vanilla

  Grease an 8- x 8-inch pan and set aside. Combine the sugar, cocoa, and milk in a medium-heavy saucepan. Bring to a boil, while stirring constantly. Once it reaches a rolling boil, stop stirring. Boil until it reaches softball stage or 238 degrees F on a candy thermometer.

  Remove from heat. Add pepper, butter, and vanilla. Beat with a wooden spoon until it loses its shine. Do not underbeat. The air you add by beating makes the fudge. Pour into pan. Cool. Cut into squares. Makes 60 s
quares.

  Chapter 3

  “They identified the dead guy as Tim Slater,” Allie said as she came into the office. It was just after one in the afternoon, and I was working on my business plan in the McMurphy’s office on the fourth floor. If I wanted to stay on Mackinac, I had to have financial goals and strategies. I needed something concrete to take to the bankers to ask them to invest in my event-planning business. Allie had said I could go over the files from the events I planned this past summer so that I could forecast future earnings.

  I sat at my old desk—an oak behemoth from 1910 that faced Allie’s desk—and laid out my files while I added data to a spreadsheet program on my laptop. Mella, the cat, kept me company. She was spread out on top of the bookcase over my left shoulder, lounging in the sunlight that entered from the lone window. “Tim Slater,” I repeated, sitting back. “Did you know him?” I bit my bottom lip and held my breath. I hoped Allie didn’t lose a friend.

  “No,” Allie said.

  I let out my breath in relief. “Good. So he was a random fudgie?” Fudgie was the nickname islanders had for the tourists who visited Mackinac Island. Known as the fudge capital of the world, it attracted many people who came for the sweet treats and the Victorian architecture.

  “Yes,” Allie said. She took off her sugar-encrusted chef coat and hung it up on the wrought-iron coatrack in the corner.

  “How did they find out his identity?”

  “Well, pretty much the only way onto the island right now is by plane, so they cross-referenced airline tickets and narrowed it down to a few guys with his general age, height, and weight. Then they got some digital dental records e-mailed.”

  “Huh,” I said. “Wait, if they can only fly people on and off the island, what did they do with the body? I mean, we don’t have an ME’s office here.”

  “Sophie said she flew Shane and the body over to St. Ignace.”

  I made a face. “Creepy.”

  “Yeah,” Allie said, “a little. Rex should be giving you a call soon to see if you knew Tim.”